A billionaire’s son buying his way out of consequences for a crime that severe, disturbs me. I figured it was drugs or fighting or vandalism. The trifecta for bored brats.
“Hospitalised. But even his dad’s money couldn’t get him off Scott-free.”
Better, but still disconcerting. The five percent sure play by different rules.
I put my painting in the adjoining storeroom, then it’s nearly time for the first of two afternoon classes. Physics, which is obviously a joke because nobody can concentrate that hard on a Friday afternoon, followed by English. A far more fitting subject to daydream my way through.
“You’ll come with me, right?”
“Do I look like I’d pass up the chance to nosy around a billionaire’s mansion?” My introvert tendencies might be strong, but I still enjoy a night out, especially with Clare making everything fun. Then I wrinkle my nose as I remember. “But Idon’t know. Mum’s using me as a hair model for a stylist show on Saturday.”
The client list for her salon has been stagnant since opening week, and she’s hoping to drum up business. Anything I can do to help her always comes top of my list.
“Even better.” Clare hooks her arm through mine and marches me away from the art department block. “That means you’ll have a fabulous new hairdo to show off. Unless she’s giving you a perm, in which case you’ll have to stay at least two metres away because those chemicals make my eyes burn.”
The idea fills me with horror, and I catch her little finger to pinky swear. “No curls, I promise. Though it might get a change in colour.” Which would be welcome. Nondescript brown isn’t the greatest shade.
A few years ago, I’d had fun dyeing it an increasingly shocking range of colours—sometimes two or three at one time—but it’s been a long time since I felt comfortable doing that.
But I decide it’s time to try again. Mum will probably be ecstatic at the request, always looking for signs that I’m healing. Maybe green or pink or some fantastical pattern mixing the two.
“What time does the party start?”
Clare blows a raspberry. “God knows. Those sorts of answers are reserved for the people actually invited to the event.” She drops her voice to a whisper as we pass a cluster of roughhousing boys. “Fashionably late is probably the way to go. Say nine-thirty or ten?”
“Won’t Wilder be snatched up by then?”
“Better not be. That boy doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Clare lets go of my arm for long enough to roll the waistband of her uniform kilt over twice, revealing another few inches of her lovely thighs. “How’s that?”
“Sexy enough to snag a royal’s attention, I’m sure.”
She giggles, tossing her short blonde curls and pouting her lips like a seductress. “You know I’m a shameless gold digger, but I would gladly throw Wilder a fuck even if he were dirt poor.”
“Mm-hm?” I raise an eyebrow, teasing her. “That’s not the way to land a spot on Real Housewives.”
“Not fuck himfull time,obviously.” She wrinkles her nose. “But unless his mum disowns him, a couple hundred million will buy my complete devotion.”
We drift along to physics to endure an hour of slow torture. It’s a relief when the last period bell goes, and we can escape to English. A class that also comes complete with Zane, Maddox—another of the royals, already taken—and Wilder in the back row.
“Holy shit,” Clare mutters under her breath. “Is it me or did he get a hundred times sexier?”
She has a point. The three boys are still standing, and Wilder fills out his school uniform so well he could advertise Calvin Klein on a rooftop, especially with those crisp white shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
It takes a hefty sip of self-control to tear my eyes away. Clare doesn’t get anywhere close to achieving the same feat, and her enormous sigh of appreciation is enough to make me laugh.
“Could you imagine being his girlfriend?” she asks, starry-eyed. “I bet he’s got the world’s biggest cock.”
“Even the tiniest cock would look huge, propped on the stacks of his mother’s money.”
Not that I’m in any position to judge. I haven’t seen a penis in real life since Tommy Flannagan dropped his sweatpants in kindergarten and tried to write his name in the snow.
I’m not a prude or lacking in sexual appetite, but so far, no one has shown an interest. Not that way. And I lack the confidence to make the first move. Every morning the mirror shows me why that’s a bad idea.
My friend, though… she’s gorgeousandbold.
“Why don’t you go talk to him?” I give her an elbow nudge. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“The harsh light of reality would stop me from ever achieving a convincing daydream again?”
