Tryst Six Venom, page 10
But I look around the table at all the faces, the big smiles and bright eyes and how they look like they have everything they need, right here, right now, because we have each other.
It’s not enough for me. It’s never been enough. But I don’t want it to change either. When I come back home, I want to know they’re here. All of them. On our land. Safe and sound.
The key sits in the bag on the back of my chair, weighing heavy on my mind.
I wish Macon was here. Not at home, avoiding us, too consumed with his responsibilities to enjoy his family.
I don’t remember my father well. There are images. Feelings. That’s it. I was too young, but when I think about what I do remember, it’s almost as if he was another brother. He never disciplined me, yelled at me, or lost his temper. Iron and Dallas took the lead on that when I made a mess or failed a test or sassed back.
My father, I only saw at the end of the day. When he was tired. Relaxed. Happy to be home from work. I would sit with him on the recliner, eating popcorn and watching Ironman. It was like spending time with Trace, my friends, or a grandpa you only spent minimal hours with once a month.
Macon had joined the military by the time I was old enough to remember anything. Significantly older than me, he was the one I feared when I should’ve feared my father. Here was this soldier I didn’t know walking through our front door once a year, always lurking around the perimeter of a room, there but never quite present. He didn’t smile as easily as Army, or crack jokes like Trace. I never felt safe enough to wrap myself around his leg, torturing him until he gave me a brownie like I did with Dallas, and he was never around to protect me like Iron.
And while I knew he was my parents’ first and was raised in our house, I started to wonder more as I grew older if he’d ever really lived with any of these people. I wasn’t the only one he seemed cold to.
He reminded me of our mother. There was a cloud following them both, and you can still see it in his eyes, even now. There’s something that wasn’t as easy for them as it was for the rest of us.
And when I was eleven and he hit me, it devastated me more than losing both of my parents within eight weeks of each other that previous year. I cried and cried, not because the spanking hurt, but because I felt hated.
Because he hated me.
At least that’s what I thought until later that night when I found him sitting at the kitchen bar, his head in his hands as he quietly cried in the dark.
He never apologized, but he never did it again. And over time I came to understand that my oldest brother was only twenty-three that night, and twenty-three is still so young. That he was suddenly in charge of three minors to feed and clothe, a mountain of debt, and the prospect that life would never be more than this for him. That even when we grew up, Iron would always be a problem, and Army and Trace would be bringing babies into the world they couldn’t support on their own. Macon would be the one everyone turned to, because he was the “adult.” He always took care of us. You always felt lonely in a room with him, but you were never alone, and if we took anything into this world, it was that.
We didn’t know if he loved us, but he would always stay.
I could rely on him like I never could my mother, and I craved his approval and respect like I never did with my father. I look around the table again, wishing he was here. What is he doing now? What does he do when he’s alone?
“Fuckin’ Saints think they own this place already,” I hear someone say.
I blink, snapping out of my thoughts as I set my sundae aside. I look up, following my brothers’ gazes.
Milo Price and Callum Ames eye us as they head up the sidewalk to the entrance of the restaurant, followed by Becks and Krisjen. Becks waves at me, offering a contrite smile that says she tried to talk them out of it. I don’t wave back, but Aracely looks between us, and I can just tell this is all my fault. Somehow.
“They never will,” Trace replies. “They will never own this place.”
I yank over one of the trays and start in on what crawfish is left, wishing they were just here to eat, but I know they’re not. Why else would they cross the tracks to dine at a mosquito-infested, converted garage with rolls of paper towels instead of napkins on the tables and peeling linoleum floors?
Sanoa Bay is an unincorporated neighborhood of St. Carmen, but it may as well be the moon. They’re Saints. We’re Swamp. We share a zip code. That’s it.
Aracely starts mumbling under her breath, and then she hikes up the volume, barking something in Spanish. I flick my gaze to Army and see he’s already eyeing me. Like Macon, he speaks Spanish and understands her. Unfortunately, by the time Iron was born, our parents got tired and stopped raising their children bilingual.
But Army’s face tells me she’s talking about me. Like I didn’t already know that.
“Just don’t,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Yeah, every time you’re not talking to me, you’re speaking Spanish,” I snap back. “They’re not my friends, okay?”
I didn’t invite them. Just because we go to the same school…
“You’re with them more than you’re home,” she counters.
A bitter laugh catches in my throat, and I straighten up, looking around the table for support. “I’m at school. Or work. Or practice.”
Iron sighs, trying to keep the peace. “It’s okay.”
But he says it to me as if I’m the asshole losing my temper here. She started it.
“I mean, what does she want from me?” I bark back at him. “Macon sent me to Marymount, I didn’t want to go. I’m not one of them.”
She spits something back in Spanish again and I can make out enough to hear, “Are you one of us?”
Gritting my teeth, I shove my chair and storm from the table as a couple of my brothers groan and Iron grumbles something to his ex.
Stepping into the restaurant, I ignore the looks my direction and head for the bathroom, but think twice, needing fresh air instead. Heading right, I push through the double doors, seeing staff look up from their work, but I’m out the back door before Mariette has a chance to ask me what I’m doing in her kitchen.
Letting the door slam shut, I draw in a deep breath of thick air and fall back against the wall, the music of the locusts and frogs filling the night in the thicket beyond. Trees stretch high past the dirt road, and I can see the faint touch of moonlight on the water that still looks green despite how dark it is.
I stare ahead, lost in thought again.
My family thinks they’re strong, but we’re as brittle as a pie crust. With the knowledge that we’re together, it gives us confidence, but leaving will diminish that just enough for Dallas to leave next. And then Trace and Army, and Iron, and what will all of Macon’s sacrifices be for?
I hate that he’s asking me to stay, but I know why he feels owed. If I leave, I’ll find success, but it’ll be at the expense of my home. And I love my family.
Tears fill my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I realize what Macon must’ve felt when he left the Marines.
And I know exactly what would’ve happened to us if he hadn’t. Where would I have been without him?
“Lost?” someone says.
I turn my head, seeing Megan approach. Her blonde hair blurs, and I wipe my eyes, standing up straight and clearing my throat.
“No.” I force a laugh. “You?”
“Not at all.” She holds up a brown, plastic grocery bag, one of Mariette’s pie boxes inside.
Scratch what I said about the Saints crossing the tracks for no reason. The key lime pie here is the draw, they just always get it to-go.
She stops in front of me, and I avoid her gaze until I blink away the rest of the tears.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers.
“I don’t cry.”
I put a smile on my face and finally raise my eyes, running my hand through my hair. A cool sweat dampens my back, and I slide my hands into my jean shorts pockets, watching her eyes drop for a moment to my cleavage that disappears down my loose tank top.
My skin pricks.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
I’m so confused, I don’t know where to begin.
“Then, what’s good?” she teases.
A laugh escapes me, and I lean against the wall of the restaurant again, relaxing.
Coming in close, she touches my face with her free hand and my heart skips, closing my eyes and liking it more than I want to. I’m a little vulnerable right now, and I’m kind of tempted to forget that she’s an authority figure. Even if she is only a year or so older than me.
“So busy collecting stones.” She tsks. “You’re missing the diamonds.”
Tears well again, and I know she’s right. I have so many people who love me, and I’m whining.
“I just want to share joy with someone,” my breathing shakes as tears spill through my closed eyes. “I don’t want to be alone in everything I do. Fuck…”
School. Home. Work. The theater. There’s always opposition, and I’m rarely the one in control.
“No one is on my side,” I whisper, meeting her eyes.
It only lasts the span of a breath, but she holds my gaze and I stop breathing, her blonde hair and blue eyes the only thing I see before she’s on me. Her mouth melts into mine, and I only hesitate a moment before I slide my arms around her.
God…
I grip her slim waist, pressing my body into hers, and her groan vibrates down my throat as I squeeze my eyes shut and taste the heat on her breath. Intoxicated.
Or would you wish I was in your room instead? A voice carries me away.
Taking her face in one hand, I spin her around and back her into the wall, her long, silky hair draping down her back, across to tickle my other hand.
I thread her hair through my fingers, feeling its soft silkiness, and nibble her mouth as a moan escapes me.
“Liv,” she begs, her mouth trailing across my cheek and down my neck as she grinds into me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping her hair at her scalp, the urge to go too hard overcoming me. God, I can’t fucking stop. I take her throat in my hand and force her head back, sucking and biting her lips and relishing the feel of her body in my hands.
I’ll show her what she gets for treating me like her fucking servant. For sabotaging all our team’s hard work, and for never being kind to me.
And for letting that punk-ass frat boy touch her. What the hell does she see in him? He has an alarming array of pastel-colored Polo shirts, because he needs to let everyone know he’s a white-as-fuck, roofie-jungle-juice-making Chad.
I kiss her hard, my blood boiling down my arms.
She whimpers, and I’m not sure if it’s pleasure or pain. “Liv.”
“Don’t talk.” I pull away and take her hand. “Get in the car.”
I nod toward Dallas’s Mustang and advance on her as she backs up toward it. Her steps are slow, as if she’s unsure, but her chest rises and falls, and I know she wants it.
I don’t look at her face.
The door opens, I climb in the seat after her, and close the door, pulling her into my arms.
“We’ll be seen,” she murmurs against my lips.
I press my forehead to hers, running my thumb over her bottom lip and almost smelling that perfume that made me want to bury my nose in her skin the first time I saw her. “Sanoa is where secrets go to breathe,” I tell her.
No one cares what we do here. Here, you can have me all you want.
“You won’t tell anyone?” she asks.
Megan’s worried about losing her job for fucking around with a student.
The girl in my head is worried about her boyfriend discovering what really makes her come.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say.
And I pull her in, slipping my tongue into her mouth and my hand up her skirt.
She moans, the pulse in her neck throbbing against my fingers as she squirms.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” she tells me.
I pause, the spell starting to break. “Don’t say that.” I tip her chin down and force her eyes to me. “Say you hate me. Tell me to stop.”
“But I…”
“Say it.” I nudge her back against the door and hover over her. “Call me swamp trash and tell me to stop.”
I dive into her neck as she stutters and tries to find the words that will please me, but she’s confused.
“Say it.” I grab the back of her neck, squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing her through her panties.
“Stop,” she gasps. “I hate you, you fucking trash. I hate you.”
I find her clit through the fabric, rubbing circles and hearing her moan again as she opens her legs wider.
“Yeah?” I lick her mouth. “But you’re so wet. You don’t want this?”
And I slip my finger inside, caressing her bare skin.
She gasps.
“Or this?” I taunt, sliding another one in.
“Stop.” She kisses me back, breathing hard. “Ah, stop. No.”
Mmm, no.
And all the while I’m trembling as she grabs for me and holds me close and wants me in our secret place where no one can see us, because I want it to be real, too. I want Clay Collins in this fucking car and to love me so much she can’t stand it.
Just so I won’t be alone anymore.
That’s how pathetic I am. Fantasizing over a straight girl who believes I deserve nothing good in this world, because I think hate-fucking her would make me feel powerful. Because I don’t love her and I don’t like her, but I feel something about her, and whatever it is, it’s strong, and I need it. I want to throw her down and put my teeth on her and feel hers on me, but at the end, make her come and kiss her mouth and let her finally know that there was one nice memory of me.
Oh, yeah. There was one.
I start to shake, and I can’t catch my breath. I growl, pulling off Martelle and sit back in the seat, not sure if I’m angry for using her, or disgusted that I tried to make her play the role of someone who will never deserve me.
There’s no love here, but that didn’t matter, did it? The hate turned me on. Jesus, I’m fucked up.
“Olivia?” I hear the leather seat grind under her weight as she sits up.
She reaches for me, but I pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. This was wrong.”
I don’t know why it’s wrong. It feels good. Clay probably let that jackass fuck her, and I know she doesn’t love him, so why do I feel guilty?
Megan moves in closer. “Are you okay?”
But I swing open the door and climb out. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her, but I can’t get away from her fast enough. “I’ll see you at school.”
And I leave the door open for her, quickly escaping back into Mariette’s. The embarrassment settles over me of what she must think, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She won’t talk. I’m a student—and still technically a minor. I’m safe.
I slip into the employee restroom on the opposite wall to wash my hands and splash some water on my face, yanking two paper towels out of the dispenser.
I hold my eyes in the mirror as a tornado whirls around me that I can’t seem to stop. Have some damn control. You’re better than this.
It’s just the pressure. The play and college and Clay… Lots at once.
And Callum. I’m just tired of taking it.
I swing open the door and walk through the kitchen, into the restaurant and around the divider. I stop at Callum’s table, Becks and Krisjen sitting in the booth opposite of him and Milo. There’s a round of sodas in front of everyone, and a basket of fries in the middle.
“You’re not welcome here,” I remind them calmly. “Not in the Bay.”
They know this.
Callum looks up, a gleam in his eyes as he cocks his head. “We just want to eat,” he tells me. “I hear your Cuban sandwich is the best around.”
“Mariette?” I call out, pulling my blade out of my back pocket and leaving it sheathed at my side. “This table wants their order to go.”
Callum’s eyes drop to the switchblade, trying to hold back his smile. “I would think you’d like to see more business in your neighborhood.” He sighs. “I would think my understudy would be more grateful.”
Oh, yes. I’m grateful for the scraps. Thanks for reminding me that nothing good comes unless by the good graces of the rich and beautiful.
“If it were up to me, you’d have the part,” he taunts. “If it were up to me.”
And his meaning isn’t lost. It’s not up to him. It’s up to me and whether I use that key.
I slide the switch, the blade unsheathing, and I watch him watch the knife, ready.
“You know those clapping games little girls play?” I ask him. “They seem silly and frivolous, but actually they teach motor coordination and dexterity.”
The girls at the table stiffen as Milo watches in amusement, safely shielded by Callum.
I hear the screen door behind me swing open and shut, bouncing against the doorframe a couple of times.
I hold up the knife and lay my hand down on the table. “But I always liked the boys’ game instead,” I tell him. “You ever play stabberscotch?”
A couple of shadows fall over me, and Trace’s body spray wafts through my nostrils.
“Thirty seconds.” I balance the tip of the knife on my palm and then flip it, catching it. “If I don’t cut myself, you take your fucking slugs and get out of here.” I look at Krisjen, the nice one. “And that means you too.”
She keeps her mouth shut, simply looking to Callum to see what he’s going to do.
“And Becks can stay,” I add. She’s the only one I really like.
But then Callum asks, “Why should I make a deal to stay when you know I don’t have to leave?”
“As if you’ll have to leave anyway, right?” I fire back. “I’m a loser. I’ll lose.”
He laughs, but it’s a short, nervous one, and he doesn’t meet my eyes.
I smirk. “Scared?”
His gaze flickers to my brothers behind me, who stay quiet to see how this will play out, and is caught between a rock and hard place. Lose and he has to leave. Or they’ll make him leave.
