Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 28

28

I shouldn’t have let Dahlia talk me into joining her to celebrate.

I really, really shouldn’t have.

Going to the game was already out of my comfort zone, but then again, I was the one who asked her if she still had that extra ticket and if I could join.

Not sure why I did it in the first place.

Well, I do. I wanted to see Jude play. Against my better judgment, I’ve been getting curious about him lately and wanted to learn more about his past and what made him who he is.

And hockey is a big part of who he is.

I could tell the sport held a special place in his life. Not only because of the violence but because when I watched him, it felt like it was the only time he could be free and be himself.

That knowledge made my chest hurt.

According to Dahlia, Jude—and Kane and Preston—had a very tough upbringing and have huge legacies to uphold, so they can’t be themselves.

They couldn’t even when they were young.

In reality, my chest shouldn’t hurt for Jude. Even if he’s the best fuck I’ve ever had, even if he often tells me these things that make me reconsider everything I took for granted about intimacy.

It doesn’t change the fact that he was my stalker and the man who was bent on killing me.

But I seem to completely gloss over those tiny facts whenever I’m with him.

It’s wrong and strange that I feel safe around him and that I leave him little notes in my journal because he religiously reads them.

The breach of privacy should be appalling, but for someone like me who struggles to communicate my needs, it’s been a blessing.

Still, despite everything that’s been going on, I shouldn’t have come to the game or been kind of…mesmerized by him. His power, his control, the way he commands the ice. Even his bursts of violence didn’t frighten me.

Not sure when I stopped being scared of Jude, but it just kind of happened, and now, I’m more in awe of his brute strength, even if I’m still slightly apprehensive.

The game and my confusing feelings aside, I should’ve gone home, not let Dahlia convince me to come to the club.

“It’ll be so much fun!” she said. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can leave at any time. No pressure, Vi.”

So here I am, dressed in a denim jacket over a sleeveless black dress that reaches my knees, but I still find myself tugging it down, self-conscious that it’ll be blown up by the wind and reveal things that shouldn’t be exposed.

One of my foster parents called me a whore at eleven because my dress showed some of my thighs. Her husband looked at me creepily and even let his hand wander up my leg when she walked in, but I was the whore who should cover up.

Ever since then, I haven’t been comfortable with dresses and have done everything in my power to dress in a way that doesn’t draw attention so that I’m not blamed for flaunting myself for the male gaze.

But, lately, I’ve been thinking about how that thought process is wrong. I’ve had a few online therapy sessions since I can afford it now, and I got a discount for a top therapist, Sloane Harriot, who’s helped me tremendously in such a short time.

She made me realize that I blame myself too much for other people’s actions.

I was eleven, literally a child, and shouldn’t have been blamed for adults’ actions when I did nothing wrong.

I was ten when Mama died, and I ran to the neighbors for help. The wife wasn’t around, but the man hugged me and started touching me weirdly, his hand roaming down to my ass and inside my jeans. He only stopped when his son unexpectedly showed up.

I was fully dressed, and that didn’t stop him.

So, it’s never really about what I wear like my foster mother said. It’s about the creeps in this world that I had the misfortune to meet.

It’s because I grew up in a broken home, watching Mama being shoved around and treated horribly that I thought women were supposed to let men do whatever they wanted. That if I fought, I’d only get hit or yelled at.

That time, after that man copped a feel and pretended to console me when his son showed up, I ran away, wandering around in the rain and wondering, what’s the point of life? I also ran away from that foster home about three years later with Dahlia. After I kneed our foster father in the balls because he snuck into my room and tried to rape me.

He punched me in the eye and it hurt, and I blamed myself for being such ‘a whore’ like his wife called me. A little bitch, as Mama said again and again.

But now, I’m coming to the realizations that make me cry involuntarily.

Like my therapist said. What if everything that happened in your life is not your fault, Violet?

I still don’t know the answer to that, but I’m starting to accept it’s not my fault that they’re creeps.

Maybe that’s why I want to feel pretty lately and I convinced myself to wear this dress and even stopped wearing the glasses. I’ve been taking better care of myself and been seeing one of Dahlia’s professors for my chronic back pain. The other day, we went shopping, and I bought a few pastel-colored clothes that represent the femininity I want to embody.

It feels good to get out of my shell.

Now, if I can be more comfortable in my skin, that would be great⁠—

My whole body goes still as the sound of a motorcycle cuts into the silence.

I stop in the middle of the dim parking lot as blinding headlights flash in my face, and I squint, covering my eyes with the back of my hand as the engine revs again.

No, no. Not again.

I dart back, my legs shaking, and slip between two cars.

The motorcycle comes to a halt right in front of me, and the dark figure dressed in black clothes and a helmet pulls out a gun.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Is this the same guy who tried to kill me and Mario?

“Help!” I scream, my voice ringing around me.

I don’t want to die .

Not now, just when I’m starting to figure out my life.

I really, really don’t want to die.

My shaky legs barely carry me as I run around the car. I know I can’t outrun a bullet, but I won’t stand still while he kills me⁠—

“Who the fuck are you?”

My head snaps to the side, where a luxury sports car rolls in. The man who just spoke from the window is none other than Preston, who’s now racing forward, trying to hit the figure in the dark.

In a flash, the motorcycle revs again, and then it’s out of view, disappearing in a cloud of smoke and speed.

I grab onto the car’s trunk with trembling fingers, my limbs so unsteady, I can barely remain upright.

Memories of Mario bleeding on the sidewalk ripple through my head, and nausea spills into my mouth. I think I’m going to throw up⁠—

“Hey.”

I breathe harshly when I look up at Preston. I’m panting, really, my clammy fingers barely holding on to the car’s cold metal.

“Why do you have a hit man on you, Vee?” He asks with a tilt of his head.

“I d-don’t know.”

“God, you’re interesting. Something about you.” He grins and offers me the glass bottle of water he has in his hand. “Heard this helps. Don’t take my word for it, though. No clue why people shake and shit.”

I take the bottle and swallow a few gulps, the feel of the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.

“Thanks.” I exhale slowly. “For the water and coming along just now. ”

I think I’d be dead if he hadn’t.

That thought makes my fingers tremble on the glass.

“Anytime.” He ruffles my hair. “I’m a big, bad wolf everyone is scared of. Woo. Stay away if you don’t have a death wish and a need for a few broken face bones.”

“Are you guys all this violent?”

“Sometimes?” He forms a V at his chin with his fingers. “I’m still the prettiest, though.”

I smile a bit, and he grins. “There. Made you smile.”

My smile widens. Preston has been showing up around me out of the blue. He’ll have lunch with me and Dahlia more often than not, and that usually makes Kane and Jude join. Then both of them—especially Jude—will glare at Preston or even elbow him or stomp on his foot.

That doesn’t seem to deter Preston, though. He keeps coming back and texting me the most random things.

I reply, mostly because I feel some sense of…friendship, I guess. I’ve never really had friends aside from Dahlia, and Preston is friendly and extremely nice to me.

Dahlia said it’s weird because he’s been aggressive toward her, especially since he found out about the ex she dated for a couple of weeks, Marcus.

She always tells me to be careful with that ‘snake Preston’ since he’s unpredictable, but I haven’t sensed any bad vibes from him.

Besides, Preston is kind of my window into Jude. He answers any questions I throw at him and gives more info than I even ask for.

“What did you think of my game tonight?” he asks with the same grin, dimples still creasing his cheeks.

“You were great.”

“More passion, Vee. I know you only came to watch Jude, but give more importance to my godly energy on the ice.” He narrows his eyes. “Are you one of those girls who gets blind to everyone but their boyfriend?”

I can feel the heat creeping up my cheeks. “Jude’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh? Then what is he?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“Want me to ask on your behalf? Tell him to fuck off while I’m at it?”

“You don’t have to…”

“Well, fuck me all the way to Sunday. You like him that much?”

“I d-do not.”

He hits my shoulder with his jokingly. “Is that why you look pretty tonight? Because you totally don’t like him and didn’t come to the game and club for him?”

“Just…” I push at his arm. “Stop teasing me.”

He laughs, and something about it is so comforting. Preston is truly beautiful. I’d say he’s way more beautiful than Jude if I weren’t biased, but since I met him, I’ve felt that his arrogance about his looks is just a front.

I don’t know how to explain it, but I see myself in him—someone who’s struggling with his own perception of himself and doesn’t want to let his true self loose.

So even when he smiles or laughs or is being mischievous, it all feels calculated, because it’s his method of projecting himself onto the world.

But right now, as he laughs so genuinely, I can’t help but smile.

“No clue what you see in the man. He barely knows how to talk to a girl. He’s so closed off, he gives me a bad name.”

“Were you also close with his previous girlfriends? ”

“What girlfriends? He’s never had one of those. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend, but he’s too brutish. If he gives you trouble, let me know.”

“What will you do? Punch him for me?”

“Hell yeah. I’ll be punched back ten times worse, but I’ll survive. It’ll be worth it for your beautiful smile.”

“What would be worth it for her beautiful smile?”

We both freeze at the newcomer’s voice. Or I do, because Preston’s cheerful expression immediately darkens, and his upper lip lifts in a snarl.

At first, I can’t make out the tall, broad guy who walks toward us with a slight smirk painting his lips.

Then I see his face under the dim light, and recognition sets in.

Marcus Osborn.

The Wolves’ captain and center, as well as one of Dahlia’s worst exes.

He has angular features and a scar that slices through his right eyebrow, giving him an unsettling presence. His dark-gray eyes look black in the lack of light as they flicker over me in a mechanical profiling.

It’s almost like he’s seizing merchandise.

I’ve never met Marcus before, only heard Dahlia curse him a thousand times over and had to listen to people idolize him in Stantonville.

“Go ahead.” Marcus’s eyes look void and creepily unsettling as he stares at me. “Show me the beautiful smile so I can decide what is worth it or if it’s worth anything at all.”

“The fuck are you doing here?” Preston nearly growls the words.

“Aw. Why so cold?” A spark lights up Marcus’s previously dead eyes as he smirks, cocking his head in Preston’s direction. “Came to celebrate your win. Aren’t I supportive?”

“You—” Preston cuts himself off, then grins. “Wrong timing. As you can see, I’m busy with Vee.”

“ Vee .” Marcus’s smirk drops and I shiver as he directs a glare at me. “Why don’t you smile for me, Vee? I’m trying to figure out if Armstrong has a fucking death wish on this fine night.”

“Leave her the fuck alone.” Preston punches him in the chest. “And you’re the one who seems to have a goddamn death wish, Osborn.”

I gasp when Marcus grabs Preston’s fist that’s on his chest.

Marcus’s knuckles are covered in bruises, some of them busted, as if he’s fresh out of a fight.

“My, oh my.” Marcus grins, his eyes shining bright. “Are you angry, my prince?”

Preston shoves him away and smiles at me, but it’s forced. He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go inside, Vee. Some fly is polluting my air with its constant buzzing.”

“I haven’t finished talking. Also, this needs to go.” Marcus grabs Preston’s wrist from my shoulder and twists so fast and powerfully that I think he’ll break his arm.

Preston releases himself and kicks Marcus. In the stomach.

“Motherfucking bitch! You just never know when to back the fuck off.” Preston kicks him again and again, but Marcus is just laughing.

The whole scene feels surreal to watch. As if I’ve been thrust into an alternative reality.

It’s the first time I’ve seen Preston this worked up, and I’m pretty sure that Marcus is normally the one doing the beating, not the other way around.

Preston stops kicking him, releasing a long breath and flashing him an entirely fake smile. “You got your five minutes of attention. Now, shoo and stop disturbing us.”

I think I see a flash of rage in Marcus’s eyes, but before I can focus on what’s going on, a motorcycle stops beside us—or more like screeches to a halt.

Jude hops off the bike and removes his helmet, revealing hard features and a scowl that’s worse than his permanent one.

It should be wrong that my chest flutters and my stomach tightens upon seeing him.

It should be illegal.

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me flush to his taut, muscular side.

He’s not even touching me directly, but his grip starts a little riot on my starving flesh.

God, am I becoming a sex addict?

Because he didn’t come over yesterday, and I couldn’t help being a little disappointed. That’s part of the reason why I joined Dahlia and Megan for the game in the first place.

“What’s going on here?” he asks Preston and Marcus, who’ve stopped glaring at each other or whatever those two are doing.

Marcus smirks upon seeing Jude’s arm around my waist. “Just a friendly drop-by.”

“Nothing about your presence is friendly, Osborn,” Jude says, tightening his grip on me.

“True.” He taps his lip. “Is Vee your girl, Callahan?”

“Her name is Violet, and yes, she is. You have a problem with that?” Jude shifts slightly, so he’s kind of shielding me .

But I’m just staring dumbfounded because, did he just call me his girl? I’m not. We’re just…friends with benefits.

Okay, we’re not friends, so it’s just the benefits, I guess.

“No problem whatsoever.” Marcus grins and then points a thumb at Preston. “Armstrong might, though, considering he was flirting with her. Keep a better eye on her, yeah? Wouldn’t want her to end up in a freak accident.”

Jude takes a step forward, but Preston is already wrapping an arm around Marcus’s throat from behind, choking him. “Never mind us, big man. I’mma beat the crap out of this creep real quick.”

“Question. What’s with all the choking?” Marcus strains, tapping Preston’s arm. “Is it a form of paraphilia up for exploring?”

“Just call someone to throw him out of town,” Jude tells Preston. “And don’t kill him.”

“But why not?” Preston glares down at him. “He’s obviously itching to meet his maker.”

“If you’re my grim reaper, why not? Yum.”

“Fucking creep.” Preston shoves him away. “Your face doesn’t even give me the urge to kill. What a turn-off.”

Jude narrows his eyes on both of them, then pins Preston with a look. “Call someone. Don’t do anything alone.”

Then he’s dragging me to his motorcycle.

“Wait.” I pull on his hand. “We’re not going to the club?”

He pauses, pulling out the extra helmet. “Do you want to?”

“Not really.”

“Then you won’t have to.” He slides the helmet on my head. “We’re going on a ride.”