Page 47 of Darling Venom
“Yo, Char, what’s good?”
Jonah, my neighbor, offered me a fist bump when I hit the intersection between our respective doors. I was going in; he was going out.
I lived in Morris Heights. A far cry from dodgy Westchester Square, where Leah and I had moved after our parents passed away.
Our new place was bigger. We had enough money for life not to suck majorly. We weren’t swimming in it, but we didn’t have to think twice before paying the bills or getting our weekly groceries.
Anything other than that was a luxury, but most of the time—between my salary and Leah working as a master aesthetician at an eyelash parlor in Times Square—we got by.
I bumped Jonah’s fist, still shaking from my showdown with Tate Marchetti. “Seen better days. You?”
“Can’t complain.” He frowned, jerking my beret aside and ruffling my hair like I was a toddler. “Everything okay?”
He wore a broken-in leather jacket, ripped jeans, and biker boots. The light goatee, mechanic job, and muscles threatening to tear his tee gave him an overall Charlie Hunnam appeal every girl in the neighborhood was painfully aware of. He shared joint custody over his daughter Rowling—yes, after the author—with his ex-wife.
“Nothing to worry about.” Just being stalked by a gorgeous, furious doctor. “How about you? How’s Rowling? Need someone to watch over her?”
Sometimes Jonah got called for special jobs over the weekend. When he did, he dropped Rowling at our place.
We made sugar cookies and read books and went to the library together when Leah felt like putting her makeup on. Then Jonah came back with takeout food, a fizzy drink for Rowling, and beer for us.
I hated to admit it, but weekends with Jonah and Row were the height of my social activity these days.
“Nah. It’s Luanne’s weekend. She’s taking her somewhere fancy with her new boyfriend. Heard there’s an ice-skating rink involved. Row’s pumped for it. Actually, there is something I wanted to ask. There’s this vintage car festival in Jersey this weekend. I have free tickets from work. I was thinking of hitting Leah up. If she’s into that kind of thing, obviously.” He ran his fingers through his longish hair. Black stained the insides of his nails.
I knew it was a test.
Jonah wanted to know if it was even worth asking Leah out. It was no secret she wasn’t really big on dating.
I slouched against my door, sucking my cheeks in. “Are you asking me if it’s a good idea to ask her, or if she is available?”
He mimicked my body language, resting on his door, thumbs hooked inside the loops of his Levi’s.
Leah should be here any minute now. We were going to her dermatologist, who saw us after hours because my sister was too ashamed to show her face in public without makeup.
“Both.”
“My guess is she doesn’t have any plans for the weekend, but I can’t tell you she’ll go out with you. You know how it goes with Leah.”
Jonah had never seen Leah without makeup. He’d never witnessed the gnarled skin under the coats of foundation, or the way the fire had nibbled at the tip of her ear, giving it an elf-shaped, pointy look.
He’d probably noticed the discoloration behind the foundation. The faint, purplish hue that adorned the right side of her face. But he didn’t know what it looked like without the war paint.
“Has she gone out with anyone since the fire?”
I shook my head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Hell.”
“Pretty much.”
“She’s gorgeous.” He tugged at his goatee, screwing his mouth sideways. “Hottest woman I know. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Leah was—and always would be—stunning. I guess people have two faces: the face the world sees, and the face they see in the mirror. The only thing Leah could see when she looked at herself was that night.
The jingle of keys two floors below announced Leah’s arrival. The door whined open, then slammed shut. I heard a small, familiar groan.
