Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

Chapter Three

Alex

Crashing John Trotter’s yacht party hardly satisfies the frustration rolling in my gut. Demetra canceled last minute, leaving me to slip through the crowd of people milling on the pier at Thasos Pier and Country club without anyone watching my back.

I’m by myself.

Again.

I pause at the appropriate dock. Crimson red rope marks the entrance to the party. I slip right past it like I own the place, knowing that entering any party without an explicit invitation relies almost entirely on confidence. If only mine wasn’t fading so fast. I square my shoulders, check my reflection in my phone’s camera, and then wander up the ramp to the main area of the yacht.

The outer sleek blue and white design of the yacht hardly compares to the lavish onboard hot tub flanked by white tables hosting drinks, a large buffet of food, and crystalline pale white lights that glitter overhead. Anybody who’s worth a damn is here—and they watch me intently as I walk past them.

At least I dressed for the occasion. A glittering silver cocktail dress pauses mid-thigh, complete with a pair of black stilettos. The only thing I inherited from my mother was her sense of style, the kind of performance that’s meant to draw just a little bit of attention. I’m used to being in the spotlight, so I always make sure I’m wearing my best.

But tonight is different. Tonight is…tense.

I’m no longer at the top of the ladder, fashion sense be damned. Dirty looks twist the faces of the girls that line the walkway toward the main deck of the yacht. A few men squint in my direction, eyes narrowing as they spit fire in my direction—one of them quite literally spits on the ground in front of me.

“Snotty bitch.”

“Can you believe she showed up?”

“Can you believe she was invited?”

“How pathetic.”

I don’t respond to the filthy comments, the worst of them causing me to cringe internally. Aside from my nose wiggling slightly, I keep my reactions to myself, retaining a sense of aristocracy as I continue walking. I’m almost to the drinks table, which will calm my nerves. Maybe the buffet will help, too.

But nothing will work quite like whiskey.

If that will ever work.

My facade is breaking quickly. I fumble slightly, almost eating the polished tan wood that lines the walkway as I scramble to recover. A few snickers erupt around me, along with another round of jeers that make my throat tighten.

“Give her a break.”

“Yeah, her father just died. You’d be fucked up too.”

“Seriously, guys. Grow the fuck up.”

Taking a cleansing breath gets me through the last few feet and toward the door that leads into the rooms below the main deck. I book it down the stairs and lunge into the first available room, keeping my palms pressed flat to the door as I try to steady my breathing.

Tears well in my eyes. Isn’t one week of bullying enough? Jesus Christ, you’d think it would get old after a while. I quell the sob that threatens to crack from my lips. Why the fuck did I crash this party? I knew the assholes upstairs would be rude to me. It’s a bone-deep understanding that I’ve fallen down the social ladder and that I’m basically fresh meat ready to be pounded, grilled, and served.

This wouldn’t have happened if Demetra had been with me. I close my eyes gently. No, that’s not fair to say. It would probably still happen with her here. When I open my eyes and focus on the door, my breathing levels and the static in my ears reduce to a low hum. She can’t help me either. No one can help me. Is that why I keep coming back for more? Because I’m just trying to take it?

The bullying hurts, yet I keep absorbing it, letting it wash over me. It’s like I want it or something, my confidence diminishing so small that getting any kind of attention seems to produce the same effect as if it were the right kind of attention.

Fuck, what is the right kind of attention right now?

“Are you lost?”

My fingers freeze on the white-painted door, palms radiating heat as I glance over my shoulder. Well, I guess I do want to be bulliedby being here. No other than Tabitha Olson stands on the other side of the room near the crisply made up king-sized bed. Trying not to shiver, I hug my shoulders, pretending that I’m crossing my arms as I turn around.

Tabitha is gorgeous. She’s bolder and prettier than most girls, with reddish-brown hair that hangs in loose curls around her shoulders, bright green eyes, and the kind of full lips that any girl would pay for—except they’re natural. They’re painted a delectable cherry red tonight, a shade darker than the scarlet dress that clings to her hourglass figure.

The tip of her nail clinks pensively against the neck of a green glass bottle. “Well?”