Page 186 of Darling Venom
“Charlotte,” he finally declared, looking way too amused for a simple greeting, and I realized instantly that I needed to treat him roughly or he’d stomp all over me. “You here for a good time?”
It took everything in me not to vomit.
“No.”
“I get it. No one wants a used car nowadays. Not when they can afford the brand-new one.”
He belched, waving a hand at the stench, and I think he meant Tate. Somehow, he managed to make the enticing prospect of sleeping with Tate… dirty.
He added, “Well? Are you here for my son?”
“Yes.”
“He left.” Terry didn’t budge from his position on the couch, sprawled lengthwise like a Greek goddess expecting to be fed grapes. “Tried to kick me out, too. Says I’m drunk. That I broke our sobriety agreement. I told him to prove it. He’s probably out stealing a breathalyzer from a police cruiser as we speak.” He winked at me. “The trick is to hold your breath before you blow.”
“I’m talking about your other son.”
The one you probably miss terribly.
His brows shot up. “Kellan?”
Unless you have a third Marchetti Jr. wreaking havoc in the city.
Which, to be honest, wouldn’t surprise me.
What did surprise me, however, was how much animosity I harbored toward Terry. I hadn’t realized it until now, but I placed a huge chunk of the blame for Kellan’s death on him.
“Yeah.” I stepped deeper into the room, perching on the arm of the recliner beside the couch. “It’s about Darling Venom, actually.”
Terry’s entire body perked up. I could almost see the interest ballooning inside him. He went from haggard to glowing within four words.
A million alarms sounded in my head.
Tate’s warning echoed.
“Really?” Terry sat up, leaning toward me. He pressed his palms together, rubbing. “Have you seen it?”
“I’ve read it.”
“Is it… I mean, how is it?” He was almost bursting at the seams.
I regarded him with interest.
Okay. I wasn’t expecting that reaction.
“Is it any good?” He shook his head, his shoulders quaking with something between a chuckle and a barely contained sob. “Never mind. Of course, it’s good. Kellan wrote it.” He paused as if realizing he sounded like a proud father for the first time, then pivoted, clearing his throat. “But is it sellable? He wrote some weird shit sometimes.”
The spider story shot to the forefront of my mind.
Weird, but beautiful.
Pure, authentic Kellan.
As the first thing I ever read of his, it held a special place in my heart. I still had a copy of it tucked in a box on my bookshelf.
“You’ve read his stories?”
I didn’t know why it surprised me. He struck me as someone incapable of paternal love. Reading his teen son’s writing seemed too fatherly for him.
