The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,81

touching the scratches down his cheek. That’s the mark of a lady fight right there.

“The girls were in on it, too?” I ask, and Zack nods.

“We didn’t hit them, if that’s what you’re worried about. We’ve got some integrity, but that made the seventeen-on-eight odds a little worse for wear. If we hadn’t had Lizzie there, it would’ve been a lot worse. She took on Harper for you.”

“I tried to anyway,” she says, sporting a split lip. At least she’s still got all her hair.

“Seventeen-on-eight …” I start, thinking about the lineup. Okay, so all nine Harpies, eight Company boys, and a partridge in a pear tree, right? Versus my boys, Lizzie, Andrew, and Myron. Or at least that’s my guess. Miranda doesn’t have a mark on her. “God.”

“It was so worth it,” Creed continues, slapping at his twin when she tries to put a warm washcloth to his face. “They ambushed us in the dark with buzzers and scissors. Idiots. We were all wearing fucking hats. We’re not stupid.”

“Did you go looking for trouble?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Trouble finds us,” Tristan purrs from his seat in the corner. He’s sitting in a huge black leather armchair that looks like the perfect reading chair. We’re in his dorm in Tower Three. I’ve actually never been here before. Did you know that it has a freaking fireplace? I’m so jealous. “We don’t have to look for it.”

“Are any of them going on the San Francisco trip?” I ask, but Tristan just shakes his head. He doesn’t know. Great.

“Things are going to get worse before they get better, huh?” I ask, feeling this awful choppy churning sensation in my stomach. It’s guilt, is what it is. All of this is because of me. True, the boys said they wanted to take this on, but … this isn’t just their fight.

I need to step it up.

“Don’t,” Zack whispers, putting his big hands on my shoulders and squeezing, kneading my tight flesh with strong fingers. Oh my god. I’d love to get a naked, oily massage from him … Ahem. “I can see it written all over your face: trust us to take care of this. Focus on kicking Tristan’s ass in academics, okay?”

Tristan narrows that blade gray gaze of his, and I know that even though we’re dating, that doesn’t mean he won’t try his hardest to take my spot at the top of the class.

“Let us worry about the Infinity Club,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells me he doesn’t just mean the junior version. A shiver slides down my spine, but I nod, and I make damn sure from that point on that I keep the baseball bat I borrowed from the gym next to my bed when sleep.

Just like last year, the San Francisco trip overlaps with winter break. That Friday before break, when all the first years are preparing for winter formal, we’re piling suitcases in the courtyard and taking stock of the students gathering around the stag statue.

They’re all there, every single one of the Harpies. The Company. Whatever you want to call them. I like synonyms; I’ll take both names.

“Of course they’re all here,” Creed sneers, leaning back against a pillar with an insouciant air of privilege. He waves his hand around dismissively. “No third year wants to get stuck at winter formal, unless you’re Lizzie Walton and your father hates you.”

“Stop it,” Tristan snaps, and I watch carefully as the two of them share a long, angry look. They both glance away without a clear winner, and Tristan crosses his arms over his chest, staring Harper down. Rightfully so. She stalks me in the halls, I swear. If I get lax for one second, it’s going to be my hair that’s shaved, my ass kicked, or … worse. Because clearly, they’re all capable of it.

“Let’s just steer clear of them and try to have a good time,” Zayd says, mumbling around a cigarette as he hides around the corner of Tower Two and tries to get his lighter to work in the wind while simultaneously trying to avoid getting caught by one of the teachers. “Lord knows my winter break is going to suck serious ass. Dad’s on tour in Europe, so I’ll be treated like a fucking roadie, hauling equipment and fighting off wrinkly old groupies. Ugh. I just want a tree and a friggin’ fruitcake.”

“You’re always welcome to join me,” I say, and he smiles. It’s