“Or licking our shoes,” King says, glancing at us in the rearview mirror.
“I got something else the hot ones can lick,” Duke says, grabbing himself for emphasis.
King pulls into a parking spot at the back of the lot, halfway under the shade of a towering oak. I know he’s doing it for me, parking back here so we can talk without prying eyes checking out the new guys. Otherwise, my brothers would be parking front and center, soaking up the attention. They’re not exactly the slip-in-unnoticed type. They couldn’t be if they tried, so they don’t bother trying.
“I guarantee you, anything this tiny town has going on can’t even touch what goes on in our old school,” King says, turning to pat my knee. “We’re gonna take this place by storm in a matter of minutes, and you know why?”
“Because we’re the Dolces,” I mutter.
“Yeah we are,” Duke and Baron yelled in unison, pumping their fists in the air. They’re identical, but they’ve taken great pains to distinguish themselves at this school. Baron even wears a pair of glasses instead of his usual contacts, and Duke got his hair cut short, forsaking their usual tousled look.
“Let’s go kick ass,” King says.
I know they’ve reached their limits in dealing with my anxiety, so I take a deep breath and center myself by meeting Royal’s eyes again. He’s the quietest of my brothers, my twin, the one who can always calm me down when I start to lose it.
We climb out of the Range Rover, and I straighten my skirt and smooth my hair as we get into formation. King is the center of our family, the center of our group. Royal and I step up beside him, and my younger brothers each fall in at opposite ends, the first line of defense. I don’t know when we created this formation, but it’s as predictable as a football formation on the field. We’re ready. With a nod, King sets the play in motion, and we start across the lot.
“Thank the baby Jesus the girls here aren’t ugly,” Duke says as we pass a group of girls primping next to a pickup truck. They stop to gawk, and Duke shoots them an inviting smile.
My brothers are, to put it mildly, noticeable. They’re all over six feet and built like the athletes they are. To add to that, they all inherited our parents’ good looks—in spades.
We make it toward the front of the lot, the primo parking spaces designated for the students who want to pay for a spot, each with a big yellow number painted on the asphalt. There, I spot the long, sleek, powder-blue classic convertible that cut us off the day we moved in.
Our neighbor. Considering where they live, it’s no surprise that they have the best spot in the entire lot, right next to the walkway that leads to the door of Willow Heights Prep. They probably paid through the nose for that. Suddenly, I’m glad we parked at the back. We can scout out the school this way. It’s always good to know the ones to watch, even if you’re planning to become the ones to watch.
Three guys stand leaning against the car as if waiting for us. I scan their faces, trying to recognize the boy I saw last night. A blond guy with strong, angular features leans casually against the rear of the car, one foot on the ground and the other propped on the bumper, his hands resting on the edge of the trunk.
Not him.
Beside him, standing straight and tall right behind the car, stands a taller, more muscular version of the same guy, his square, broad shoulders commanding even from a distance. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing a tattoo on golden-tanned forearms, which are currently crossed over a broad chest. He glares at us, his blue eyes icy cold.
A swarm of butterflies explodes inside me.Him.
Oh, fuck. Definitely him.
On his other side, another blond slouches against the trunk of the car, leaning back on it with his elbows while he scrolls through his phone, paying us no mind.
I have plenty of time to take them in before we arrive at the front of the lot. I bring my attention back to our insomniac neighbor, the angry-looking guy. He’s the driver, the center, just as King is ours. And he doesn’t look like he’s here to throw us a welcome party. I glance sideways at King, wondering how we’re going to play this. If he’ll speak first, if he’ll make nice.
“Parking back in the nosebleed with the scholarship kids?” the glaring guy drawls in a smooth, silky voice that sends a little shock of electricity through me. I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect that gorgeous voice, like warm honey melting over my bare skin. And I didn’t expect what my body did when I heard it.
“Someone’s in our spot,” King says, nodding to the Bel Air. For a second, no one speaks. The guy on his phone lifts his head, shaking a fringe of shiny blond hair from his eyes. A few people have gathered around, curious about the new kids and ready for a showdown.
“You think this is your spot?” the angry guy asks. He’s good-looking, with a sculpted jawline and a square chin with the hint of a dimple in the center, but his eyes are hard and mean. The guy on his left has sharper features, a pointed chin and a sharp nose along with bright, curious blue eyes, but I peg them as brothers.
“It will be tomorrow,” King says, and he keeps walking, so we keep walking.
We stride up the set of wide, shallow steps to the high front doors. The building is a huge brick thing with the entire name of the school—Willow Heights Preparatory Academy—carved into a long slab of marble high above the doors. Just over the entrance is a smaller marble inset bearing the school motto:Inis Origine Pendet.
We enter the building and find the office, where we collect our schedules and meet our guides for the day. They’re introduced as the student council, a group of pretty, preppy blondes who look like clones with perfectly straight, smooth, long hair and high heels. As we disperse, I notice my guide, Lacey, gazing after my brothers with longing. Guess she drew the short straw.
“So, what’s the deal around here?” I ask.
Lacey strides ahead we make our way down the hall away from the office. “The classes are hard,” she says. “So if you’re from the ghetto or something, you better expect to spend a lot more time than you probably spent on your classes in Brooklyn.”
There is so much wrong with that sentence that I don’t even bother to correct her. I have bigger things to worry about and limited time to learn what I need to know.
“I’m not worried about the classes,” I say. “Tell me about those guys out front. The blonds in the Bel Air.”