They might not be Student Council boys anymore.

And for someone like Aster Hayes to be president? No, thank you. Church is the fucking prince of this school. He’s on the brochures for crap’s sake.

“Where is your gaggle of boyfriends anyway?” Monica asks as I sit up and stretch an arm over my head, using the other to keep my phone more or less focused on my face.

“Well, two of them are practicing martial arts moves in the gym, another one of them is baking in the buff while his best friend does calculus next to him, and the last one is waiting just outside the cracked door of this room.”

“Sorry to ruin the gossip train,” Spencer says, peeking his head in, and then moving into the room when I gesture his way. “If you need to talk shit about me, I understand. Just make sure you let her know that I do, in fact, have the biggest dick of all the guys.”

“I haven’t seen enough of Church’s yet to know for sure,” I blurt, and then I groan and fall back into the pillows. “Okay, I’m hanging up now. You bring out the ho in me.”

“Every girl has a ho inside, waiting to liberate her from the puritanical shackles of our modesty-based society that shames women for having natural pleasure and dominion over their own bodies. Enjoy all that dick, and we’ll talk soon!”

She ends the call, and I, in my infinite grace and poise, drop the phone right on my face by accident. Spencer’s right there in an instant, pulling me up and into his arms, like I’m actually suffering much more than bruised pride.

“Ah, Chuck-let, you’re bleeding,” he says, reaching up with the edge of his blazer sleeve to wipe some of the red away. I try to slap his hand back, so he doesn’t stain his uniform, but he ignores me and dabs the liquid away from my upper lip. “It’s gonna be hard to kiss you now, babe.”

“Babe?” I ask, lifting a skeptical brow in his direction. But he’s impossible not to like, with those cocksure grins, vibrant eyes, and silver hair. His face is a bit more angular, like the twins’, but he has a squarer jaw, closer to Ranger’s. “That’s a new one.”

“I’m testing out extra nicknames, just so I’ve got fun things to call you from across the room. Babe seemed pretty tame, but knowing how much you love insults like condom face, ass pig, and toilet brush, I figure I’ll get creative next time. I’m playing around with my little slice of hot sauce toast, in homage to your favorite breakfast food.”

Aww, he remembers that I like to douse my French toast in hot sauce … Too freaking cute.

“You want to yell hey, hot sauce toast! across a crowded room, then that’s your choice. Just don’t expect me to answer.” Spencer smirks and leans in, kissing a drop of ruby red blood away from the corner of my mouth. I smack him away again, but he just chuckles and burrows his face against the side of my neck. “Don’t you know about, like diseases and stuff? Don’t lick my blood, that’s gross.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. What diseases could you possibly have?” He sits up and looks me over in my white-button down and plaid skirt like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. “I took your virginity, after all, and I’m clean as a whistle.”

“Mm-hmm.” I give him a look, but his expression is tender, and I know he’s just being playful. “You know,” I begin softly, looking down at my lap and forgetting about my split lip for a second. “I always wanted a boy who’d love me in a ballgown and a face full of makeup, but also love me just as much in sweatpants with a pimple on my nose.”

“Like the one you have now?” Spencer says knowingly, and I balk at him.

“I do not have a pimple! What is wrong with you, Spencer Hargrove?” he grins at me, and then reaches up to brush back some of my hair. After that talk with Jack on Halloween, I was sure he was going to draw into himself. Spencer’s always said he hates lies more than anything else, and Jack’s clearly been lying to him for years. But instead of freaking out and running away, he’s here, and he’s dealing with it. I’m proud of him. “I’m trying to be poetic and romantic and—”

“I was getting ready to suck your dick, Charlotte Carson. I was looking up the ins and outs of anal sex, and if silicone lube was better than water-based—it is.” He pauses and smiles at me in a way that breaks my fucking heart and sews it back together all in a single glance. “If you think that I wouldn’t love you in sweatpants and pimples, then you’re just not paying attention.”

“Love me, huh?” I ask, and Spencer lifts a dark brow. My heart is beating out of my chest, thinking about Ranger’s confession and wondering if I could be so lucky to hear that phrase twice.

“You know I love you, Chuck.” He shrugs his shoulders again, like it’s no big deal. But it is. It is a big deal. I lean forward, placing one of my hands on his legs, lips parted gently, waiting. “Shit, you can’t look at me like that.”

“Say it again,” I tell him, leaning even farther forward, knowing that the top buttons on my shirt are undone, and that I’m sitting in just such a way that there’s maximum cleavage going on.

“I’m not afraid of the L-word,” he says, flashing a foxy smirk in my direction and then reaching up a single finger to brush down the side of my throat. “I love you, Chuck-let.”

“Even if your love for me gets you killed?” I ask, pausing and glancing away, toward one of Church’s coffee posters. Part of me wonders what would happen if I ran, if the cult would eventually give up. If I weren’t here, would the boys be safer? Maybe they could just hire private security for me, and I could wait this out back in Santa Cruz? The thought is crushing, but now that we know what we’re dealing with, I can’t help but wonder.

Then again, if the families behind this are in the league of—or at least close to—the power and influence of the Montagues, then I don’t imagine they’d let me go quite that easily.

“I’d rather die for love than live without knowing how bad it hurts,” Spencer says, smiling. “Now say you love me back, and let’s do it before those other assholes show up.”

“I love you, Spencer Hargrove,” I say, and I mean it, I do.

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I love all five of the boys. Equally.

What’s a girl to do?

“My dad is never going to let me go,” I say, sitting on the counter in my skirt and loving the power shift I feel in this kitchen. A year ago, I was remaking quiches and being locked out of the dining room while Ross sniveled and snickered next to Spencer. Now, I’m sitting here and being pampered by a horde of lovesick boys.

I tap my crossed ankles against the cabinet and think what a difference a skirt can make. Essentially, I’m a femme fatale now. I own these boys.

“Get off that fucking counter and finish this fruit tart,” Ranger says, pointing at the freshly baked crust which is seriously bereft of fruit. “And make it cute. We need to up our game on Insta. Our feed is garbage.”

With a roll of my eyes, I slide off the counter, and then duck like a damn ninja when the twins toss two chocolate chip cookies in my direction, like they’re throwing-stars or something.