Kresley Cole: Poison Princess

Now it seemed like at least one thing was going to work out. Brandon had stayed true to me. With every mile we drove away from Haven, the sun shone brighter and brighter, the fog lifting.

“Well, I know how to put my girl in a good mood.” He gave me his mischievous grin.

I was helpless not to be charmed. “Oh, yeah, big guy? How’s that?”

He pulled off the road under the shade of a pecan tree, tires popping the fallen pecans. After waiting for the dust to pass us, he pressed a button and put down the convertible top. “How fast you wanna go, Eves?”

Few things exhilarated me more than flying down the highway with the top down. For about a nanosecond I considered how to repair the utter loss of my hairstyling— braid a loose fishtail over your shoulder —then told him, “Kick her in the guts.”

He peeled out, the engine purring with power. Hands raised, I threw my head back and yelled, “Faster!”

At each gear, he redlined before shifting, until the car stretched her legs. As houses whizzed past, I laughed with delight.

The months before were a dim memory compared to this—the sun, the wind, Brandon sliding me excited grins. He was right; this was just what I needed.

Leave it to my teddy bear of a football player to make me feel carefree and sane again.

And didn’t that deserve a kiss?

Unbuckling my seat belt, I clambered up on my knees, tugging my dress up a couple of inches so I could lean over to him. I pressed my lips against the smooth-shaven skin of his cheek. “Just what the doctor ordered, Brand.”

“You know it!”

I kissed his broad jaw, then—as my experienced best friend Melissa had instructed—I nuzzled his ear, letting him feel my breath.

“Ah, Evie,” he rasped. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

I was getting an idea. I knew I played with fire, teasing him like this. He’d already been reminding me of a promise I’d made right before I left for deportment school : If we were still going out when I turned sixteen (I was a young junior), I would play my V card. My birthday was next Monday—

“What the hell does that guy want?” he suddenly exclaimed.

I drew my head back from Brandon, saw he was glancing past me. I darted a look back, and my stomach plummeted.

A guy on a motorcycle had pulled up right next to us, keeping pace with the car, checking me out. His helmet had a tinted visor so I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was staring at my ass.

First instinct? Drop my butt in the seat, willing my body to disappear into the upholstery. Second instinct? Stay where I was and glare at the pervert. This was my morning, my laughter, my fast drive in my boyfriend’s luxury sports car.

After a summer spent in a fluorescent hell, I deserved this morning.

When I twisted around to glare over my shoulder, I saw the guy’s helmet had dipped, attention definitely on my ass. Then he slowly raised his head, as if he was raking his gaze over every inch of me.

It felt like hours passed before he reached my eyes. I tugged my hair off my face, and we stared at each other for so long that I wondered when he was going to run off the road.

Then he gave me a curt nod and sped past us, expertly dodging a pothole. Two more motorcycles followed, each carrying two people. They honked and cheered, while Brandon’s face turned as red as his car.

I consoled myself with the knowledge that I’d probably never have to see them again.

To preserve his paint job, Brand parked in the back of the Sterling High parking lot. Even among the many Mercedeses and Beamers, his car attracted attention.

I climbed out and collected my book bag, groaning under the weight, hoping Brand would take a hint. He didn’t. So, on an already stifling morning, I would be schlepping my own stuff.

I told myself I liked that he didn’t help me with my books. Brand was a modern man, treating me as an equal. I told myself that a lot on our long trek toward the front entrance.

Probably just as well. I had my secret sketchbook in my bag, and I’d learned the hard way never to let it out of my possession.

When we reached the freshly irrigated quad, someone produced a football, and Brand’s eyes locked on it like a retriever’s. Somehow he broke his trained gaze to look at me with a questioning expression.

I sighed, smoothing my hair—frantically braided once we’d reached Sterling city limits. “Go. I’ll see you inside.”

“You’re the best, Eves.” He grinned—with dimples—his hazel eyes bright. “I figure even you can make it from here by yourself!”

I was, in fact, directionally challenged. For someone who didn’t have a mean bone in his body, he tended to land some zingers.

I reminded myself that Brandon had a good heart, he just genuinely didn’t know better. I’d begun to realize that he was a good boy , but not yet a great guy .

Maybe I could drag him over the finish line with that.

He planted a sweet kiss on my lips, then jogged off with one hand raised for the ball.

Heading toward the front doors, I passed a rosebush with double blooms of poppy red—my favorite color. A breeze blew, making it seem like the flowers swayed to face me.

Ever since I could remember, I’d loved all plant life. I drew roses, oaks, vine crops, and berry briars compulsively, fascinated with their shapes, their blooms, their defenses.

My eyelids would go to half-mast from the scent of freshly tilled pastureland.

Which was part of my problem. I wasn’t normal .

Teenage girls should be obsessed with clothes and boys, not the smell of dirt or the admirable deviousness of briars.

Come, touch . . . but you’ll pay a price.

A metallic-blue Beamer screeched into a parking space just feet from me, the driver laying on the horn.

Melissa Warren, my best friend and sister from another mister.

Mel was a hyperactive wild child who was a stranger to shame and had never acquainted herself with embarrassment. And she always leapt before she looked. I was actually surprised she’d managed to survive her summer overseas without me.

We’d been best friends for a decade—but without a doubt, I was the brains of that operation.

I couldn’t have missed her more.

Considering her five-foot-eleven height, Mel hopped out of her car with surprising speed, raising her straightened arms over her head and snapping her fingers. “That’s how you park a car, bitches.” Mel was going through a phase lately where she called everyone bitches.

Her mother was the guidance counselor at our school, because Mel’s dad had paid for Sterling High’s new library—and because Mrs. Warren needed a hobby. Most parents figured that if Melissa Warren was a product of her parenting skills, then they shouldn’t put much stock in Mrs. Warren’s guidancing skills.

Today Mel wore a crisp navy skirt and a red baby-doll T-shirt that had probably cost half a grand and would never be worn again. Her bright Dior lipstick was a classic red to match, her auburn hair tied with a navy bow. Prepster chic.

In short order, she popped her trunk, dragged out her designer book bag, then locked her keys in the car.

With a shrug, she joined me. “Hey, look over my shoulder. Is that Spencer in the quad with Brand?” Spencer Stephens III, Brand’s best friend.

When I nodded, she said, “He’s looking at me right now, isn’t he? All pining-like?”

He was in no way looking at Mel.

“This year I’m taking our flirtationship to a new level,” Mel informed me. “He just needs a nudge in the right direction.”

Unfortunately, Mel didn’t know how to nudge. She play-punched hard , titty-twisted with impunity, and wasn’t above the occasional headlock. And that was if she liked you.