“Like we give a crap about some stupid history lesson. They’re long dead, and nobody gives a shit but you what happens to the bones of some dumb ass soldiers. If they mattered, they'd have been generals or presidents or politicians, and their bones wouldn’t have been rotting in some storage unit.” Becky reaches up to touch her hair, which is twisted, coiffed, and covered with so much hairspray that it's hard to see the chunk that I cut off. Knowing it’s there is enough for me though.
I ignore her and focus on that, fully aware that Creed and Zayd are watching me.
“Certain individuals see other humans as lesser than them, like they think they’re gods or something. But tell me: how does a god get an ugly, bald patch shaved off the side of their head?”
Becky stands up, like she's going to launch yourself at me. I just stand there and stare at her as Harper grabs her arm and digs her fingernails into her best friend’s skin. The two of them exchange a look that I can't quite read.
“We're here because I want to make a bet,” Zack says, looking from Creed to Zayd to Tristan. He pauses with his dark brown gaze hooked on Tristan's cold gray one. “The three of you. Let's hit up a table and talk.” He gestures with his chin and walks away, but according to him, and the rules of the Infinity Club, when someone challenges you to a bet, you're required to at least hear them out.
“This shit is so fucked-up,” Zayd murmurs as he rises to his feet, raking his fingers through his hair. Creed says nothing as he, too, stands up. Tristan is the last one to get up, but as he moves away, he brushes his shoulder against mine, and I swear I see stars. He stops suddenly, like he didn't expect that. Low, almost inaudibly, I hear his voice near my ear.
“You are unfrigging believable,” he murmurs, and I can't quite decide if that's an insult or a compliment. I watch the four boys move away before taking Tristan’s seat at the table.
“You are not a part of the Infinity Club,” Ileana snaps at me, curling her gold painted lips up over her teeth. She's right: that tattoo on my hip burns as if it's being freshly etched into my skin. I am not a part of the Infinity Club and I never will be. Thank God.
“No, but I'm here as a sponsored guest. I can make a bet, too.” I fold my arms on the table, careful not to touch any of the knuckle bones. If there was some way for me to take them, and donate them to a museum or give them a proper burial or something, I would. As things stand, all I can do is throw out a silent apology to the souls that used to belong to these bits of ivory. “And trust me: you're gonna want to make this bet.”
“Really?” Harper drawls, leaning her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. Her blue eyes sparkle with hate as she takes me in. “And why exactly would I want to do that? I could simply … call my family’s medical center and tell them to stop treating your father. Basically, bitch, you're mine.”
My heart stops, and I feel this cold fear creep over me. But I suspected this; I knew this was coming. Hell would freeze over before Harper would help me willingly.
I sit still, keep smiling, and refuse to show my cards.
“How about this,” I start, meeting her eyes and refusing to acknowledge the other two girls. She'll love that, the self-professed queen of the school. “I'll make you a bet: if I win, you give my dad the same medical care that you’d give to your own father.” I pause for a minute. “No, you give my father better medical care than you’d give your own father. The best of the best, spare no expense. If you win, I will get on my knees before you in front of the entire school and tell everyone that you were right, that I'm worse than a Pleb, or that I'm a whore, whatever. I'll kiss your feet, and I'll pack up and leave the academy and you'll never have to see me again.”
Harper's leaning forward now, her eyes shining, her sociopathic tendencies showing all over her face. I'm not sure that I've ever really known what the word hate means until now. I don't think I hated the Idol guys, not even after what they did to me. Pretty sure I hate Harper du Pont right now.
“I'm listening …” She purrs, her voice like needles as it digs into my eardrums. She reeks of peaches too, and I decide the scent is now entirely ruined for me. Every time I smell it, I'll think of her and that disgusting smile.
