Page 13 of Poison Touch


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I have no idea what that means or why it’s relevant to me. “Who is that and why do I care?”

She sighs. I’m sure she’s internally cursing herself for ever getting involved with me. It doesn’t help that my bitchy personality is in high gear right now. I’m not here to make friends, but I also don’t want to push away the only person who’s been nice, or at least has tolerated me so far. At some point today, I need to apologize to her. And just maybe she’ll share more about what goes on in this school and more about Venom, which is someone I could use in my corner right now.

“The guy with Edge, the one with the crazy hair,” she explains.

As the words leave her mouth, I know exactly who she’s talking about. Dread pools at the base of my spine. I’m always ready for a confrontation, but hell, I just came face to face with the bad guys. It never occurred to me that any of them would be in art class—or any of my classes, for that matter.

“He’s part of Venom,” she unnecessarily adds.

I purse my lips and nod. Shrug off the news like she just told me it would rain later and not that my new nemesis and I would be confined to a room together for the two hours. “Thanks for the heads-up and for walking me here. I guess I’ll see you later.”

Eden points down the hall from the direction we came in. “Your next class is in the Armstrong Building. Go out the way we came in, and it’s just on the other side of the courtyard.”

“Thanks.” The courtyard? Did we pass that? Fuck, with my head so full of Venom and Edge, I noticed little on the way here except purple flowers and clinging vines.

Without another word, she takes off down the hall to her class. Taking a deep breath, I walk into art class, more specifically, painting. There’s no doubt I’m in the right class with all of the easels propped up around the room and a platform in the center of the large space.

Painting isn’t one of my strong suits, but since I applied so late, I wasn’t left with many open options. Plus, how hard can painting be?

“Hi! Welcome to painting,” a smiling woman with a bright purple and pink braid says.

“Thanks.”

She wipes her fingers on her apron, which is splattered with a palette of every color. “Sorry, breakfast.” The other half of the hard-boiled egg lies on a napkin. I’m Chelsea Bray. Call me Chelsea. And you must be Kinsley West.”

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

She drops her head to look peer over the rims of her turquoise glasses. “Because you are the first new student I’ve had in…” She bobs her head from side to side. “Since forever. Monarch doesn’t get a lot of new faces.” Picking up her egg, she says, “Anyway, there are a couple of empty seats in the back. You can take one of those. Once class starts, I’ll call you back to discuss a few things with you.”

“Thanks.” I weave my way through easels, stools, small tables topped with cleaned pallets, tubes of paints, and brushes until I find an available seat. Sliding off my backpack, I set it on thefloor in relief, then plant my butt on the stool. For the next hour, I plan to stay in this little corner of the world and just breathe.

“Damn, girl, you have a way of sliding into places that have already been claimed.”

I’m not shocked that the husky voice belongs to Wild Hair from the back seat of the Jeep. This must be Gunner. The sly, know-it-all grin splayed across his tanned face should be put on a warning label.Danger! This smile may induce you to make stupid decisions.

“Sorry, love, that seat is mine.”

Groaning, I pick up my backpack. As I study him a little harder, I realize there’san actual style to his sun-bleached, unruly locks. A small wave is tattooed on the side of his neck, peeking out just above his shirt collar. I try to remember the details of Python and the tattoos on his body—if he had any on his neck. Frustration blooms. I was too frantic that night to notice anything more than the snake tattoo on the side of the killer’s torso.

Gunner’s chest skims the front of my blazer as he passes. Without breaking eye contact or the curve of his dangerous smile, he plops down on the stool. Patting his thigh, he says, “This seat is available.”

His chuckle follows me as I ignore him and head to the opposite side of the room. An easel propped against the far wall, a small rickety table, and a too-short chair are calling my name. Without the skills to paint even a stick figure, this setup fits my level of experience perfectly. The big bonus is that it’s as far as I can be from Gunner without leaving the classroom.

I toss my backpack on the floor. Falling into the squatty chair, I let out a long sigh. It’s not even eight in the morning, and I feel like I’ve been handed my ass, tossed to the wolves, and eye-fucked. I just want to collapse onto my bed and sleep away the rest of the day.

“No need to wait for an invitation. If you’re here, get your canvas,” Chelsea announces.

Unbeknownst to me, my seat is right in front of the closet where everyone needs to go. I fumble to get up and out of the way to avoid getting trampled. When the last of the crowd leaves, I sit back down. Then, before I can take in the whole situation, it’s too late to move out of the way before Gunner looms over me. He’s way too close. If I were to take my gaze off him and look straight ahead, I’d be eye to eye with his?—

“Kinsley?” Chelsea calls for me to approach her desk when most of the students are settled.

Saved.

Jerking my head away from the surfer’s zipper, I say, “Coming.”

Shit! I realize too late that’s the wrong word to use.

Gunner offers me a lopsided grin like he knows exactly where my mind just strayed. “Dirty girl. I like it.”