Page 121 of Darling Venom
The crosswalk signal turned white, but she stilled, staring at me. Waiting for me to speak again.
“I did notice you came, and I couldn’t give two shits about it. Not a big deal. And not because it happens, which it does, but because my offer of no-strings-attached sex is off the table, on account of the fact that you are wearing my dead brother’s jacket he was extremely and unreasonably attached to and you won’t tell me how you got it.” I thumbed one of the chains. The one housing the middle-finger charm. Fitting. “Pretend it never happened.”
Behind her, the crosswalk signal switched to a flashing red hand.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Well aware of it.”
I was staring at the only link I had to my little brother, and I was butchering the fuck out of our relationship.
I wasn’t dumb. I knew what was happening here. The more things unraveled with Terry, the more I sought out Charlotte. I knew, but I couldn’t stop it. I also, apparently, couldn’t control the shit that came out of my mouth, sober or drunk.
She turned to the crosswalk, saw the little red hand, and pivoted down the sidewalk instead, wa
lking faster than normal on purpose. I followed behind her as she took the stairs into the subway station two at a time.
She veered left to the nearest train, which I doubted was the one she needed. I struggled to keep up with her, stumbling a little and cursing the bartender for not cutting me off sooner.
I had such a strong grip on my life—such tight, militant control—that even the way I lost control needed to be done under my terms. The way I wanted it to happen. Under circumstances I created.
And Charlotte Richards derailed it all.
She slipped onto the train as soon as a wave of people cleared it. I picked up my pace, chasing after her, fighting the dizziness rising to my head.
Jesus.
I’d reached my pathetic quota for a lifetime, and I’d like a redo on the past twenty minutes.
I got to the double doors just as they closed. My palms landed on the windows, on either side of Charlie.
We stared at each other through the glass.
One second stretched into ten.
She turned first, cutting me off.
Overhead, the speakers warned to clear the yellow zone.
I stumbled back.
The metal car began to move.
And then Charlotte Richards was gone.
If I was a hermit with no social life, Leah Richards was a doll set that came in three models and three models only—work, sleep, and knitting.
The latter of which I found her doing on the couch when I arrived home tonight from whatever that shit-show was with Tate.
Stop thinking about him.
Stop worrying if he got home okay.
He is not yours to care about.
I sighed, catching Leah peer up from her needles to recite a line from The Nanny, all of which she’d memorized at this point. Behind me, the door slammed shut, announcing my presence.
Crickets.
