Page 111 of Darling Venom
Where did the talent go?
I could answer the first two. Easy.
Terry paid very little taxes on his royalties and ignored the IRS when they came knocking on his door. He blew it all on a Central Park penthouse he couldn’t afford, only to learn there are some government bodies you just don’t mess with.
The bank took the penthouse when he stopped paying the mortgage. The IRS and DOTF garnished his quarterly royalty checks. It left him with nothing but memories of success and a chip on his shoulder the size of the Harry Potter franchise.
As for the talent?
It’d come as a shock to us all.
Whatever literary prowess he possessed used to be confined to mid-list titles that ran for one mediocre print run under a forgotten indie publisher. Enough to pay for a studio in Parkchester and a few hits of whatever drug he preferred that month.
But The Imperfections?
It was the type of release every author dreamed of.
Critics raved before it reached the shelves. Shortlisted it as one of the best books in modern literature. It went on to sell millions, hitting every damn list.
People studied its pages in colleges, watched the movie adaptation in hordes, and salivated over all things Terrence Marchetti, only to pick through his backlist titles like they were bowls of rotten leftover cabbage.
Which was why I hated the third question.
The one I could never answer.
The one everyone seemed to ask once they discovered my lineage.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Reagan slid her shirt over her belly at the end of her check-up. “I was just making small talk. Plus, plenty of authors write only one hit book and disappear. I’ve worked with dozens of them.”
I saved a copy of her ultrasound for filing and exited the browser. “I doubt he’ll publish anything else in this lifetime.”
“Is he writing?”
“If you consider typing and deleting writing, sure.”
With the signed one-hit wonder as leverage, Terry had weaseled his way back into my house. He spent his nights typing at his typewriter and shredding the words by sunrise. Then, he slept on my couch the rest of the day, waking only to steal my food and leave a trail of messes from the bathroom to the kitchen.
“Does he still have literary representation?”
“I feel compelled to warn you—his agent dropped him after he bailed on a three-book deal and was ordered to pay back the seven-figure advance.”
“Maybe he has the yips.”
Or maybe The Imperfections was a fluke.
I’d come to terms with it long ago.
So did his agent and publisher.
The only one who couldn’t seem to accept it was him.
“Maybe,” I echoed to end the conversation.
That night, I came home after an emergency C-section to find Terry sprawled on my couch, watching a How I Met Your Mother rerun on a flatscreen I had installed so the place didn’t feel so empty.
Up until this second, I had no clue it still worked.
“Hey, son.” He crammed his hand into a generic-brand bag of potato chips. “You’re home?”
