Page 157
Chapter 157 of "Tempting Venom" begins with suspense: āNo, she works the night shift.ā His metal gaze meets mine. āNo one will see... Donāt stop reading!
āNo, she works the night shift.ā His metal gaze meets mine. āNo one will see you with me, if thatās what youāre worried about.ā
I purse my lips. āDrop the passive-aggressiveness.ā
āWhatever do you mean?ā He tilts his head to the side. āIām just stating the facts you demanded.ā
I consider saying something but choose not to. Itāll simply hurt my case at this point.
With a grumble, I make a beeline to the door and into the living room.
Even though Stantonville is a shithole, the houseā¦isnāt.
Itās small, sure, but every corner looks like someone actually loves it enough to keep it alive. There are houseplantseverywhere and warm light instead of the flickering fluorescent misery the rest of this town seems to run on.
In the center, thereās a couch that looks too soft for this zip code, with a blanket tossed over the armrest that definitely belongs to his mother, not him. Marcus is many things, but cozy isnāt one of them.
The walls are lined with framed photos, and because Iām here to be nosy, I walk straight to them.
We donāt have framed family photos in our house. I mean, we do, if we count my deceased ancestors glaring down at me. Or the tradition of the soulless family photo that we take every year just to hang in Dadās office.
I only tolerate them now because Miley loves them, especially if I hold her on my shouldersāsomething Satanās lover doesnāt like, so I do it just to piss her off.
Anyway, the family photos here are warmer, full of Marcus and his motherāJune. In almost all of them, theyāre together. There are a few where heās alone. Marcus as a teen holding a hockey stick bigger than him in one hand and a trophy in the other. Marcus no older than ten with a missing tooth and a scraped knee.
Heā¦doesnāt smile much in his solo pictures. When heās with his mom, however, his smiles are more genuine.
One photo stops me.
Marcus, June, and Andrew are in the snow, photographed under a white tree. Marcus is tiny, bundled in a puffy red jacket, his cheeks flushed, looking no older than six or seven. Andrew stands behind him, his hand on his shoulder, his face unreadable. June is grinning wide as she holds Marcusās gloved hand and stares at the camera.
I take the frame without thinking. Thereās somethingā¦familiar about his face.
Thereās a tug somewhere under my ribs, like dĆ©jĆ vu that just wonāt manifest. A memory that I shouldnāt have forgotten.
I put it back as if Iāve been electrocuted.
Strange.
The stairs creak under my feet as I go up. Theyāre narrow, clean, and have a dark-orange carpet runner. I find the door to his room at the end of the hallway, and it opens into a space that is soā¦Marcus.
Itās organized. Not military neatājust intentional. Tools on a shelf. Books stacked in straight lines. Several hockey trophies are collecting dust on top of a dresser thatās too small for them.
Now that Iām looking through them, thereās a lot. And I mean alot. About five MVP awards. Most Improved Player award. Top scorer plaquesāseriously, highest scorer? I vote fake. Tournament medals. Coachās awardāhe bribed him, no doubt. A puck collection. A sportsmanship award. Like how the fuck does he deserve such an award? He obviously holds one hell of a grudge in everything.
He acts so nonchalant at times, I almost fall for the facade, but then he shows his true colors like a perfect sadist.
Asshole.
I sit on his bed, and the mattress dips beneath my weight.
Everything smells like him. The sheets, the pillow. Clean, woodsy soap, and something metallic and warm that shouldnāt make my chest do whatever itās currently doing.
The room hums with that quiet, lived-in warmth Iāve never had in any of my homes, and my brain probably should be mocking this sentimentality.
Iāve never really had a home.
When my parents were married, I was more plagued by their fights, but maybe that was my home. Because at least atthat time, I was surrounded by both my parents, who doted on me in their own way. Then there was Momās houseāthe one from hell. And then back to Dadās house.
It was never the same after that. It justā¦wasnāt.