Page 70 of Darling Venom
We dusted, scrubbed, vacuumed, and opened the window in silence. The only thing we couldn’t get our hands on were the two drawers in Kellan’s desk. We needed a key to unlock them and couldn’t find it anywhere.
It was a nice desk, made of real oak. Tate shook the handles a little, but when he realized they wouldn’t budge, he didn’t snap and break the drawer, even though we both knew that he could.
His eyes drifted to mine, asking if I had any ideas. He was the most confident, formidable man I knew, but right now, this evening, he seemed as lost as his baby brother during our school years.
I shook my head. “We can find the key later. Let’s tackle the books.”
Tate reached for the top row, bringing them down for me to sort through. I started wiping them of dust individually.
Poor books.
It wasn’t their fault their owner had passed away.
Tate handed me The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. A slow grin spread across my face.
“What’s so funny?” Tate asked.
“This book holds one of my favorite quotes: I am too fond of books to care to write them. It’s true. Once your art becomes your job, it loses its elusive, sexy charm. It’s like seeing the behind-the-scenes of your favorite movie. The cables and green screen and latex-wearing stuntmen and scripts lying around. It desensitizes you. That’s why I never wanted to become an author.”
“Terry had that problem. When the cash flowed, the muse dried up. Art and prosperity don’t play nice together.”
Tate flipped through a book absentmindedly, still on his feet. I sat on the carpeted floor, legs crisscrossed, running a damp wipe over the covers. All the books were coated with wooly silver dust that looked like gray hair.
“No. I can only imagine what the pressure would do to him.”
“Don’t hold your breath for a feel-good ending.” Tate set the book down. “Here’s a spoiler—he became a drunk, a drug addict, and a shit dad.”
“At least now you know why. He probably hates himself.”
“Good. He should.”
Tate handed me more books to clean. His citrus-sandalwood-bonfire had a fourth undercurrent. Musk. He smelled musky, and it made my stomach clench almost violently in a way I’d never experienced before.
“What’s your Big T?” Tate asked.
“Big T?”
“Tragedy.”
My throat constricted. “I don’t really talk about it.”
“You think I go around talking about my brother’s suicide as an icebreaker?” He let out a bitter chuckle. “We’re way past small talk, Charlie. Never been there.”
I said nothing.
I didn’t think it was the same.
What Tate had done was destructive in a roundabout way. He’d tried doing a good thing and something had gotten lost in translation.
What I did was… not.
“C’mon. I could use a distraction,” Tate coaxed. His low voice seeped into my gut, though it had no business going there. “This room is giving me a panic attack I can’t afford. I’m on call tonight, and there are approximately seven babies due to be delivered this weekend who’d be very grateful if you could pull my head out of my ass.”
We’d neared the end of the book pile.
“I think I can out-shitty you.”
“I find it hard to believe.”
