Page 39 of Darling Venom
“How so?”
“You’re a doctor who is doing amazing things, but you’re a complete bastard.”
“I wasn’t always a bastard, but the alternative fell short.” He shrugged, his eyes still on his iPad.
I tried not to cry, but these weren’t sad tears, which were manageable. These were angry tears, and they burned the backs of my eyeballs.
“Would it help if I apologized?”
I really had no desire to, but pride aside, I might not have a choice. I wanted this job. I wanted to keep Reagan happy. And I really didn’t want her to not have this appointment because I’d somehow screwed this up.
As much as I hated Tate Marchetti, being rude to him would not bring Kellan back.
Finally, he dragged his eyes up from his screen, a scowl on his face. He looked like a perfume model. His eyes were fossil gray, like foamy water.
“It wouldn’t help if you sucked my cock and sang the alphabet backward simultaneously, Miss Richards. Now, let me repeat myself for the third and final time: Get. Out.”
One tear betrayed me.
It slid down my cheek, exploding on my upper lip.
I threw caution to the wind and did something else out of character for me—I said whatever was on my mind, consequences be damned.
“I can see why he hated you so much. You’re loathsome. Doesn’t matter how many women you go to bed with every night. I hope the last thing you think about when you close your eyes is the fact that your brother hated you enough that he chose death over living under your roof. Happy Valentine’s Day, asshole.”
I turned around and slammed his door, not waiting for his reaction. I took the stairs down to the ground floor. I didn’t even care about the assignment Reagan had given me.
All I cared about was my hate for Tate Marchetti.
I hailed a cab and headed straight home.
Buried my face in my pillow.
Cried myself to sleep.
I woke up every Valentine’s Day thinking today would’ve been an excellent day to not wake up.
Not in a suicidal way.
I could read the signs accurately—in fucking retrospect—but in an I-don’t-want-to-deal-with-this-shit resignation.
Usually, the feeling subsided by four or five when I had a few drinks in me and my dick had been sufficiently wet.
Not today.
Today, I would happily put a bullet through my head and not even care about the crème Persian carpet the Dutch interior designer had placed in my office last week that cost more than my car.
Little Miss Richards knew Kellan.
The writing was on the wall, smeared in her glittery goddamn lipstick.
First, she’d called me Tate. Kellan had been the only person to ever call me Tate. To everyone else, I was Dr. Marchetti, Dr. Miracle, or Tatum.
Second, she looked to be around the same age Kellan should have been today. Twenty-two. Someone from his school.
But it was the third thing that made me jump out of my skin and chase her like a cheetah. The thing she’d said about Kellan hating me.
She knew him.
