Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

9 | Snobbery At Its Finest

A SCOWL GREETED ME, immediately.

Archer Redwood stood before me, a picture of wealth and elegance— with his slightly windswept, yet expertly done hair, and designer clothing. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts, dragging them away from his lean body and angular face. No, I could not fall into that hole... again.

I'd been with guys in the past, sucked in by their sweet words and sharp smiles, but they hadn't ended particularly well, to say the least. My most recent boyfriend had done everything you read about: the romantic dates, the swoon worthy lines, and feigning interest in your problems. And once he'd gotten what he wanted, he'd skedaddled. That was about four months ago, and I tried, really tried, not to think too much of it or him.

Miles's cough chokeslammed me out of that train of thought, and back into reality. Ah, yes. Time to deal with the matter at hand.

His fingers were digging into my arm, but he seemed oblivious to this as he gazed at the handsome boy in upmost amazement and with an equal amount of terror. I waited for him to make the move and help me up a bit, but his arms were limp or as good as.

My apology had fizzled out when I'd seen who it was. I would likely have re fuelled it, had he not made no motion to help me up or apologise himself. Yes, it had been mainly my fault, but wasn't it common curtesy to check if someone was alright?

He was alone. I imagined it was rare to see the three not with one another as they were said to be joined at the hip or that's what Miles had implied, anyway.

I received a small jab in my side as Miles hauled me up, and managed to throw me a pointed look, simultaneously. Internally, I huffed and complained, continually. However, on the outside, I slapped on an apologetic smile— I hoped my internal struggle to keep my thoughts inside wasn't being projected through my eyes, like my mother used to chastise me on being prone to. At the thought of her, my smile wavered. I hadn't even called her.

"I—"

His shoulder bumped into mine. It wasn't too hard, but the shock of it made my whole body turn sideways. I gaped at his retreating back.

"Damn, he's hot," Miles muttered, biting his lip as if that didn't just happen.

"That's pissed me right off, that has," I said as we continued on, in the opposite direction to the pretentious snob. My hunger was catalysing my anger, until I felt as if I was about to blow. Already, I was absolutely sick of the way I was being treated. First, Miles and I had been labelled 'peasants' and although Miles had pointed out why that wasn't so bad, it was still a degrading label I was not a fan of. And then, this constant snobbery from practically everyone that looked at us. The glares or whispered remarks were irritating, but the blatant prejudice and... and cruelty was infuriating.

"Let's just eat, and then we can lock ourselves in my room and binge eat the Pringles I brought with me," he said, guiding me towards a seat.

"Cheese and onion or..?"

"Obviously," he said with a minute tilt of his head. "I'm not a fucking barbarian."

There were four large tables, laid out side by side, which took up the majority of the hall. Each had the standard red cushions on the polished, wooden chairs. It was clear from what we gathered in the last day and a bit and just by looking, that there was a system to the seating arrangements. The table closest to the right wall was sparsely filled, but each person who did get the honour to sit there was one of the most admired in the school, whether that be Charles Richardson III with his aristocratic status or  Tatiana Nikolaev with her Russian princess mother.