All three girls giggle as I meet my driver, Frank, at the rear of the town car. I still can’t get over the fact that I have my own personal driver.
He pulls my new designer leather backpack out of the trunk. “I’ll escort you to the administration’s office, Miss Callahan.”
“Frank, really, I can handle it. Just point me in the right direction and I’m good.”
He eyes me skeptically. “Are you sure? Mr. Callahan would not be pleased if you got lost and were late.”
I wink. “I can handle it.”
Frank smiles sheepishly and looks back at Peyton. “I don’t know. If Miss Devereaux—”
“Miss Devereaux is too busy with her adoring fans to notice. Really, Frank. I’m good.”
He hands my bag over. “Very well. Good luck, Miss Callahan.”
“Jazz,” I correct.
He gives me a soft smile and points to the building in front of us. “Good luck, Jazz. The administration office is in Lincoln Hall, the center building. The office will be immediately to your right and they’re expecting you. I’ll be here to pick you up after school.”
“Thanks. I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Have a nice drive back.”
He nods. “Thank you, miss.”
As I walk across the parking lot, I can feel people staring. I make a conscious effort to hold my head high, reminding myself that I give zero fucks what these spoiled brats think of me.
I finally make it through the crowd of students and breathe a sigh of relief as I ascend the steps into Lincoln Hall. That is until I see three sets of eyes, standing off to the side, tracking my every move.
Damn.
I normally wouldn’t look twice at a preppy douchebag, but these three wear their school uniforms well. I stumble when I lock gazes with the boy in the middle. Scratch that. There’s nothing boyish about any of these guys. All three of them are tall, broad, and muscular. Jesus, what are their parents feeding them? Middle guy’s icy stare causes all sorts of crazy, dirty images to run through my mind, forcing shivers down my spine.
Whoa.
I know it’s cliché, but I’ve always had a weakness for bad boys and these guys are the epitome of one. Stupid teenage hormones.
I shake it off and make my way into the building which is an odd experience in itself. Even my elementary school had metal detectors and bag check stations before e
ntering. I guess they don’t think rich kids have a propensity for going postal. My eyes widen as I get my first glimpse of my new stomping grounds. Cherry wood paneling lines the walls with polished white marble flooring. There’s no tiny metal graffiti-adorned lockers for these kids either; instead, they have full-sized wooden ones that are only a shade darker than the paneling. The whole place screams money. I swear it even smells like money.
My fellow students are openly gawking, looking at me like I’m some sort of freak show. Geez, the social hierarchy in this place is painfully obvious, as if we’re living smack dab in the middle of a teen movie. I shove that thought aside as I spot a sign indicating the office is just off to the right like Frank said. As I step over the threshold, I’m surprised at how opulent it is, although I suppose I shouldn’t be considering it matches the rest of the place. There are several sturdy cherry wood desks in the middle of the room, each complete with state of the art computers and tiny decorative stain-glassed lamps. There’s a single door on the right wall with a brass nameplate indicating it belongs to the headmaster.
A frail woman wearing a black pantsuit barely takes her eyes away from her computer long enough to acknowledge me. “May I help you?”
“Hi... um... I’m new. I was told to come here first.”
The woman raises her delicate silver eyebrow. “Name?”
“Jazz Rivera.” I fidget as her fingers fly along the keyboard. “You might have me listed under Jasmine.”
“I don’t have a Jazz or Jasmine Rivera.” She shakes her head. “I do, however, have a Jasmine Callahan who’s scheduled to arrive today.”
I bite my tongue, reminding myself that it’s not her fault my sperm donor is an asshole. “Yeah, that’s me. Although, my last name is legally Rivera.” For a few more days anyway. “Could you please fix that?”
She finally meets my eyes, curiosity pouring out of her. “I’m sorry, dear, but your father listed you as Jasmine Callahan on the registration forms. Only he can make any changes, so I suggest you check with him.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I mutter.
The woman—Mrs. Stanford, according to her nameplate—hands me a tri-fold brochure. “Here’s a map of the campus. You can find one stored on your academy issued tablet as well. If you’ll take a seat, your buddy should be here any moment.”