“And you,” he seethed, “my uptight good-girl, are a pain in my ass. But here we are.”
For a long moment, we just glared at each other, neither of us willing to surrender.
But then Keaton’s eyes drifted down to my braid, which had slid over my shoulder to hang down over my chest.
His pupils dilated the tiniest amount, and then his eyes narrowed. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?” I asked, genuinely confused by his change of mood.
“Hide your hair in that braid.”
I was even more confused now. “I’m hardly hiding it. I just like it out of my face while I’m working.”
“It makes it feel like a secret. Like I’m the only one who—”
With an abrupt jerk, he was off his chair and grabbing his leather satchel.
I was totally lost. “Keaton?”
He didn’t look at me as he shouldered his bag. “Friday. Four o’clock in the photography lab. Be there, Iris.”
And then he stalked away as fast as he had after our kiss.
We were a few weeks into the semester now, and Pembroke seemed determined to punish all its students simply for existing. I had three papers to write, half a Molière play to translate, more calc problems than I could possibly ever do, and at least three AP physics problems to do a night.
Which didn’t sound like a lot, admittedly, until I started doing the physics problems and realized that each problem took an hour.
Not to mention that I was still trying to build a photography portfolio for myself, and so I was spending every spare moment outside snapping pictures and then inside the darkroom developing them. I preferred the freedom of digital, but I’d need to show in my portfolio that I could do film too, so I needed plenty of analog samples to show off.
Not for the first time, I wished I lived in a dorm, where I could study and complain and gossip with friends while I worked. Sometimes I hung out in Serafina and Sloane’s room, and sometimes in Aurora’s, but Sloane refused to talk when she was studying, Serafina always had random visitors dropping by, and Aurora’s security person had to sit in the room while I was there since I hadn’t been properly vetted by the Liechtensteiner government yet.
So home it was.
Home where my father could remind me how hard Isabelle had studied, and how easily homework came to her. Home where my mother could hide from all our family conflict like it was a spider on the wall that would eventually crawl away. Home where I could sit in my bedroom and stare out the window at the boys’ dormitory across the lush, green grounds.
Where I could stare at that century-old brick building and wonder what Keaton was doing inside it.
Was he with his girlfriend? With the Hellfire Club?
Was he alone?
Was he thinking of me?
Don’t be stupid, Iris.
I kept hoping Friday would never come. I hoped there would be a fire or a storm or a flood. Because I didn’t know if I could face him again. I didn’t know if I could survive that feeling like I wanted to scratch him and kiss him and growl insults at him while he pinned me against another bookshelf.
I’d never had a crush like this, never liked a boy like this, never felt about anybody the way I felt about Keaton. Like he had crawled under my skin. I hated him.
And . . .
I thought of him constantly.
And when the books were closed and the lights were off, I thought of our kiss. Of how good it felt to have him wedged up against me, his hands in my hair and his mouth consuming mine. Of how tight my belly had been, how I’d ached and ached between my legs as he ground himself against me.
I wanted it again, and I despised myself for my weakness. What girl was stupid enough to want a boy like him? A boy with a girlfriend? A boy who detested her?
Not me.
Friday started out with a bang—almost literally. I was sitting in my English classroom alone, about ten minutes before the bell, when a trio of beautiful girls crashed through the classroom door and strode in like leggy soldiers. They were sleek and slim, makeup perfect, their eyes full of murder.
“Are you Iris Briggs?” the one in front asked. She had dark brown hair and pale skin, muted pink lipstick and a diamond tennis bracelet. Her features were the sort of bland but forgettably pretty that came from generations of New England money.
“Um,” I said. “Yes?”
The girl leaned down, bracing her hands on my desk. “Stay the fuck away from my boyfriend.”
“Um—”
A blonde girl stepped forward too, her lips painted scarlet and a fresh hickey visible just above her shirt collar. “Don’t play dumb, Briggs. McKenna told Bella who told Carlee who finally told me that she saw you kissing Keaton in the library during the first week.”
Heat rushed through me—a mix of defensiveness and unease. You didn’t do anything wrong, I reminded myself. If they were going to be angry with anyone, they should be angry with Keaton! He was the one with the girlfriend!
“You must be Clara,” I said, looking back to the brunette. “Look. If you’ve got a problem with Keaton kissing someone else, I suggest you take it up with Keaton. He’s the one who kissed me. It’s not very feminist of you to scold me instead of the boy who’s actually made promises to you.”
Clara scowled. “I don’t care about feminism right now, Briggs. I can’t afford for Keaton to be seen chasing someone else. Got it?”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“I don’t care what it was like,” Clara hissed. “Don’t let it happen again. Or I will hurt you. Understood?”
“She means we’ll kick your ass,” the blonde supplied. I managed to dredge up her name from Serafina’s lunchtime commentary a few days ago. Samantha Morgan: notorious party girl and wild child. I was very certain she was the kind of girl who would kick the shit out of me if given the chance and enough tequila.
“If you’re scared or angry or whatever this is, you need to bring it to Keaton,” I said as coldly as I could manage, glaring at all of them. Students began to file in for class, in pairs and trios, and I saw the moment Clara realized this was over. For now, at least.
“Keaton is mine,” Clara said in a low, but clear voice as she straightened up. “And I plan to keep him at any cost—I can’t afford not to, which makes me very, very dangerous to you. And I hope you remember that next time you’re with him.”
6
Iris
The rest of the day was an anxious blur. I’d already been feeling weird and twisty about working with Keaton today, and now this Clara thing . . .
What if she found out about the project? Misunderstood the time we’d be spending together? I didn’t think she and Samantha would physically hurt me—surely they had more sense than to go after the headmaster’s daughter—but I also wasn’t certain they wouldn’t hurt me either. I knew Serafina would say not to worry, that she and Sloane and Aurora had my back, but still.
I didn’t like it.
Photography seminar was in the lab rather than the classroom today, as we practiced with the illustration and design tools in Photoshop, which meant I didn’t have to talk to Keaton or listen to him or even look at him. I kept my eyes firmly on my screen, even when I felt his gaze hot on my neck, and pretended he didn’t exist.