Page 81 of Darling Venom
And I decided, with unbreakable resolve, that nothing about Tate Marchetti and the chip on his shoulder was fixable.
I snatched the bag and headed for the door.
“Oh, and Miss Richards?” My hand stilled on the knob, but I didn’t turn to face him. “Tell Reagan good luck with the twin boys.”
Tate returned to his work, skimming through some files on his desk. I pivoted and gaped at him, more shocked that he’d earned such an angelic reputation as Dr. Miracle than I was that he’d blown the gender reveal surprise for me.
Someth
ing Kellan once said echoed between my ears.
Don’t expect anything from Tate. If he’s not happy, no one else can be.
Kellan had gotten it half right.
Tate took pleasure in his own unhappiness. He saw it as penance, and he never noticed when it bled onto others.
Here’s a fun fact I remember every time I help a child enter this world—for nearly every birth in this country, there is a death.
On the night the Omri triplets were born, Kellan happened to be one of those deaths. And every delivery since, I tried to put a face to the faceless. Kellan’s. Which was why I never exited the hospital in a good mood, today included.
Tracey Wallingford’s labor had lasted sixteen hours. She had an uninterested husband I’d bet my left nut would have no hand in raising the child, and she managed to use every curse on Urban Dictionary once I told her the spinal block only lasted an hour or two.
By the time I grabbed a cab, light blanketed the city again.
Tracey’s husband stood in front of the hospital, sucking on a Luxury Black.
When he spotted me, he pressed a finger to his lips. “Hey, man. Keep this between us, okay? Tracey made me quit for the baby.”
Tracey has a functioning nose and a mouth to match it. Enjoy divorce, child support, and losing fifty percent of your assets.
But for the privilege of returning home a minute quicker, I shut up, nodding past the thick smoke he wafted in my direction.
I slid into a cab and rattled off my address to the driver. “Wake me if I fall asleep. Please.”
I came home to an empty house.
Terry had left the blanket in a twisted heap on the corner of the couch and a mess in the kitchen. I dumped the half-eaten box of cereal into the trash, unwilling to tempt fate when it came to anything Terry-related, and popped one of my meal-service cartons in the microwave.
It dinged about the same time I heard a sound drift down the staircase. There was no doubt who it’d come from.
To his credit, I’d expected the rule break to occur sooner. Terry Marchetti possessed the willpower of a dog with a treat, which explained decades two through six of his life.
I followed the noise to Kellan’s door. Snores thundered into the hallway through the crack. I swung it wider and caught the edge just before it slammed against the wall.
Terry lay on Kellan’s bed, a pillow on top of his chest. His hand hung over the mattress, clutching onto something. A thick stack of paper, bound together at the top with a binder clip.
I paused in my perusal, knowing what I’d find when I continued and that I was liable to explode. Inches away, chunks of wood from Kellan’s locked desk drawer were scattered all over the floor. It had splintered down the center as if someone had yanked the lock out.
It was just like Terry to ignore every rule I’d set.
My anger rose. An impressive achievement, considering it was already riding high.
It’d simmered all night, spiking every time my patient had to beg the nurse to call her husband in from a cigarette break. Fourteen times, by the way, as if he was the one who needed a break from the nine-pounder ready to tear a new hole in his mother.
I stalked to the window, jerked open the blackout curtains, and ambushed Terry with sunrays.
“Oh.” He groaned, releasing the paper to shield his eyes from the light. His hair shot up from sleeping in an odd position. “You’re home.”
