Page 112 of Darling Venom
Like always, his use of the word “son” never failed to anger me.
“Not your son.” I stabbed the kitchen light switch and swung open the fridge door, finding it empty. “Not your home.”
My stomach growled.
I needed two thousand calories, fifteen hours of sleep, and a time machine to rewind to a time before I propositioned Charlie, offering no-strings-attached sex like a fucking creep (she was just a kid, and we knew the same people, and it was dangerous and so unlike me).
I also needed some goddamn sense, probably courtesy of a restraining order with the way things were going.
“There’s some leftover pizza. A whole pie from Rubirosa,” Terry called out, pausing to reword a line from the show aloud. “They should’ve hired me to write the damn script.” He shook his head. “Thought I put the pizza in the fridge, but I might’ve left it in the freezer.”
As far as I knew, Terry didn’t have a dime to his name to pay for a stick of gum, let alone enough to cover the fare to Nolita and an entire pizza from Rubirosa. I counted down from three in my head, fighting the heat building in the back of my neck.
“Have you seen Kel’s manuscript? Thought I saw it shoved beneath his bed, but you must’ve moved
it. I’ve been looking around the house for it all day. Is it in your room? You didn’t throw it away, did you?”
Three.
“I ate the last of your meal delivery. Hope that’s okay.” Chip crumbs flew out of his mouth as he spoke, landing on my rug, the couch, and his dad bod. Nothing like crumbs on a wife beater-clad belly. “Tasted like shit. Maybe find a better service? Do some research. Check that app the kids use. You know…” He snapped his fingers a few times, pointing one at me. “Yelp.”
Two.
“Oh, and your housekeeper stopped by today.” He munched on another fistful of high-fructose-corn-syrup-laced maltodextrin. If I didn’t kill him, the chips would. “Insensitive little thing started vacuuming all over my writing space, even though she could see me typing. Hope you don’t mind, but I told her to leave and come back later. I couldn’t write with all the noise. Good news is, I saved you the money you left on the counter for her.” He lifted a chip, waving it in the general direction of the kitchen. “Used it to stock up your pantry.”
One.
I snatched the bag from his hand, returned to the kitchen, and dropped it in the trash, spinning to face him again. “This is your one and only reminder that a condition of your stay is working.”
“I am working.” He pointed to the chips. “Those were expensive!”
“Perfect. You can buy some more when you finish a book and sell it.”
“I can’t. Not sober.” He scratched behind his ear. “I wrote The Imperfections drunk and on blow. I don’t even remember how I did it.”
“Did I chain you to the floor and lock you in the basement?” I jerked my thumb to the left. “The door’s that way. No one’s forcing you to stay.”
He pointed to a pile of discarded paper at his feet, scrunched up in balls. “I can’t finish this book.”
“I suggest you figure it out ASAP, considering your agent dumped you, your publisher dumped you, and I am ten seconds and a bad day away from dumping you. If you don’t want to end up on the streets, you need to write a damn book.”
Mostly because it would mark one step closer to kicking him out of my life.
For good this time.
He planted his fists on his waist, causing the crumbs to tumble down from his wife beater to my floor, which already missed its weekly cleaning. “I can’t!”
“Not my problem.”
“What if I don’t?”
I finally looked at him.
I mean, really looked at him.
A hole-ridden shirt hung loosely around his frame. The thin layer of grease coating his hair glinted in the light. Two hollowed-out bags bordered his eyes. No matter how much he slept, he would always be tired.
He looked like he’d gotten in a fight with a garbage truck, and the garbage truck won.
