Page 82 of Darling Venom
“Yes,” I bit out. Fucking brilliant, my so-called father. “I’m home. My home.”
Did I often want to pick fights with Terry?
Only when the sky is blue.
“Found a manuscript.” He yawned, pointing to the discarded one on the floor. “Kellan wrote it.”
The sound of Kellan’s name from his lips sparked the typical reaction. Anger.
Then, like clockwork, the guilt came to flush it out of my system.
I leaned against the doorframe, refusing to step back inside the room. “As I recall, a condition of your stay is that you do not set foot in Kellan’s room.”
“I was looking for a lighter.” He scratched his arm. Bare, I noticed, and free of fresh track marks.
Not that it meant jack shit.
Terry preferred powders, pills, booze, and cigarettes.
I dragged my eyes to his bloodshot pair. “You broke his drawer.”
“Hey, I left the other one alone. It’s not like he’s using it anymore.”
This Terry—sober Terry—sucked as much as the other version of him. If anything, I preferred him coked up and out of my life.
When I’d started this conversation, I had no idea where it was going, but since he’d opened his mouth, I knew exactly where I wanted him.
I straightened and held the door open for him. “Leave.”
“What? Why?”
“You broke the rules. You’re out.”
“I can’t sleep on the couch. It’s cold down there.”
“It’s colder on the streets. Which is where you’ll be, since you broke the conditions of your stay and are no longer welcome in my home.”
I stripped him of the comforter, staring at the brand-new, Terry-shaped dent on the mattress. Nothing in this room screamed Kellan anymore. Four years later, and I’d finally managed to clear all traces of my brother from my life.
Visible ones, anyway.
The situation must’ve finally sunk in, because Terry clutched the edge of the mattress as if he expected me to pry him from this place.
“I need the warmth,” he insisted.
“Try Hell. I hear the weather’s warm.”
“But the couch—”
“Is no longer available to you.” I followed him down the stairs to the foyer, jerking the front door open. “Out.”
The fact that he had nothing to his name made kicking him to the curb quick and convenient.
“Did you make food?” He tipped his head up, sniffing the air. “Is that lasagna? I’ll leave after I eat.”
I strode to the kitchen, collected the microwave tray, and planted it in his hands even though it needed at least another three minutes on high heat. “Leave.”
He hesitated, lingering on the threshold. “Permanently?”
