Page 114 of Darling Venom
Kellan idolized him for nothing.
So.
About the oops-gasm.
It played in my mind on a never-ending loop. A broken record stuck on the loudest part.
The main problem was, I’d enjoyed it. Wanted it to happen again, even.
The other problem? No way could I ever look Tate in the eyes again.
Not to apologize.
Not to take him up on his offer.
Nope. Never.
“Charlotte?” Abigail nudged my shoulder. “You’re blushing.”
We were crammed in one corner of the office elevator, going down. Packed like sardines in this death trap. So close together, I couldn’t make out the sign with the weight capacity past the row of bodies in front of me.
“I am?” I tried to pat my cheeks, but all I managed was a handful of someone’s elbow.
The doors slid open. We spilled out. Behind us, the elevator creaked its relief.
“You okay?” Abigail followed me out the building and onto the sidewalk. “You’ve been flushed all day. Are you coming down with a cold? I’m sure Reagan will let you sit tomorrow out.”
We had several meetings scheduled over the next two weeks with some big publishers. Reagan wanted to pitch a fleet of books from authors she represented, and she’d offered to let me tag along. An opportunity I wasn’t dumb enough to miss out on.
I wore Kellan’s jacket over studded, high-waisted shorts and fishnet tights. He’d left it on the roof Valentine’s Day junior year, and I couldn’t bring myself to return it.
Not after that kiss.
“I’m fine. Just hot.” I shrugged out of the heavy vegan leather jacket, looped with more chains than an entire Hot Topic store. “Feels like the summer heatwave is hitting earlier this year. I plan on heading home and sleeping it off with the A/C on full-blast. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I darted to the subway station, jogging down the steps and pushing my way onto the train. Kellan’s books lay in the waterproof dust bag looped around my arm. I needed to part with them. It was the last thing connecting me to Tate Marchetti, aside from the mortifying memory of coming on his exam table and his shocking proposition.
The cheesy grief pamphlets St. Paul’s school counselor used to force on me encouraged depressed people to seek the bright side of life. To find one single positive in the sea of negatives and latch on to it.
The bright side here, other than the fact that it was a damn-good orgasm, was that I hadn’t thought about Leah and The Imperfections in days.
Because the worst part about giving it to her—the part that really mattered—
was that, in the end, the book itself meant nothing to me. It was the fact that she’d used it as a vehicle to hurt me that truly killed me.
And I was. Hurt.
Just when I’d thought I’d learn to live with Leah liking me significantly less than she loved me, I’d gotten my hopes up.
Again.
At my stop, I hesitated before hopping off my seat. I stared at the dust bag, then the doors leading out to the platform.
Great to know my cowardice didn’t stop at admitting the truth to Tate. That his brother once kissed me. That I’d known his brother wanted to kill himself. That I’d been lying to him since I’d met him.
And then there was the other truth. One I could never admit to myself for fear of disappointing Kellan.
Loyalty is a choice, and I intended to make it.
