Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 11

11

“ P lease, Vi.”

I release a long exhale at Dahlia’s pleading voice on the other end of the phone as I walk home from class.

It’s about forty minutes on foot, but I don’t mind. This is the only workout I get, and walking helps clear my head.

“Don’t try to be adorable, Dahl.”

“But tomorrow is the only day you don’t have an early shift. I just want us to have some fun at the movies and then go to your favorite kebab place.”

“Or we can watch something at home and I cook. I’d rather you spend that money on your expenses.”

“Boo. Just because we don’t have much to spare doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have fun once in a while.” She releases a sigh. “I know you’ve been stressed by work lately. I’m also exhausted, so I want to cheer us up a little.”

“Fine, but can you pick a family-friendly movie? I promised Laura I’d babysit Karly tomorrow. She’s struggling with her daycare and is scared of her ex suing for custody. Do you mind if we have her around more often?”

“Not at all! She’s a cutie.”

“Thanks, Dahl. I’ll pay for myself and Karly.”

“Don’t be silly, I’ll buy the tickets. I’ve got to go. My break is over. See ya! ”

She hangs up before I can insist on paying.

Shaking my head, I slide my phone into my back pocket as I juggle two of my human sciences books in one hand. Classes are kind of kicking my ass, mostly because I don’t have much of an attention span, but I’ll be able to keep my scholarship if I improve my GPA.

In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of Mario, and for the thousandth time in the last couple of days, I consider talking to him. Or falling in step to walk beside him.

But something tells me he wouldn’t like that.

A couple of days ago, after I gave him his usual drink at HAVEN, I asked how he was, but he just looked at me with that detached expression and ignored me.

And I didn’t push, because, well, I’m pretty sure I caught the glint of a gun beneath his jacket.

Guess he’s not interested in talking to the person he’s pseudo stalking.

Shocker.

The actual stalker, however, was nowhere to be seen, having delegated the entirety of his work to Mario.

There were no notes left in my journal, nor was there a motorcycle in front of HAVEN.

Jude just…disappeared.

Not entirely, since Mario is literally tailing me right now, but Jude’s physically not there.

Which is a relief. Even if it’s only been a week.

Ever since he forced me to watch a cold-blooded murder, splashed me with a stranger’s blood, then promised to fuck me if I didn’t get my shit together, I’m glad I don’t have to look at him.

I mean, yes, I told him to fuck me, but, really, I was just in a post-panic attack adrenaline high and kind of just talked nonsense to escape .

Because he’s right. Jude looks like the type who fucks like he speaks. In angry spurts of violence that I definitely couldn’t handle.

Hell, I think I was in some sort of a daze when he thrust his finger in my mouth and kind of made me suck it.

A bloody finger.

With the blood of a man he just killed.

The fact that I only thought of that after I left should be a bright red flag.

Because I don’t find dangerous men attractive. At all.

I’ve met enough of them to know they’re the scum of the earth.

Jude Callahan’s stoic face, rigid personality, and weapon of a body shouldn’t be at the forefront of my mind.

The afternoon air is cool against my skin, the hum of traffic merging with the rhythm of my footsteps against the cracked sidewalk. The streetlights’ shadows cast long figures in the afternoon sun that stretch and curl like grasping hands as I walk past them, my mind focused on what I’m going to cook for dinner.

I have several hours before my shift, so maybe I’ll make Dahlia lasagna. She always says it’s my signature dish and usually finishes a few servings in one night.

I balance the weight of my backpack slung over one shoulder. I have to find fresh meat, even if it’s a small quantity and…

The roar of an engine splits the quiet.

I barely register it when a black van speeds toward the sidewalk.

No—it’s rushing toward me.

It surges forward, tires screeching against the asphalt coming fast. Too fast .

I’m frozen in place, waiting for the death I’ve often spoken to before bed.

In a blur of motion, something lunges toward me—Mario—slamming into my side. Hard.

I hit the ground, out of the van’s path. Hot, burning pain lances through me as my knees scrape against concrete, my breath shattering in my lungs.

And I watch with my mouth agape as Mario spins, reaching for his gun⁠—

Another roar cuts through the traffic. This time, from the opposite direction.

The van does a U-turn in the distance as a motorcycle tears down the street, a faceless figure clad in black behind the handlebars.

Crack!

The gunshot rings out, and I flinch, pulling away on unsteady knees toward the wall for cover.

Crack!

Mario jerks, his shoulder snapping backward, his balance faltering as the rider speeds past, disappearing down the street.

He’s hit.

Mario’s hit!

My breath comes in short, shallow bursts as I stand up and scramble forward, my legs trembling, blood dripping down my knees from where my skin met the asphalt.

Mario stumbles as the van speeds toward us again.

I don’t think as I shove him out of the way and then slam against the wall and slide to the ground from the impact.

A rush of air whips past me as the van swerves, nearly hitting us.

The world slows .

Then speeds up all at once.

The tires shriek against the asphalt as it peels away, disappearing around the corner as fast as it came.

It’s over.

Are they…gone?

My hands tremble as I push myself up, my chest heaving, the adrenaline leaving a metallic taste on my tongue. My knees sting, but my gaze snaps to Mario, who’s standing with his eyes narrowed on where the van and motorcycle disappeared as he sheathes his gun.

“Oh my God—your arm.”

It’s bleeding, a deep, angry wound blossoming across his upper arm, staining his jacket. His face is set in stone as he presses a hand to it.

I dig into my bag, my hands shaking, rummaging, searching⁠—

My fingers wrap around the bottle of pills, and I offer a couple to him. “They’re not much, but they might help with the pain.” My voice wavers, my pulse wild. “You should go to the hospital.”

Mario stares at me, then at the pills.

For a second, I think he won’t take them.

But he snatches them from my hand and swallows them dry.

A brief pause. A shift in the air.

Now that I’m looking closely at him, Mario seems younger than I initially assumed. His black hair is damp with sweat, and his lips are slightly pale.

“Thanks.” His rough and unused voice rips through the air, speaking the only word he’s ever said to me.

It’s so unexpected that my lips twitch in a smile before I can stop them. “Don’t mention it. You saved me as well. ”

He keeps staring, not saying anything.

“Do you need my help with going to the hospital…?”

He says nothing, just types on his phone with one hand.

“Are we back to silence now? Got it. So much for worrying.” I bend over and grab my books.

When I straighten, Mario’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. “You should be more worried about why professional killers shot at you.”

“P-professional killers? Why?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” He squints more. “Who have you pissed off so much that they’d hire professional killers to eliminate you?”

“Aside from your boss? No one.” My nails dig into the books. “Isn’t this one of his sick games?”

Mario says nothing. A few moments later, a car with tinted windows rolls to a halt beside us, and I jerk back, the remnants of the adrenaline buzzing in my blood.

But then Mario opens the back door, his arm still dripping with blood, and tells me, “Get in.”

“No.”

“Please get in so I can drop you off and go get treated, Violet.”

“I can go home on my own⁠—”

“Out of the question. Not when someone is out for your life. Jude would kill me if he knew I left you on the street after what just happened.”

“Pretty sure he’d do the same, though, so it’d be as if someone cut his expenses.” I try to joke with the only dark humor I know, but Mario isn’t laughing, and the driver is tapping his finger on the wheel impatiently.

So I sigh and slide in.

I don’t want Mario to get in trouble because of me. I’m sure he’d rather be doing something better with his time than following a boring girl like me.

And he needs to have his arm checked.

I’m shaking the entire ride, though. Because who would hire someone to kill me?

I’ve gone out of my way not to offend anyone—aside from Jude.

He must be the one behind this. There’s no one who wants me to suffer more than him.

My mind is still racing as I push the lasagna into the creaking oven. I really hope it doesn’t break down. I’m scared that our current landlord will be like all the previous ones and not care about repairs. In the past, we had to fix things ourselves while being told, ‘You’re lucky to find a cheap place so close to town.’

I pull out the two remaining cans of ginger ale from the case and frown as I set them down on the counter. Dahlia buys these for me because I once said I liked the taste. Ever since then, she’s stopped buying her favorite soft drink—Dr. Pepper—so I buy it for her.

But I forgot today because I can’t stop thinking about the attack this afternoon and whether or not Mario is okay. He left as soon as he dropped me off, but I could tell he’d lost a lot of blood, judging by the mess on the car’s carpet.

Not that I should be worried about him, but he did save my life and got shot protecting me, so I can’t pretend not to care.

If anything, I feel guilty that he’s hurt because of me, and I keep having flashbacks from all the times Mama called me a curse .

As soon as I got home, I took a shower, dressed in a dark blue shirt that reaches my knees, and got busy with cooking so I wouldn’t allow those thoughts to take over.

But I find myself doing that anyway.

Overthinking. Overanalyzing.

Blaming myself.

I squat down to the last drawer beneath the counter that I use for extra storage. Rummaging through the worn-out tote bags and old, slightly chipped cups, I pull out a chocolate tin from when I was young.

My fingers slide over its scratched exterior as I recall the day Mama gave it to me. It was for my sixth birthday and one of the few presents I ever received from her.

I pull it open, the scrape of metal against metal loud in the silence. Inside, there are other things Mama gave me.

A blue clip with ribbons that she bought me from a thrift shop because I kept looking at it. A cheap pair of sunglasses that one of her customers left behind. Pearls I unclasped from around her neck after she died because the people came and took everything, and I didn’t want them to have the necklace. Mama always said her mama gave them to her—a family heirloom of sorts.

My fingers wrap around the most prized possession she gave me. A gold bracelet. It’s nothing much, just a slim gold chain with a flat rectangular plate in the center about the size of a dog tag but much thinner and sleeker.

“Maybe it’ll do you some good,” she said, throwing it at me when she was coughing up blood right before her death.

She’d been sick for a long time by then. Customers dwindled and she barely had anyone over. We had to move to a smaller place with no heating and black mold on the walls, and it made her coughing worse .

Her hatred for me as well.

Even weak and lifeless, even as I wiped her down, mimicking the stupid TV shows, thinking it would make her better, she said, “It’s all your fault, you little whore. All my misfortune started when I became pregnant with you, and you sucked out all my good luck and opportunities. I was beautiful, so beautiful…the most beautiful…no one could resist me. No one .” She laughed as tears streamed down her face. “Look what I’ve become because of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” I hugged her frail body, moisture staining my cheeks. “Please get well soon.”

“Stupid bitch.” She shoved me away, sending me against the wall, crying and coughing and laughing. “You ruined my life, but I ruined yours, too, so let’s call it even. I hope you die in a shithole, all alone and miserable and ugly just like me.”

“Mama…” I stood up and walked to her on unsteady feet. “I’ll be good, so, please, can you love me?”

She stared at me for a long beat before she let out a hollow laugh. “No one loves the reason for their demise, demon.”

When I woke up the following morning, it was silent.

There was no coughing or shouting or slamming doors shut.

And my mama was motionless, frothing at the mouth, her dead eyes staring at nothing.

Overdose, they said.

I was ten years old, but I could tell it was because of the white stuff she sniffed on the regular.

“She was already dying anyway ,” the cops whispered to each other.

“Poor girl ,” the neighbor who gave me food told her scum husband. “ Savannah wasn’t much, but she was Violet’s only family. Now, the girl will be abused in the system. ”

“That slut shouldn’t have had kids ,” another neighbor said. “ Now, her daughter will be the same. With a face like that, there’s no doubt.”

“Drug overdose. Tsk. That’s what you get for sleeping with other women’s men. Karma, I’m telling you. Poor girl, though.”

“Poor girl.”

“Poor girl.”

Poor. Goddamn. Girl.

Another statistic.

Another name.

Another ‘single-mom tragedy’ as they called it.

No one asked me if I was okay after I lost my only family at ten years old. No one stopped to wonder why I wasn’t crying and was in complete shock for days, sneaking into our house and calling Mama’s name, only to be greeted by silence.

I wanted my mama. I wanted the only person I had.

Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. Maybe I was too attached to my abuser, but she was the only person who was forced by biology to be there for me.

And the ten-year-old version of myself felt the world crumble around her.

I read once that ‘abuse can sometimes feel like love’ and it stuck with me. That maybe that’s what I felt toward my mother.

Over ten years later, I still revisit this box and wonder why Mama hated me so much. I tried my best at school, despite having little to no support, and got good grades. I learned to cook and clean early on to help her out, and I always stayed quiet because my voice annoyed her.

I hid in the closet whenever she had customers over, because we had one room, and I disturbed them. The older I got and the weirder they looked at me, the more she demanded I stay out of sight.

She often said she became a prostitute because of me, so is that why she hated me?

Shouldn’t she have given me up for adoption or something? Sure, I might have had a horrible life as well or ended up in the broken system I was eventually shoved into, but at least, I wouldn’t have felt worthless because my mother and only family disliked me.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now or pulling out the box. Maybe because I was so rattled this afternoon, and that triggered the memory of another trauma.

A deeper, bigger one I don’t think I’ll ever be able to face or the way it shaped my life.

I put the box back beneath the tote bags and stand up.

The moment I do, I feel a presence behind me.

My heart leaps into my throat as I attempt to turn around, but a gloved hand covers my mouth.

The smell of leather and wood fills my senses, and my body tenses up.

Jude?

His deep and velvety voice whispers in my ear, “Shh, not a word.”