Page 270 of Darling Venom
I reached out. Collected the hardback. Freed the pages from the cover and read.
The dedication sucker punched me first.
For the Marchetti men, without whom I wouldn’t be fucked-up enough to write this book. May we one day get our shit together.
Classic Kel.
It was like he was here. Talking to me. Slinging accusations with his half-grin and eyes that matched mine. Not hidden inside black ink on white pages.
I turned to chapter one, sucked in a breath, and committed the first line to memory.
How convenient it is to have the villain and victim laid out before me in such a pretty, perfect bow.
An hour passed.
Then another.
I lost track of time, swallowing each word, unable to savor them in my greed to reach the next.
Until I hit that point.
Where shit got real.
That Asshole would tell you he’s doing me a favor. Preventing me from a spiral that will turn me into our piece-of-shit father. (His words, not mine.)
What a cop-out.
I made sure he knew, too, in the form of a fuck-you key to his Lexus’ brand-new paint job.
The next day, Martha Stewart Jr. pulled me aside on my way out the door. I humored her, mostly because I’d rather receive a lecture from MSJ than an ass-whooping from some jock on steroids whose goal in life required peaking in high school.
She crossed her arms, a habit of hers, and launched into her spiel. “There are two types of love—easy and tough. Easy love is just like breathing. Anyone can do it. But tough love? It hurts way more to give it than it does to receive it.”
“‘Anyone’ cannot breathe, or you’d be out of a job as a nurse,” I pointed out, then fished a notepad and pen from my bag. “Need a note for my homeroom teacher, now that I’m late for class, thanks to you. Make it out to Mr. Wilson.”
Tears slid past my lips.
I swiped my tongue out, clearing them.
I barely registered Terry as he slipped into the roo
m. He set a glass of water on the nightstand and left, clicking the door shut behind him.
I gripped the book tighter, reading faster.
In reality, Wilson taught sixth period art history.
I used the note to ditch five out of six of my classes that day, somehow ending up in front of That Asshole’s clinic. I wandered into the hospital and watched my brother cut into some woman through an observation window connected to the operating theater.
He lifted a baby out of her. It cried. Kicked. Screeched.
I had to admit, That Asshole had his moments. If he’d just asked me if I wanted to move in with him instead of forcing me to, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.
Here’s the thing about my brother. He’s a natural-born caregiver. Sends me to the top schools, forces me to eat nutrient-packed meals that taste like cardboard, and shacks up with MSJ, just for little ol’ me.
But he’s never received as much love as he’s given. Unconditionally. Without expecting a damn thing in return.
One day, it’ll happen, and he won’t know how to react.
