Page 42 of Venomous Kiss
“Look, I left her, okay? I realize I fucked up. I do. But it’s you I’ve always wanted.” He scratches the back of his head. “Would you consider coming back?” he pleads.
“Please move, Deven.”
“Lil,” he says in a voice that feels like nails on a damn chalkboard.
“I have to go. Have a nice life.”
He reaches for me, gripping my arm, and leans in. “Do you want it rough? I saw the way that man choked you when he fucked you in our house.”
“If you don’t remove your hand, I will remove it for you.” I glare at him, and he rolls his eyes at me.
“It’s what you want, right?” His grip tightens on my arm, and I know it’s going to leave a mark—stupid asshole.
“Last chance,” I warn. He doesn’t listen. Instead, he keeps a tight hold on my wrist.
“You never needed me, Lil. I wanted to be needed.” He sounds desperate and crazy all at the same time.
“That sounds like a you issue.”
“Fucking hell, Lil.” He pulls on my arm, and it starts to hurt. Before he can do anything else, I turn to face him. Hope blossoms on his face, but just as quickly, I lift my knee and slam it straight into his useless cock. He releases me and drops to a crouch. I lift my foot and kick him, and he rolls to the ground in a ball.
Stepping over him, I get in my car, start it up, and fucking leave with a squeal of the wheels and kicking up a few stones as I go. I had planned to go straight back to the cheap-ass apartment I rented this week because I’ve been living in motels and whatever is cheap for the last year, but I change my mind and head to my aunt’s house instead. She never had kids of her own, but raising me, she tried to give me a normal life. Even if she was a drunk and had no business raising a kid.
When I finally pull up in front of her house, I’m reminded of all the times I ran away, snuck out that front window, and escaped. I always came back, but she never knew. Linda was always passed out somewhere in the house, so it was never an issue.
I lock my car, then walk up to the front door and knock. I hear her yell out that she’s coming, and when the door opens, I’m greeted by Linda, who, I might add, does not look drunk. Her salt-and-pepper hair is down and has slight waves, and she’s wearing a floral dress that looks good on her. When her gaze lands on me, it brightens for just a second before she opens her mouth.
“Lilith.” This woman is the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever known. When my father was off doing God knows what, and I wasn’t with a sitter, I was with Linda. That was a lot of the time. So, when he went away, it seemed to make sense to be with her full-time. I don’t even remember questioning it. “It’s been so long.”
“Yes, it has,” I agree.
I haven’t seen much of her since I was with Deven. He never liked Linda, and I understand why. She always had a drink in her hand. But right now, as she stands in front of me, I see no evidence of her drinking. She almost seems… sober?
“Come in, please.”
Her house is old, with the paint chipping away and peeling off over the years. It has a front porch connected to my old room, where I used to slide the window up and sneak out. Linda’s room was at the back of the house, so it was easy to sneak out without her knowledge. I don’t bother removing my shoes as she holds the door open.
“Your father told me you visited him.”
“You speak to him?” I ask.
“Of course, dear, he’s my brother.”
She shuts the door behind me, and I follow her into the kitchen. Everything is neat and clean, which is the first thing I notice. It’s not dirty and untidy anymore. There aren’t bottles lying around, and the sink has no dirty dishes piled in it. There are plants everywhere, growing and thriving. This house always felt so dead when I was a teenager, and now it’s bursting with life.
“He said it was the first time he’s seen you since I took you in all those years ago. I guess you went on and created a better life for yourself, which makes us happy and sad at the same time.”
“I’m divorced,” I say woodenly. Her mouth forms the perfect O before she turns and pulls out a pitcher of iced tea—I bet it’s peach-flavored. She used to make it for me when she was sober, and I can’t help but wonder how many sober days she’s had. “The house looks better,” I say, and I mean it.
“Yeah, well, I’m better. So, I guess when you feel better, the things around you do as well.” She pours a glass and places it in front of me. “I’m sorry to hear about your divorce. I only met him once when you were engaged, but I got the feeling he never liked me to begin with.”
I wave her off and then reach for the glass. “Don’t be sorry. He was a cheating pig, and he hated the fact that my family was so broken and that my father was in prison.” Wrapping my fingers around it, I look at her. “Where is the alcohol?” I ask. It’s usually never out of sight. There would be a bottle on the counter or near the couch. Anywhere and everywhere.
“I’ve been sober for two years.” Her words leave me speechless, the weight of her revelation sinking in slowly.
“Why? How?”
She takes the seat opposite me and flattens her hands on the table. Her nails, which have dirt under them, tap the floral tablecloth as she looks me in the eye.
