Stuck With The Four Hotties

“Becky’s in the corner,” he tells me, pointing her blond head out. She’s twerking on John Hannibal, his hands all over her hips. To be honest, they both look ridiculous. “Let’s make our way to the middle.” Zayd reaches down and takes my hand, his fingers burning a brand into my skin. My throat feels suddenly dry, and I throw back the rest of my soda before Zayd pulls the can from my fingers and hands it to some random guy. “Pleb,” he explains, like the other students at Burberry Prep are his personal slaves.

“I’m not really a good-” I start as Zayd spins and then pulls me into his arms. A pop-rock song starts up all of a sudden, and I realize as he grins that this is his music.

“Just mold your body to mine, and I’ll take care of you.” Zayd pulls me close to him, and I quickly find out that the way he moves his body is as infectious as his smile. He’s a born performer, bouncing to the tune and mouthing along to the words as he grabs my hand and gives me a spin. He even dips me, and I find my heartrate picking up as the crowd moves back from our spot in the center of the room, directly beneath the crystal chandelier above our heads.

Nobody else seems to know how to dance to this sort of music, so they just watch. Becky Platter is front and center, her face burning. Harper stands beside her with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed on us.

“Show off!” she calls out, and the group gathered around her titters. “Kissing you is like kissing the stars. FuFking you is like sleeping with

sirens. Your touFh is a hot iron that burns, and I love you and all of your sFars.” Zayd’s voice coos out of the speakers, this husky purr that gives me goose bumps. If he weren’t such a jerk, I might actually look him up on Spotify or iTunes or something.

The song ends, but another starts up right away, some dark, sweaty hip hop beat that Zayd embodies with his dance moves. His pelvis is pressed against me, his hands on my waist. The way he looks at me as we move is … I have to shake my head to clear it. I feel drowsy from the heat, and the dancing, and the way he’s holding me.

His hands slide up my waist, and my breath comes in rapid pants. I’m seriously close to passing out, and I can’t decide if it’s the press of the

crowd, the heat, the fact that I haven’t eaten since lunch … Zayd is full of wild chemistry, I can’t deny that. He’s been a jerk to me, but my body doesn’t know that. Without even meaning to, I find myself leaning into his touch, my arms going around his neck.

He presses his sweaty forehead to mine, and we grind together, working our way through three more songs. At this point, I think I can feel his hardness pressing up against me through the red fabric of his academy slacks. It’s super distracting.

“Zayd …” I start as his mouth brushes up against mine. This is a bad idea, I think, but then it’s happening and my breath is leaving in a rush. Zayd’s lip rings tease my skin just before he closes that distance between us, his tongue sweeping my lower lip before he drives into my mouth. His inked hands tighten on my hips, and our bodies slow their motion, lips taking over the rhythm.

I’ve only ever kissed one guy before Zayd, and that was Zack. Zayd’s kisses are completely different, white-hot and sure of himself, like he knows he can get most any girl he wants. When Zack kissed me, it was with a dark possessiveness that scared me so bad that I stopped talking to him for a week after. Then he broke up with me, and I … maybe he was adverse to my kiss as much as I was to his?

My arms tighten around Zayd’s neck, and he presses deeper into me, melding our bodies into one. His tongue sweeps my own, controlling the kiss, but not overpowering me. It feels so good that it’s hard to remember that he hates me, that he probably kisses all the other girls just like this.

With a gasp, I find my rational brain hiding in there somewhere and push away from him, his grin sharpening, eyes locking onto mine. Wiping my arm across my mouth, I realize that I’m shaking, that there’s a warmth between my thighs that I’m not used to.

Zayd chuckles, low and seductive and suggestive, but at least most of the other students have gone back to dancing. The only ones still watching us are Harper, Becky, Valentina, and Abigail. Uh-oh. Their eyes track me as I turn and flee towards the door. Zayd had said my debt to him would be resolved by just dancing, and yet … I kissed him anyway.

At least I don’t have to worry about there being any doubt as to whether or not I played by the Infinity Club rules.

“Whoa, Working Girl, where are you going?” Zayd comes out behind me, but I’ve stopped cold. Tristan’s at the bottom of the steps with a girl pressed

up against the statue on the opposite side from where Zayd’s parked the car. He’s kissing her, and one of her thighs is in his hand, but I don’t think they’re having sex … yet.

He glances up at me with cold, gray eyes, and then … this sharp burst of anger and heat snaps through him, and he pushes away from the girl. She gapes after him and reaches for his arm, but he shakes her off.

“What are you doing here?” he snaps, but not at me, at Zayd. When I glance back at the rocker boy, he’s got his inked fingers tucked into his pockets, an arrogant smirk stretched across his face. “We agreed you wouldn’t come tonight.”

“A suggestion was made, but it was never an agreement.” Zayd pauses as Creed comes up behind him, his blue eyes snapping to mine and then back over to Zayd’s face. “If you wanted to make sure it didn’t happen, you should’ve bet me.” He tosses me the keys to the Maserati. “Be my designated driver, Charity?”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

“What about Becky?” I choke out, my brain whirling with the after effects of that kiss. I’m not even going to try to decipher the fight that’s going on between the three Idol boys. They won’t tell me anything, even if I ask. “I thought you were going to ‘bag her tonight’.” I can’t keep a scowl off my own face as I squeeze the car keys in my palm.

“Nah, I think I put in enough face time with you to piss her off. Once she calms down though, she’s mine.”

“You’re despicable,” Creed drawls, but I don’t think he means the Becky thing.

“Fuck you, Zayd,” Tristan growls out, his eyes burning as he takes me in. “I hope you know you came to the party with a snake tonight.”

“As opposed to what?” I ask, because I can’t shake that black widow reference. Tristan is venomous, manipulative, content to wait and plan his revenge. When he doesn’t answer me, I turn and open the door to the Maserati. Zayd smirks at his friends (or are they even friends?) and then climbs into the passenger seat. I join him, start up the car, and put it in reverse. Even though I don’t have my license, I’ve been driving my dad around since I was thirteen. Sometimes he was just too drunk to do it himself.

We drive back to Burberry Prep, but neither of us mentions the kiss. Zayd, because it probably doesn’t mean much to him. Me, because it means a little too much.