Twisted Palace(35)

Plus, she had to take all her clothes off.

I don’t have any real classical training—not the kind that I suspect Jordan has. The few classes Mom was able to pay for were more of a tap and jazz mix. Ballet was too expensive because you were required to buy specific shoes and leotards. After seeing my mom’s despondent face when we checked out the prices of gear, I told her I thought ballet was stupid, even though I was dying to try it.

The other dance classes only required me to show up in socks or bare feet, and I was happy with that, but…I won’t deny that I sometimes stood outside the door of the ballet room, watching the girls dance by in their pastel leotards and toe shoes.

I can’t help superimposing those images over the one I’m watching now—until Jordan spins to a stop with her eyes shooting fire at me. Too bad I can’t pin the murder on Jordan.

“What the hell do you want?” she snaps.

Her hands are on her hips and she looks ready to come over and kick my ass. Fortunately, I already know I can hold my own with her. We threw down, literally, just a few weeks into classes.

“Just wondering who you ate for breakfast,” I answer sweetly.

“Freshmen, of course.” She smirks at me. “Don’t you know? I like them young and tender and weak.”

“Of course you do. Anyone strong would scare the shit out of you.” Which is why Jordan doesn’t like me.

“You know what would scare the shit out of me? Climbing into bed with a murderer.” Tossing her long dark hair over one shoulder, she walks over to her gym bag and pulls out a water bottle. “Or are you so jaded from all the guys you’ve slept with that normal ones don’t turn you on anymore?”

“You wanted him before,” I remind her.

“He’s rich and hot and supposedly has a good dick. Why wouldn’t I want him?” Jordan shrugs. “But unlike you, I actually have standards. And unlike the Royals, my family is actually respected around these parts. My father has won awards for his philanthropy. My mother heads up half a dozen charity committees.”

I roll my eyes. “What does that have to do with you wanting Reed?”

She scowls. “I just told you—I don’t want him anymore. He’s bad for my image.”

A laugh pops out. “You’re saying all this as if you and Reed hooking up is actually a possibility—which it isn’t. He’s not interested in you, Jordan. Never has been, never will be. Sorry to burst your delusional bubble.”

Her cheeks flush. “You’re the delusional one. You’re screwing a killer, sweetie. Maybe you should be careful. If you make him angry, you might be the next person in the coffin.”

“Is there a problem?”

Mr. Beringer, the headmaster of Astor Park, appears out of nowhere. Even though he’s all bluster—I’ve seen Callum pay this guy off more than once—I still don’t want to make any waves.

“Not at all,” I lie. “I was just admiring Jordan’s form.”

He eyes me suspiciously. The last time he saw us together, I’d taped Jordan’s mouth shut and paraded her, bloody nose and all, in front of the school.

“I see. Well, perhaps you can do that another time,” he says in a clipped voice. “Your father is here. You’re being excused for the day.”

“What?” I blurt out. “But I have classes.”

“Your father?” Jordan echoes in disbelief. “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?”

Crap. I forgot she was here. “It’s none of your business.”

Jordan stares at Beringer, then at me, and then collapses on the gym floor, laughing so hard she needs to wrap her arms around her stomach.

“Oh God! This is amazing,” she gasps between giggles. “I can’t wait to see the next episode where you’re pregnant but we don’t know if it’s Reed’s or Easton’s baby.”

I scowl at her. “Every time I start thinking of you as a human being, you have to ruin it by opening your mouth.”

The headmaster directs a glare at my nemesis. “Ms. Carrington, this behavior is completely uncalled for.”

Beringer’s reprimand only makes her laugh harder.

Visibly clenching his teeth, he takes my arm and guides me away from the doorway. “Come along, Ms. Royal.”

I don’t correct him about my last name, but I wrench my elbow out of his grip. “I’m serious. I have classes.”

He bestows a smarmy smile on me, the kind he probably gives to old ladies when he asks them for a donation to the Astor Park endowment. It says that he’s doing me a favor. “That’s all been taken care of. I’ve informed your teachers that you’ve been excused. And you won’t even need to make up your coursework.”