I shrug, “He won’t miss anything I take, and we look good. They aren’t going to turn away two hot girls.”
“Honey,there are like hundreds of hot girls walking up to the party right now.”
I turn to look out the window at all the partygoers strutting up the driveway and into the 800 acres of the Beaumont estate for Vincent Beaumont’s annual and last ABC party -- Anything But Clothes -- Birthday party.
There is a group of guys standing shirtless, displaying their toned and chiseled bodies. Some dressed in duct tape, plastic bags, and strategically placed cardboard pieces, while others have wrapped Saran Wrap around their torsos, leaving little to the imagination, or just some duct tape with a box covering their private areas, exposing the rest.
The girls, on the other hand, take it to the next level. Their outfits are works of art: newspaper dresses and bubble wrap that perfectly hug every curve. One girl confidently walks by in an ensemble made entirely of silk ribbons that barely hold together, leaving little to the imagination. Another boldly rocks a patchwork design of neon post-it notes, held together by body glue, revealing her long legs and smooth shoulders.
I am wearing four boxes of cereal cut up into a tube top stuck so close to my body the tape nips at me, a micro skirt that is so small my ass falls out of it, and my platform white leather boots.
I just hope the guard at the front, who is making sure everyone is following the strict anything but clothes rule, doesn’t make me take off my underwear. Jasmine doesn’t want to be here and sports a pair of black Converse and a black trash bag with three holes: one for her head and two for her arms. Her blonde mohawk has red highlights today.
“Look, I’ll walk confidently, and you’ll walk in with that glare you have permanently on your face, and boom! No one will turn us away, okay?” I nod at her before taking a deep breath and pushing the car’s passenger side door open. My sparkly silver purse is swinging on my arm.
Jasmine quickly follows me, pulling on my elbow to whisper in my ear. “Did I forget to mention that Damien Sterling hates your fucking guts? Wait, in fact, all of the Chessmen hate you: The King. The Knight, even the fucking Rook. They all hate you.”
“I thought best friends were supposed to be supportive?” I roll my eyes, pulling her forward towards the giant golden doors.
Jasmine isn’t wrong; they all hate me.
Vincent Beaumont, also known as the King of Thornhaven, is the heir to this massive estate and finance genius in his own right. He has black hair that is always styled perfectly, piercing blue eyes that see into my soul, and a tailored school uniform that fits him like a glove.
Juan “Cast” Castillo, the Rook, is said to have ties to the cartel, but you wouldn’t know he was crazy unless you saw him like I did. To everyone else, he is the silly class clown with messy, curly brown hair and a lazy smile that soaks panties and makes hearts do backflips. To me, he is a sadist who would love nothing more than to break me and happily lick the tears off my face.
But the one that really hates me and would love to see me fucking dead is the Knight, Damien Sterling. He isn’t as rich as the other two; in fact, his mother worked as a maid for the Beaumonts and the Castillos, and he met Juan and Vincent while he tagged along with his mother as she worked for them over the weekends.
He shares a bond with the Chessmen through their mutual affection for Rosemary Sterling. Despite their reputation for not caring about anyone or anything, I know they loved Rosemary dearly. It was evident in their actions when she was diagnosed with cancer; they spared no expense and visited her every day.
When my myocarditis was so bad I couldn’t leave the hospital, and everyone said I was a heart attack away from death, I would hang out with Rosemary in the hospital garden. She would give me her cherry jello and hug me tightly when no one else would in fear of breaking me. Her heart overflowed with kindness, making it almost overwhelming to be around her.
Damien’s mother was perfect and the center of the Chessmen’s worlds. So when he found out she died for me, that was it; he hated me. I was the reason he was now alone in the world.
I am the reason the only mother they ever had is dead, and they have all rights to hate me. I hate me. If I knew it was hers, I would have never taken it, but I didn’t know until after the transplant was finished that Rosemary Sterling donated her heart to me. I didn’t even know she was being tested to see if we were compatible.
Jasmine doesn’t know any of this; she just thinks they’re cruel, and I guess it is better to assume they are evil than to know how kind they can genuinely be. It only makes the looks they give meeven more painful. It only makes me take my punishments at school like I deserve them because I do.
As we approach the sprawling 800-acre estate, I can’t help but feel a mix of awe and anxiety wash over me. The Greek-inspired mansion looms before us, its towering white columns flashing different colors from the party lights, and intricate carvings decorate the sides.
The golden door at the entrance sparkles, invitingly like the gates of heaven—yet intimidating because I know nothing heavenly exists on the other side of that door.
A security guard, his muscular frame like a fortress, looms next to the golden doors, scanning the crowd of partygoers with hawkish intensity. He barely dodges a guy wrapped in a toga-like ensemble as he assesses the crowd. “Can’t let you in, man,” he declares, his voice cold and unyielding.
“What? Come on, man—these are not clothes; these are bed sheets!” the guy protests.
The guard shrugs dismissively. “Rules were changed: no bedsheets, curtains, or clothes-like fabric.”
“Seriously?!” The guy’s voice rises in disbelief, and I can sense the tension crackling in the air.
“Yeah, go change and come back,” the guard retorts, a glint of satisfaction in his eye as he watches the guy's shoulders slump. With a groan, the rejected partygoer turns, stomping away, frustration radiating off him like heat waves.
I feel the weight of the guard's gaze shift to us as if he can smell the uncertainty wafting off our skin. Jasmine and I exchange a quick look, and I swallow hard.
A smarmy smile curls his lips, and I can feel my stomach churn with disgust. “Spin,” he commands, and my heart races, a flash of anger igniting within me.
“What?” I snap, my eyebrows furrowing and fists balling up at my sides.
He leans in slightly, the smugness radiating off him like a foul odor. “No underwear allowed. It’s part of the rules because it’s technically clothes.”
