“They’re not just Tristan’s orders,” Zayd snaps, and I get the idea that both he and Creed resent the fact that everyone acts like Tristan’s the king of the school. “And she’s right: you’ll be safe tonight. If anyone rags on you, they’re socially fucked. Even Harper knows that if she messes with you, she’ll lose her chances with Tristan.”

“Stay home,” I tell Miranda, thinking about her expression when Creed confronted her in the gym. My eyes flick to Andrew but only for a second. I don’t want Zayd to know what I’m thinking, not yet. If I get confirmation that she’s dating Andrew or Tristan or whoever else, I have to tell Creed. But I don’t have to share that information with Zayd. “I’ve got this.”

“Love you,” she says, kissing me on the cheek. I think she means it, too, and I smile.

“I’m going to take off, too, but maybe I’ll come to the party later?” Andrew gives me a quick hug, and whispers in my ear. “Don’t let the Idols bulldoze you.” He stands back up, waving as he heads into the hall with Miranda.

“They are so fucking,” Zayd says as soon as the door slams closed.

“They are not,” I blurt automatically, thinking about my date with Andrew. “Why do you say that?”

“Anyone who hasn’t figured that out yet is either blind, or named Creed Cabot.” Zayd gestures at the stack of clothes on my bed and then taps the fancy watch on his inked wrist. “Hurry up, Charity, I’ve got a one Becky Platter to incense with your presence.”

“Why would Creed not know?” I ask, gathering the clothes into my arms. Zayd rolls his emerald eyes at me.

“He knows everything about everything except when it comes to his sister. She shuts him out, and he hates it.”

“Could she be dating Tristan?” I ask, and Zayd howls with laughter.

“Tristan? Fuck no. He’d be an idiot to tap Miranda. Maybe in a long, drawn-out fight Tristan would win, but Creed would make his life a living hell. They’d both tear each other down so far that neither of them would be Idols again. Maybe he suspects Tristan, but there’s no way.”

Filing that information away for later, I slip into the bathroom to change.

But I definitely don’t wear the heels.

Zayd drives us to the party in the same Maserati as before, taking the turns so fast that I end up white-knuckled and clinging to the seat. I most definitely don’t fall asleep this time.

The house we pull up to is several stories tall, and as wide as the academy’s main building. There are floor-to-ceiling windows along the entire length of the ground floor, and all of them are open, people spilling out into the front courtyard.

Zayd pushes his way through them with the car, rolling down the window and hooting as he slams on the horn. Nobody seems to care that he parks half on the front step, leaving the vehicle at an awkward angle.

“Come on, Charity,” Zayd says, holding out his hand for me. I have no choice but to take it, scooting across the driver’s seat to get out. Because of the way we’re parked, I can’t open my door; it’s blocked by a giant square of cement with a statue perched on the top. Zayd pulls me out and I stumble, falling into him. My heart pounds so loud that it drowns out the crowd around us. When he leans down and puts his mouth a hairsbreadth from mine, I stop breathing. If I inhaled, our mouths would meet. “You’re mine for the night, ‘kay? And I can be a very possessive asshole.”

I move to take a step back, and end up pressed against the side of the Maserati. Zayd puts his palms on either side of my shoulders, his smile a smoldering ember that threatens to fall and burn me.

“Fine, whatever,” I snap, feeling sweat trickle down my spine. “For the bet. Just make sure nobody bothers me tonight.” Zayd chuckles, and puts his face up against mine, murmuring against my skin.

“You got it, Working Girl.” He pushes up from the car and turns to head up the stairs, slapping palms with some of the other guys. Several girls glare at me, but none of them are in the Inner Circle, so I don’t know their names. Nobody’s been nice to me, and the Idols and Inner Circle have been the cruelest. Know thy enemies, right?

“Slut,” one of the girls spits as I walk up the steps. I turn to look at her, but she’s got on a pale blue Beverly Hills Prep jacket. The girl next to her, who I vaguely recognize from gym, is grinning maniacally. Using a student from another school to attack me. It’s sort of a brilliant move. “We’ve all heard about your exploits.”

“I’m not sure what exploits those are,” I tell her, a light breeze teasing my rose gold hair around my face. “But regardless, what right does that give you to harass me? You should probably take a women’s studies class or something, and read up on internalized misogyny.”

“The hell are you even talking about, you bitch dyke?” the Beverly Hills girl snaps, taking a step toward me.

“She’s telling you to fuck off, and I’m strongly encouraging it,” Zayd snaps, appearing at the top of the steps. Beverly Hills girl looks taken aback, but apparently even she knows who the Burberry Prep Idols are. “And Clarissa, you think you can work through a puppet and not get caught? You’re off the swim team for the season.”

“Zayd!” she cries out, but he’s hooking his arm through mine and pulling me up the steps. He pauses, once, at the top to look back at her. His face is as dark as Creed’s, but white-hot instead of ice-cold.

“Bother Charity again before the first, and risk your own neck. If I hear you’ve been at swim practice, you can forget going to the winter formal with Sai.” Zayd turns back around, and the anger disappears from his face. He escorts me through the massive front doors, and I do my best not to gape at the beauty of the house. Because, I mean, it does belong to Becky Platter, and she’s a horrible person, but …

“This house,” I start, blinking in shock, “looks just like the Magnolia Plantation in Charleston. It was built in 1676, and burned during the—”

The look Zayd throws me is nine parts confusion and one part peaked interest.

“You actually give a crap about that stuff? A house is a house, right? Who cares?” I roll my eyes, but he’s already dragging me past a curving staircase, original wood moldings, and across floors that I suspect might actually be cypress. Damn. Cypress is protected now, but back in the day, it was commonly used for building in the south. To see it in California is really weird, and speaks of great wealth. Either Becky’s family has always been rich, or else they bought this house from someone else with an affluent family legacy. “Dance floor’s this way.”

We move down a long hallway, filled with pictures of a smiling Becky and her family. Every single one of them is blonde and blue-eyed, all of them tall and thin. They stare at us as we pass through the shadowy hall with couples making out, and emerge into a giant ballroom of sorts.

There’s a DJ in the corner, tables littered with glass alcohol bottles, and the distinct smell of weed.

Different location, same party I’ve seen a dozen times.

Zayd gets himself a drink and hands me an unopened can of soda, tossing his shots of rum back faster than I can sip my own drink. How we’re going to get back to campus with him drunk off his ass is beyond me. I won’t get in a car with a drunk guy, regardless of any bets.

“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. Fucking you is like sleeping with sirens. Your touch is a hot iron that burns, and I love you and all of your scars.” 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.