Page 243 of Darling Venom
Terry looked me dead in the eyes.
And finally—finally—he repeated, “I’m not a fraud.”
This time, he meant it.
I could tell.
And it took a hell of a lot for him to admit that. Years. Ten of them. Maybe more.
I flashed him a smile.
Terry returned it.
Under the failing bulb of Tate Marchetti’s neglected entryway, suffering in the feverish summer heat, it felt as if something monumental had just happened. A milestone I never thought we’d reach.
Maybe, just maybe, I felt Kellan here with us.
And maybe, just maybe, he was smiling, too.
Lately, Uranus had become acquainted with, well, mine. I sat on the planet in the middle of Galileo Playground. Tate chose Mars.
I flushed, remembering its astrological meaning.
Sex. Desire. Passion.
Or war.
I tabled the volatile thought before my mind ruined the mood.
By some unspoken agreement, this had turned into our place. I couldn’t step inside my apartment without walking into Jonah all over Leah in a soft-core porn reenactment, knitting needles included. Terry lacked the ability to take a hint, which made Tate’s brownstone off-limits if we wanted privacy.
And we always did.
So, this marked our sixth night in a row meeting here. Like two teenage punks stealing kisses and collecting cigarette butts, our mere interaction a rebellion against the world.
“How’s the book?”
The question took me by surprise. Tate never broached the subject of Darling Venom. Bringing up Kellan was rare enough without the addition of a manuscript he refused to read. One that happened to feature me as his brother’s love interest.
Not that he knew.
And when he finds out, how do you think he’ll react?
Not very well.
And that made every second together a gift.
I studied Tate as much as I could under the blanket of darkness. The streetlamp still flickered on and off, so my eyes never adjusted. It stayed on long enough to illuminate his silhouette. He had his arms folded across his chest, as if he needed to brace himself for the answer.
I went for casual.
“It’s a good book.” I waited a beat, debating whether I should look this gift horse in the mouth and shoo it away. “You should read it.”
And buh-bye went the horsie.
I knew if Tate read Darling Venom, it might spell The End for us. And that he was my favorite source of happiness. Which, I realized, might’ve been a new type of self-destruction.
Guess old habits die hard.
