Page 123 of Tempting Venom
Sometimes, I’ll be greeted with the smell of pancakes after early practice. Other times, it’s the burning smell of a ruined Mexican food recipe Mom learned from Mrs. Rodriguez next door.
Since Mrs. Rodriguez babysat me a lot and I hung around in her kitchen all the time, I can make the food better than Mom.
Mrs. Rodriguez tells her she should stick to saving lives, which isn’t wrong.
Mom is an amazing mother, nurse, gardener, and great at DIY, but she’s not really that good at cooking. That’s why I’m glad I at least have the skills to make her day better.
Today I go home with that thought.
I stop short when I notice the ridiculously shiny, expensive car in our driveway with a well-groomed chauffeur sitting inside. I tighten my grip on the strap of my duffle bag when I notice what’s parked right next to it.
A Ducati Panigale V4 SP2. Glossy black with carbonfiber wheels catching the porch light like a blade. It looks more like a statement piece than a machine. A bike made for collectors who care about bragging rights, not torque.
After my bike burned three days ago, this should be tempting, but it’s just an empty shell.
I barely throw a glance at it, then walk inside the house. After I remove my shoes, I abandon my bag by the door.
Mom’s footsteps echo in the now-oppressive air of our home before she stops in front of me. I lower myself so she can kiss my cheek.
It’s amazing how she’s become so petite compared to me when she used to feel like my shield against the world when I was a child.
I suppose it’s because now, I’m the one who needs to protect her, not the other way around.
Even though lines of age have appeared at the corners of her eyes, she still looks the same. Short black hair that reaches her shoulders, big, expressive brown eyes that have always reflected the world in bright colors.
“Welcome back, sweetie.”
“Hi, Mom.” I glance over her head. “We have uninvited company?”
“He said he wanted to give you a gift.” She strokes my arm. “I know how much you loved that bike, and even though you’ve been quiet, I’m aware losing it must’ve been a blow.”
Mom thinks it got stolen, not actually burned by some emotionally-paralyzed asshole.
“So you told Dad?” I ask.
“Kinda? Anyway, he brought the monster sitting outside.”
“Thanks for the thought, but I don’t need his gifts.”
“Marcus.” She sighs. “He’s your dad. You can accept his money.”
“I thought you said we don’t need it?”
“Well, we don’t, but it’ll take you a long time of working your ass off at that garage to afford a replacement. You can just use his newfound guilt toward you and take this. Don’t you love bikes?”
“Not that one.”
She frowns, but I smile as I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Let’s kick the intruder out, and I can make us something to eat.”
Mom smiles warmly as we walk to our living room.
Dad is sitting on the sofa, his arm thrown over the back and his legs crossed as he stares at his phone, looking bored.
The man is still the same. Unreadable expression. Cold, soulless eyes, an unperturbed presence.
There was a time when I thought I could reach him if I tried harder, but really, it wouldn’t have mattered what I did. I was the “useless” child he never wanted until he lost his precious heirs.
But as I stare at him, there’s this nagging realization that we’re so alike, it’s disturbing.
