Page 83 of Darling Venom
I slammed the door shut as soon as he cleared the frame.
From the other side, I heard him yell, “I’ll go to the press! Hot-shot doctor leaves his elderly father starving in the streets. See if you like the negative attention for a change.”
I didn’t respond.
“What about the manuscript?” he shouted.
I stomped my way back to Kellan’s room. Collected the shards of wood from his floor. Ignored the piece that pierced my skin.
The manuscript stared at me.
I picked it up, letting the heavy pages sink the splinter deeper into my flesh. I stared at it without really seeing. My eyes burned with the effort.
I never read.
And I’d certainly never read anything Kellan had written.
In the end, I managed to catch the title page before I slid the manuscript under Kellan’s bed, right before throwing up in his trashcan.
Darling Venom.
I found myself sandwiched between my colleagues at Reagan’s gender-reveal party.
Abigail spat when she talked, but I’d managed to dodge the liquid trajectory thus far. Irene spoke so loudly, any sensitive subject needed to be broached in a soundproof bunker unless we wanted the whole tristate area to know what it felt like to have a man between Reagan’s legs.
Which, unfortunately, happened to be the hot topic of the night.
“I’m telling you, having this man touch you is a curse.” Reagan propped her legs on the lounger across from us. “I don’t know how I don’t reach an orgasm the minute his fingers are between my legs. I think I’m going to have five kids just to have him deliver them.”
I shifted on the butterscotch Victorian sofa.
I hadn’t gotten much work done today. Just shuffled things around and rearranged some paperwork, tr
ying my best to block her voice when she sauntered out of the teleconference room, cradling her baby bump, and gushed about Dr. Marchetti’s expert fingers on the exam table.
The conversation had carried over from the office to the cab to Madame Wade’s, a bougie tearoom in the Upper West Side.
“I’ve been on his waiting list for years.” Abigail sighed, biting into one of the fresh-baked vanilla scones. “He doesn’t take any new clients.”
Irene tipped a shoulder up. “I just go somewhere local. In Williamsburg. Getting checked by a man—hot or not—is too weird for me. Dr. Waxman is a gem. The nicest woman I know.”
All three women looked at me, waiting for me to chip in. Considering the intimate subject, I guess it felt weird that one of us had decided not to overshare.
I balanced a finger sandwich on my thigh and stalled, drinking basil oolong tea from a tiny cup, pinky jutted in Reagan’s direction.
There were fifty or so people scattered around the room, and I would rather be talking to any one of them than here, trapped in this conversation.
I plastered a weak smile on my face. “I’ve never visited an ob-gyn.”
“Never?” Irene frowned. “As in, you’ve never been checked?”
I shook my head.
“Not even in college? When you started having sex?”
I’d never started having sex, but I had a feeling that admitting to being a virgin in a room full of educated, outspoken alpha females would be seen as a con.
Anyway, I was well aware most urban, single twenty-two-year-olds these days had popped their cherries. I’d just never had time for the dating stuff. Since my parents died, I’d prioritized maintaining my scholarship and earning money.
