I Knew You Were Trouble - Cassie Mae Page 0,25

toy with the inside of my lip. My canker sore is healed up for now… until I put another hole in my mouth from my nervous habit. My phone sits heavy in my loose-fitting pants, and I dig into the deep pocket for it.

Pete’s at work tonight, but he’s not one to shy away from texting while on the clock—just one of the many things I’ve scolded him about. I glance around me, making sure Raina and Tristan are distracted by their conversation to notice I’m about to snap a selfie.

Pretending to take a picture of my painting, I click the camera quick, capturing my outfit as best I can.

Holy bologna, my hair is so frizzy! Instead of slicking it back into a perfect pony, I attempted the fun bun, but it looks like a bird built its home on my head. Instead of sending the pic to Pete for his opinion, I shove the phone into my pocket and take out the disaster of my hair.

Right as I’m ripping the elastic from the ratted strands, Zach pushes the classroom door open, bare-footed and blue-robed.

“Welcome, Zachary,” Miss Barley says, her usual greeting. I duck behind my canvas, but only so I can frantically run my fingers through my nest hair.

“Same place as last time?” he asks her, and there’s a flump that echoes around the room, his robe already on the floor.

“It’s penis time,” I whisper to myself.

“What?” Tristan asks.

“Nothing.”

Forget my hair. I need to loosen up anyway, so I’ll just leave it frizzy and hanging every which way. I’m an artist, darn it! And I will concentrate on my art.

I sit up straight, grateful I chose a canvas so large that I don’t see Zach from belly button down unless I make an extreme effort to look. My eyes burn a hole straight into his as I dip into my deep maroon and start on the tattoo that crawls from his neck and across his shoulder.

His lip twitches in the corner, like he’s either impressed or amused—or both—by my confidence. I mean, forget the fact that my feet are ready to bolt again. My toes curl, hidden in my red and blue Converse sneakers. I force my free hand on my knee and dig my nails into the fabric of my pants, keeping my legs from bouncing and bouncing and bouncing.

It’s okay, darn it. You can’t see anything, Candace. Just paint his chest for now.

My phone buzzes on my easel, and I praise the Lord for the wonderful distraction in a time of need. I casually—well, as casually as I can muster—drop my gaze from Zach and my painting and put my brush down.

It’s Pete. I tap on his face, and a message and picture pops on the screen.

Think a ten-year-old will like it?

It’s his tree set up in a cozy corner of what I’m assuming is his apartment. It’s either surprisingly clean or he’s really good at not showing me the mess around it. Guess he’s not at work.

Cute! Are you going to let her decorate it?

It is decorated… It’s purple.

I tilt my head, my brows furrowing. He really thinks he can get away with a bare tree?

There are no ornaments on it.

I gotta put ornaments on it?

My shoulders shake in silent laughter, and I shake my head.

Yes… and tinsel wouldn’t hurt. A star or an angel up top, too.

Ugh.

You got this.

Do it for me? You’re the artist.

That will require me to see your house.

That’s right. Never mind.

The bridge of my nose wrinkles, and my brows narrow. I won’t judge you.

You judge me already. ;)

Then you have nothing to worry about.

There’s a pause before he messages back, but it’s not long enough for me to get back to painting. The banter is calming all my buzzed up nerves.

Wait… are you texting in class right now?

I nibble on my lip. Maybe…

Killing that spider has changed you.

I laugh again, and Miss Barley coughs, giving me the stink eye about having my phone out. It’s not exactly a rule to have no phones, but she did say that art needs no distractions. I mouth a “sorry” and slip my phone into my pocket, proving to Pete that no… I haven’t really changed. But hey, I’m getting looser and looser by the minute.

Wait… that sounds bad.

Zach shifts, and my eyes drift in his direction. He meets my gaze over my canvas, a glint resting in his blue, blue irises. What an enigma, that boy. He tells me I’m not his type then