Page 118 of Darling Venom
She didn’t.
Probably couldn’t hear me from this far out.
But I could barely walk straight. Catching up to her seemed like a pipe dream at this point. Still, I tailed her as she veered left and jaywalked, weaving her way through a yellow sea of honking taxis.
At this point, I could admit I was out of my goddamn mind.
It was late.
I was drunk.
Goosebumps littered my arms.
Charlie hadn’t taken me up on my offer. I could barely walk or see straight. The odds of catching up with her in this state were less favorable than the odds of Terry’s sobriety lasting more than a month.
And there were a million and one reasons not to chase after my little brother’s best friend.
But I couldn’t seem to conjure a single one.
She stopped at a crosswalk of a major intersection, waiting for the little red hand to switch. I closed the gap between us in uneven strides.
The image of her became clearer with each step.
I could make out the blurred outline of her outfit at this point. Some sort of black and silver jacket. Tiny fucking shorts that showed more than they covered. And tights tucked into chunky combat boots the pattern of candy canes.
It happened in slow motion.
I reached for her arm, swaying. She spun at my touch, and we tumbled toward the ground together. I grabbed her waist to steady her but fumbled for balance.
We ended up on the hood of a parked car. Its alarm pierced my eardrums. Half Charlie’s body was sprawled on top of mine, the other half between my legs.
“What the hel—” She blinked down at me. “Tate?”
I opened my mouth, aware I reeked like an eighteenth-century brothel. There were several thi
ngs on the agenda for this conversation.
Darling Venom. Terry. Kellan.
Her answer to my proposition.
But the only thing that came out was, “Charlie.”
My lips curved up in a lopsided smile. I straightened from under her and tugged her up from the sedan, guessing we probably had thirty or so seconds before an angry owner came out to yell at us.
She shoved me off her with two hands, steadying me when I teetered.
Her nose wrinkled. “You’re plastered.”
“Something you’re well-aware of, considering you were spying on me at the bar.”
“I wasn’t spying.” She crossed her arms. “What bar? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a bad liar,” I slurred.
My limbs felt heavy. Weighed down by something beyond the alcohol. Which, by the way, suddenly made me feel like a Terry-shaped piece of shit.
And that reminded me… “Tell me about Kellan.”
