“No faggots,” he says, shaking his head and sneering at Andrew through his partially rolled down window. “I don’t care what Creed says. He’s not coming into my little sister’s party. Wouldn’t want to get raped by a homo.” The boy laughs, and the sound is rather like a donkey with a sore throat, grainy and snotty and ugly. I resist the urge to scream, my hands tightening around the wheel.
“Let’s just go, Marnye,” Andrew whispers, his voice and face dark. “We’re not getting in here.”
“Please open the gate,” I repeat, and the girl laughs at me, moving away to stand next to the brick pillar on the left, tossing her hair perfectly, and then giggling at something one of the guys says. The other asshole, Ileana’s older brother apparently, snorts and flips us off before sauntering back to the group. With a sigh, I put the Lambo in reverse and pretend like I’m leaving.
I’m not.
“Marnye …” Andrew begins, just before I put the car back in drive, and slam my foot on the gas. With the squeal of tires and the stink of burnt rubber, we shoot forward and smash through the gate. It’s not locked, so it opens easily, the metal flying back and smashing into the bricks. The kids gape at us as we roll across the lawn and park next to the dozens of other fancy cars already there.
I take note of Zayd’s, Creed’s, and Tristan’s cars before I climb out and lock the doors, tucking the keys in my bra. Andrew’s still gaping at me, and Miranda’s grinning, just barely resisting the urge to hop up and down. Okay, so, maybe she jumps up and down a little. Jessie just raises her eyebrows and whistles in surprise.
“Okay, who are you, and what have you done with the Marnye Reed I know?” Miranda asks as the group from the gate storms across the yard towards me. I ignore them, toss my hair (poorly, I might add), and head for the front porch and the crowd of gawping students.
Zayd’s right there in the thick of it, a beer in one hand, his mouth open, his green eyes tracking me as I make my way toward the front door.
“Hey!” the Taittinger guy shouts, pounding up the steps to cut me off. His ugly face is twisted in a sneer, and I’m pretty sure he’s about ten seconds from putting his hands on me. The bitchy first year girl is right behind him, taking up on his left like a sentinel.
“You fucking bitch!” she snarls, and it’s pretty disturbing to see such a hateful expression on her baby face. I look at them both with a so what? expression before glancing over at Andrew and smiling softly.
“I’m sorry about the car, but there doesn’t even seem to be a scratch. Your family makes quality vehicles, I have to say.” He stares at me for a second, blinking past the shock, and then grins.
“I guess we do.”
“Shut your mouth, faggot,” Taittinger sneers, stepping close to Andrew. He seems a bit tentative about hitting a girl, but I’m worried for Andrew.
“Back off of him, Craig!” Miranda shouts, just as much a Blueblood as she ever was. No, no, more of a Blueblood than she was before. She’s practically regal in that cream colored dress of hers, like a princess. Or maybe even a queen. “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”
“Yeah?” Craig sneers, shoving Andrew in the chest with a palm. Andrew stumbles back, nostrils flaring, but he holds his ground. Miranda is there in an instant, despite Jessie’s attempts to pull her back. She throws herself at Craig Taittinger, and he raises a fist. I’m ready to step in if I’m wrong, but …
A pale hand clamps onto his wrist and jerks him back so hard that he stumbles, falling into a heap on the porch. A crowd’s gathered around now, as Creed looks down at Ileana’s brother with a face so full of darkness that I barely recognize him.
“Were you thinking about touching my sister?” he whispers, his voice like jagged sheets of ice, as sharp as glass and freezing cold. They can cut to bleed and poison the flesh with frostbite, all at once. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Creed puts his foot on Taittinger’s throat, and the crowd gasps in shock. Me, I’ve got my phone recording and nobody knows it.
He’s just protecting his sister, I think, but I banish the thought, remembering the impassive way he stared at me while I was humiliated, remembering my panties clutched in his hand. He threw them at me like he was tossing trash at a stray dog.
“Lay off, Cabot,” the first year girl snaps, her hands curled into fists. “These idiots rushed the gate. Craig was just trying to help.”
