The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,30

seeing him in a pressed, creased uniform, complete with jacket and tie, is a real treat.

Third years wear black and red plaid skirts (boys wear black slacks with a subtle red pinstripe), crisp white shirts, matching plaid ties, and red jackets. Sock choices are the same as last year—white with stripes on the top—or black plaid socks in thigh-high, knee-high, or ankle-high options. Shoes are shiny and black, as always, but this is the first year that a very small kitten heel option is allowed for girls only (genderism is still a very common practice at Burberry, unfortunately). Miranda says anyone who doesn’t pick it is mercilessly made fun of, but that’s no surprise: the Plebs and Bluebloods alike at Burberry Prep love to pick on others, regardless of reason.

“Are we ready?” Tristan asks, straightening his already straight tie and staring at me with slate gray eyes.

“I’m, uh, neck deep in French fries,” I choke out, hopping off the trunk of my new car and wiping vigorously at my fingers with a cluster of napkins. Tristan makes a disgusted sound in his throat and sweeps across the white rock of the parking area, whipping a handkerchief from his front pocket, and clasping my hands in his.

My heart races as I look up at him, and he carefully wipes my fingers off with slow, sensual motions.

Is he … cleaning my hands off or hitting on me? I wonder as he takes on this task with the same single-minded purpose in which he tackles his coursework. My chest feels tight, and I’m having trouble catching my breath.

“Here, keep it.” He tucks it into my palm, and steps back, sighing as he opens his leather bookbag and removes a fresh black silk handkerchief, folding it meticulously, and placing it back in his pocket.

I gape at it.

“You keep extra handkerchiefs in your schoolbag?” I ask, stifling a laugh. He gives me a dark look, and then pauses as Lizzie comes out of the bathroom, dressed in her new uniform.

She’s a fucking vision.

My eyes move from her to Tristan, but he’s as stone-faced as always and gives nothing away.

“How do I look?” Lizzie asks self-consciously, brushing her hands down the front of the red jacket. “I’m so used to the Coventry Prep uniform that I feel out of place.”

“You look great,” Zack supplies, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He says that to her while his dark eyes are focused on me.

“We need to walk in there as a group,” Tristan says, addressing everyone like he truly believes he’s the king. Windsor leans his shoulder against the brick wall of the restroom, smirking. His expression says that for now, he’ll let Tristan lead, but only because it’s convenient. As soon as it’s not, there’s going to be a war between those two.

“Are we on ignore mode still?” Zayd asks, cocking his pierced brow. “Because that didn’t exactly go over well last time.”

Tristan makes a sound in the back of his throat and scowls while Creed moves up to stand beside me.

“No. We’re at war. When we walk the halls, they move. When we want the elevators, they get lost. We eat at the Blueblood table. We control the school.”

“And if they don’t accept that?” Andrew asks, his voice strained. “Then what? Don’t forget: Greg and John, Harper and Becky, they’re dangerous. This is bigger than just who sits where, or who gets to use the Gallery. I’m scared. Maybe you’re not, but me, and Marnye, and Miranda … we could be targets.”

“That’s why we stick together at all times, pairs at the very least.” Tristan straightens out the rich red Burberry jacket with the little crest on the pocket, and then takes up the lead, heading for one of the idling academy cars. The driver opens the door, and Tristan steps aside, letting me slide in before he does. Pretty sure I hear Zayd grumble about that, and I smile.

The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs, and I realize then that I’m sweating. I’m nervous. And not just about Harper and her cronies, but … about the boys, too. Are they going to betray me again? Because being here in this car with all of them feels kind of … good.

“Remember,” Tristan whispers as the car rolls down the gently sloping hills that surround the school. I look up at him as ambient conversation from the others fills the inside of the limo. “You’re an Idol now.” He reaches over