Stuck With The Four Hotties

There’s a knock on my door bright and early, and I groan, rolling out of bed and padding over to open it. As soon as I’ve got the lock undone, the door flies open and there’s Zayd waiting for me, one forearm leaning against the doorjamb. He’s dressed in a torn, black tank top with a zipper sewn diagonally across the side. Paired with white skinny jeans and boots, he looks like a punk rocker from the 90s-but in a good way.

“Morning Working Girl,” he says, whistling as he pushes his way into my apartment and looks around. “Didn’t expect the Brothel to look this nice.”

“The Brothel?” I ask, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I’m too tired to be angry about it. Too tired to be concerned about Zayd tromping around my room. He reaches up and touches the crystals on the chandelier, letting them clink together with a soft tinkling sound. “Really?”

“It’s what everyone calls your dorm,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, like it’s no big deal. “You ready or what?”

“Ready?” I ask, checking my phone. There’s a text from Zack: Let me know you made it baFk okay? I worry about you with Tristan Vanderbilt. Oops. I was so tired last night that I forgot to check my phone. Plopping down on the edge of my bed, I send a quick response to let him know that I’m fine. “It’s seven thirty in the morning.”

“Long drive to the casino,” Zayd says, turning to look at me. I keep my eyes on my phone, but I can feel his gaze burning into me like fire. When I

lift my attention to his face, I see him studying my legs and realize with a start that I’m not wearing anything but panties and a tank top.Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

“Jesus Christ,” I blurt as Zayd laughs, the sound following me into the bathroom as I slam the door closed and yank on the jeans from last night. When I open the door again, he’s still howling with laughter. “How long of a drive?” I ask, hoping to distract him. It almost works, but I notice his eyes are still lingering on my denim-clad legs.

“Dunno. Never been there before.” He pulls his phone out, glances at the screen, and then taps out a text with his thumb before glancing back up again. As I browse through my other messages, I feel a pang inside my chest at one from my dad. I’m really sorry, honey. Please Fall me. My anger’s long-faded, and even though his words ring in my head-you forgive too easily-I decide I’ll give him a call today, see how his out of town gig is going.

“Are you sure the casino’s going to be okay with a bunch of kids showing up on their doorstep? I mean, it’s illegal for us to even set foot in there, right?” Zayd lifts his dark brows at me, running his tattooed left palm down his equally inked up right arm. There are so many designs twisted together on his skin, it’s hard to make them out without getting a little closer. I’m just fine across the room from him, thank you very much.

“The casino’s been out of business for, like, years.” He shrugs his shoulders again, and I get chills down my spine. “But it’s all set up for gaming.” He flashes a grin at me, and I imagine how easy it must be for him to woo crowds. Note to self: look up some videos of Zayd Kaiser later. I’ve never actually listened to or seen any of his work. “They even have a racetrack.”

“Like, for racing cars?”

“No, dummy, for racing greyhounds.” He rolls his green eyes at me, and I frown. “Yeah, duh, of course it’s for cars.”

“Why would a casino have a racing track?” I ask, and Zayd groans, reaching up to twist his gelled hair into spikes.

“Seriously, you ask a lot of stupid questions. Get dressed, and let’s go.” “I’m not riding on Creed’s lap for hours.” I’m serious about that, too. I

don’t care if a whole month of freedom’s on the line here. It’s not happening. Just those few scant minutes were enough to be … confusing.

“Yeah, no worries then because I’m driving you.” Zayd moves over to the wardrobe in the corner and throws the doors open. My mouth gapes open,

shocked at his forward behavior, but he’s not looking at me. Instead, he’s tossing the Manolo Blahniks that Miranda got me onto the bed. He adds the black dress to the pile, and then goes for my underwear drawer.

“Hey!” I shout, scrambling off my bed and over to him. I try to yank him back, but it’s like tugging on cement. “Hands off, asshole.” Zayd fingers a pair of the red lacy panties I wore on Halloween. It’s the only nice pair I have, and I got them as a last minute gift from my mom. Yeah. That’s the kind of gifts my mother gets me: slinky dresses, high heels, and lacy lingerie. Pretty sure her exact words were: snag yourself a riFh one, Marnye, you’ll be glad you did. Look how that turned out for me!

Part of me wonders if I hate her, but then I feel guilty for even thinking that, and I banish the thought.

“Wear these,” Zayd continues, adding the matching red bra to the mix. “You’ll look fly as fuck.”

“Right. And then you’ll all call me Working Girl and tell me to fuck you and then crawl back to my Brothel. Sorry, but it’s not happening.” I reach around him to grab a t-shirt from the stack, my breasts brushing up against his back. Zayd stiffens and flicks his gaze down to me, but I’m already blushing and pulling away, clutching a white t-shirt in my hand. It says Lower Banks High on the front, and honestly is probably the ugliest thing I own. I only ever intended to wear it as a pajama top.

“You want to wear like, Goodwill shit instead? How is that better?” The scowl forming on his face infuriates me, and I shove past him to get access to the drawer on the bottom of the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of raggedy black jeans, a worn leather belt I inherited from my dad, and some sneakers.

“Be right back,” I say cheerily, snagging the red bra and panties when he’s not looking. I’m not squeezing past him again to grab a different set. Slipping into the bathroom, I change into my new outfit, realizing as I pull the shirt over my head that it’s literally covered in holes. The red of my bra shows through, and I sigh.

When I open the door to grab a new shirt, Zayd’s waiting for me, leaning against the wall near the kitchenette. He gives me a wicked-slow onceover, running his tongue over his lower lip and flipping one of his rings around.

“I figured you’d look like a charity case in that, but it’s actually pretty edgy.” He steps forward and fingers one of the rips near my shoulder. I slap his hand away, but it only makes him grin. “Hey,” he purrs, lifting his eyes

from my chest to my face. “We’re all alone right now, whole school to ourselves.”

“So?” My voice comes out a bit shakier than I intended. Great. I have no problem standing up to these jerks when they’re being cruel, but when they start with the flirting, a different sort of heat mixes with the anger.

“So …” Zayd runs his finger along my shoulder and then tickles his fingertips across the back of my neck, making me shiver with pleasure. It feels good to be touched there, even by someone I hate as much as this asshole. “We could christen the school, take our time in each and every room. I’ve never fucked in the chapel, you know. You could be the first.”

Revulsion mixes with lust inside of me, and I smack Zayd’s hand away. He narrows his green eyes at me, but he’s still smiling. It’s an infectious sort of smile, nothing at all like Tristan’s cruel twist of lips, but I know it’s not anymore genuine. Zayd is a performer. He woos people for a living. Frankly, I’d be better off throwing my hat in the ring with Creed.

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I tell him, and this time, my voice doesn’t waver at all.

Zayd scowls at me and reaches up to play with his hair. I catch sight of the tattoo on the back of his left hand, a stylized bluebird over a black and white guitar. The rings on his fingers glitter in the light from the chandelier, and for a second there, I can’t help but think how handsome he looks. Then, of course, he opens his mouth.

“Who are you sleeping with then? Andrew? Because Creed and Tristan might get off on the virgin thing, but I have a hard time believing it. A girl like you, from Lower Banks, there’s just no way.”

“Because everyone who’s poor is automatically promiscuous?” I ask, trying not to think of my mom. She’s the exception, not the rule. “And even if I were, it’s none of your business, and it has nothing to do with the character of a person. Look at you and Tristan and Creed, sleeping with anyone you can get your hands on. And that’s not what makes you bad people. There are plenty of other things, but that’s not it.”