Page 43 of Darling Venom
That was what happened when you blew all your movie-deal money on hookers, drugs, and wild weekends with actresses who got paid triple what you made in your life for a coffee machine commercial.
“Knock yourself out.” I gestured to the bar in the corner. If he wanted to ruin what was left of his liver, it was his funeral.
Standing, I retired upstairs.
I passed Kellan’s room. Still untouched from four years ago.
I stopped, putting my hand to the door without opening it.
I wondered who would be the first to set foot in it. The realtor when I finally sold this nightmare of a house? A new housekeeper who would forget about my no-touching-anything-Kellan-related rule and vacuum the place? A goddamn earthquake?
It didn’t matter.
Could be a rat, and it’d still hurt like a motherfucker.
; Kellan was good, and he died too young. I was bad, and every day I lived was a middle finger from the devil.
I turned away from the door, slipping into my bedroom. My head hit the pillow. I gaped at the ceiling like I’d entered a staring contest, knowing I wouldn’t win.
Sleep wouldn’t come.
They say time dulls the pain.
They lie.
Guilt is pain’s fuel, and it rekindles it every time the flame fades.
She left her office at six thirty-five, waving the doorman goodbye with a smile.
I sat in a coffee shop across the street, watching the building like I didn’t have a twelve-million-dollar-a-year practice to run. I’d been here since five, just to be on the safe side.
For the pleasure of stalking young Miss Richards, I’d pushed back a check-up appointment, along with two IVF treatments, and there was a thoroughly upset heiress three centimeters dilated in her room in Morgan-Dunn, wondering where the hell her doctor was. Watching a barely-out-of-puberty agent assistant get off work was probably the answer she was not expecting to hear.
I dropped a few coins into a fund-my-backpacking-trip tip mug and made my way across the street to catch the little firecracker before she sizzled into the subway. My eyes didn’t waver from her frame. It gave me the opportunity to assess her.
Miss Richards wore her brown hair in a purposefully messy, trendy, fuck-you-I’m-from-New-York way, with side-swept bangs. Thick, dramatic eyebrows framed her green eyes. A black beret perched on her head, tilted sideways, like an artist.
I wanted to tell her she was not, in fact, an artist. Although I didn’t know. Maybe she was.
Did I want to pick a fight with this woman?
Yes.
Yes, I did.
She was curvy and small and kissed by youth’s beauty—smooth skin, delicate neck, and dainty ankles. Her hot feline reading glasses, black dress, and red plaid leggings made her look like she’d stepped out of a No Doubt music video.
She was the kind of girl Kellan would have liked.
A whole-fucking lot.
I crossed the street at a red light before the subway entrance swallowed her. A car nearly slammed into me, stopping at the last minute. I slapped the hood at the same time the driver honked for ten seconds straight.
“Learn how to walk, moron!” he roared.
“Learn how to drive, dipshit.” I gave him an unsolicited tip of my own, saluting him with my middle finger.
