That realization burns just like rage, but with a dark edge of something else.
Iain lets the game system drop to the table with a clatter and opens his lunch bag. “Just so you know, Zaya is going to the Founder’s Ball with Jake Tully.”
Ice slides through my veins, painfully cold. “How the fuck do you know that?”
He pulls a crumpled paper out of his pocket and tosses it at me. I unfold the thing and quickly scan it. One set of handwriting is immediately recognizable, it definitely belongs to Zaya. And the icy cold inside me quickly turns to heat as I read the flirtatious banter that turns into an invitation.
An invitation that is accepted.
It feels good to be angry, like an embrace from an old friend.
“How long have you had this?” The paper crumples into a ball in my fist.
Iain shrugs and takes a bite of his apple. “A few days.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me about it until now?”
“Forgot.”
“Your mom forgot not to drop you on your head as a baby.” I want to blame him for this, but getting mad at Iain is like spitting into the wind. The loogie is just coming back to land in your face. “Fucking Jake.”
Iain raises a sardonic eyebrow. “You want us to drive him out to the cliffs and toss him off?”
I don’t really think Iain is serious, but he says everything in the same bored monotone, so I can never be completely sure. He describes brutal murders with the same inflection as plans for dinner.
“So Zaya can cry crocodile tears at this dick’s funeral? No thanks. I’ll figure out a way to deal with Jake, apparently violence isn’t going to do the trick.”
I’m going to destroy him, grind him into the dirt until there isn’t anything left to mourn.
This isn’t about jealousy.
This is about ownership.
Zaya Milbourne is mine. Her pain is mine. Her voice is mine.
She owes me a debt, and only I get to decide when it finally gets paid.
Both of them are going to learn that lesson in as complete a way as possible.
The only question is how.
With the same impeccable timing as always, Sophia sidles up behind me and covers my eyes with her clammy hands.
“Guess who?” she trills, voice pitched just a few notes too high.
I already know who it is, because nobody else wears the same perfume she does, likely because she issued some sort of threat to the other girls to keep it exclusive. She smells like a knock-off Ariana Grande with the cloying combination of baby powder and cucumber-melon body spray.
It’s suffocating.
The easy thing would be to turn my anger and frustration on her. Sophia makes a good target. I think of her like one of those blow-up clowns that eagerly pops right back up every time you punch it down.
But as much fun as it would be to make her cry for the hell of it, I’m playing a longer game.
“Nurse Reynolds? I don’t need my temperature checked again, thanks.”
“You’re so bad.” Sophia giggles and slaps me lightly on the arm as she comes around to wedge herself between me and Elliot on the bench seat. “And you haven’t asked anyone to the Founder’s Ball yet. If you wait much longer, there won’t be any girls left.”
This particular girl couldn’t be more obvious if she tried — sometimes I find her obvious desperation a bit charming. From what I’ve heard, she already turned down half a dozen invitations to the Founder’s Ball in the hopes that I’ll finally get around to asking her.
I don’t do dates. It’s hard to see the point. If a girl is willing to lay down and spread her legs regardless, then why waste time with dinner and roses? Even if I show up alone to the Founder’s Ball, that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave that way.
Then I remember what I’ve just learned about Jake and how he has been sniffing around Zaya since the moment he showed up in town. I haven’t decided how to handle that he had the nerve to ask her to the Founder’s Ball.
My Founder’s Ball.
The one my family has been throwing every year for the past hundred. Just thinking about them strolling into my house together, arm in arm, makes my blood boil.
So an idea forms.
“You want to go?” I ask Sophia. Casual, like it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.
Elliot makes a choking sound from behind her that I choose to ignore. I don’t need to hear his opinion on this clusterfuck of a situation.
Her squeal is loud enough to burst ear drums, and I let her hug me even though it makes my skin crawl. Sophia is a pretty girl, even I notice that, but her looks don’t do anything for me. Sometimes I wish they did, if just because it would make things easier.
“Come by early and you can stand in the receiving line with me,” I tell her. The more this idea percolates in my brain, the more I like it.
Sophia’s eyes are so bright they’re practically strobe lights. She says something appropriately fawning and enthusiastic, but I’ve already stopped listening. I hold my hand up to stop her when she starts prattling about matching her gown to my cummerbund. The details don’t matter to me.
Every year, my family stands at the entrance of Cortland Manor to welcome each guest personally to our mausoleum of a home.
Every single person who comes to the ball has to walk the receiving line. It’s tradition. That means the entire town will see Sophia at my side, playing queen of the manor.
Standing up there with me is an honor, communicating something significantly more than status as a fuck buddy, and Sophia knows it.
Zaya will, too.
Iain and Cal just look on in mild amusement as
