Page 113 of Darling Venom
“What if I don’t?” Terry repeated, quieter now.
I couldn’t pinpoint where his life had derailed.
Maybe his first taste of drugs.
Maybe the moment he decided to chase his career with fifty times the effort he put into his family.
Maybe he was born a fuck-up.
Either way, it was not my problem. He was not my father.
“Don’t test my patience, Terry. You won’t like what you find when I reach the end of my rope.”
“I can’t write another book.”
“You are washed out. Bound to die an early death as irrelevant as you were the day you were born. If you don’t want to do something with your life, that’s not my problem. I am more than happy to see you out that door.” I gave him my back.
My feet slammed against the floor on my path to my room.
I could hear him following me.
He cut me off before I reached the staircase, gripping the lapels of my dress shirt. “I plagiarized it! Okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
I moved my hands to pry his off me, but they stilled at his words. “Repeat that.”
“I stole the damn book.” He waited for me to say something, and when I didn’t, he fumbled to find an excuse. “But… But… it’s not like you think.”
The puzzle pieces clicked into place. Memories of every goddamn time I was asked about Terry Marchetti’s meteoric rise and fall slammed into me.
“It’s like nothing he’s ever written.”
“I didn’t know he had it in him.”
“A once-in-a-lifetime read.”
I’d never read the book, but I’d read what the critics had to say about it. Thought, for a moment, that at least Terrence Marchetti wasn’t a totally useless piece of shit.
“The words…” He loosened his grip on me. “The book came from someone else.”
He stayed silent, waiting for me to say something.
I couldn’t.
Couldn’t fathom the possibility that the book he’d spent the past decade bragging about—the one that redeemed his existence—was a lie.
“You disgust me.”
It came out low and heavy, clouded by rage.
I pushed him aside, marching up the stairs.
“I can still stay, right?” he called out.
I slammed my door shut, ignoring the way my stomach growled and my outrage chipped at my sanity.
For nearly ten years, I’d tolerated Terry Marchetti’s return to my life for one reason and one reason only.
Kellan idolized him for writing The Imperfections.
