Sweet Venom by Rina Kent - 32

32

I throw my helmet against the bench and fall onto the seat that has seen me more often than not during this game.

One more penalty, and the coach will bench me.

He’s been yelling at me nonstop, his face red, sweat trickling down his temples despite the ice cold. Chances are, I’ll give him a stroke.

Fuck him.

And the referee.

And this entire goddamn game.

I chug a whole bottle of water, breathing heavily, my heart nearly dislodging itself from its confinement.

I despise the penalty box. Fucking hate it.

I should be out there crushing bones and breaking some unfortunate souls beneath my skates. But here I am, motionless like a caged animal.

Without purpose.

And all I can do is watch the guys try to keep up with the Warriors’ brutal power play.

Preston speeds to the attack, his agile movements eradicating the defense.

Thud .

I jump up, banging on the barrier as Preston hits the ice.

The crowd erupts in a loud “Ahhh” as Preston remains down after being checked violently by Number 25—the one I beat the crap out of earlier because he keeps fucking targeting Preston.

Yeah, I’m sure Pres said some shit to provoke him at the start of the game, but he’s been a raging fucking bitch who needs to be put in his place.

I’m going to twist his motherfucking neck before I’m benched for good in this clusterfuck game.

Preston stands up with the help of Kane and a couple others, but he removes his helmet and has to be checked by the doctor. Blood trails down the corner of his mouth, and he grins at me, holding two thumbs-up, because Number 25 got five minutes in the box.

Fucking prick seems to be suicidal lately.

I hate that he’s willing to get hurt just to gain a power play or to send someone on the opposing team to the box whenever I’m there.

I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Pres, and I don’t have the capacity to check on him as often as I should, considering my own goddamn fucked-up situation.

Ever since that nightmarish dinner a few days ago, I’ve been spiraling. I know I have, because no amount of violence, various Vencor missions, or even killing on behalf of the Members has managed to fill this black hole inside me.

If anything, it’s been widening and deepening at an alarming rate. The demons have gotten louder, demanding more blood, more crushed bones, and more empty eyes.

Just more .

Hockey used to be enough to calm this rage that’s been consuming me since I was young, but now it’s just a scratch on the surface of madness .

A drop of water after years of thirst.

And it’s fucking with my head, because I don’t know how to end it.

I considered killing Regis and even Julian. It’d do the world good if I wiped them both from the face of the earth, so they’d stop talking nonsense about my mother.

But then Lucia gave me a flash drive after being instructed by Regis.

My father wanted me to watch memories of what my mother did to me, and I chose to erase them from my head.

Ignore them.

The attempted drowning. The attempted suffocation. The attempted poisoning—that I didn’t even know about.

Regis documented the security footage in full detail, forcing me to see the empty look in Mom’s eyes when she did all of that to me.

He forced me to see him, and sometimes, Julian, come to the rescue every single time, because, according to Lucia, Regis always watched her or had someone watch on his behalf.

Apparently, he didn’t trust that Mom wouldn’t hurt me.

Fuck Regis. Fuck him and the letter.

For a while, I was in denial and convinced myself that he’d faked it.

Every single goddamn word in it.

That’s not a stretch.

It wouldn’t have been hard for him or Julian to have one of their close-knit bands of ‘experts’ fake my mother’s handwriting.

But the more I read it, the weaker my convictions got.

Unlike what I told Violet that day as we left that horror house .

“It’s not true. They’re both lying,” I said as we stopped by my bike.

She hugged me, her arms unsteady, her body trembling slightly against me, her breathing heavy on my chest.

And I couldn’t hug her back.

Because why the fuck would she feel sorry for me?

It was rage, I suppose. Not only at myself, but at her for whispering, “It’s okay if it hurts. I’m here for you.”

No one’s ever been there for me.

Not even the one person who I thought loved me unconditionally.

Definitely not Regis, despite his warped sense of grandiosity about saving me.

He still tortured me for Vencor, still was absent and had not one ounce of fatherly affection for me. My mother might have been mentally unwell, but she loved me and doted on me when she was herself.

Regis can say whatever the fuck he wants, but I’ve always been the spare to Julian’s genius—and a family like ours need spares.

So Violet saying those words while hugging me grated on my last nerve.

I pushed her away and shook her by the shoulders. “How long are you going to continue being naïve, Violet? You’re supposed to be enraged and feel wronged that I targeted you and made your life fucking hell for witnessing a murder that turned out to be a suicide. You’re supposed to slap and punch me and call me a fucking piece of shit.”

She had tears in her eyes, shiny droplets that shimmered under the driveway’s lights. When she opened her mouth, a low whisper escaped her. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what the fuck do you want? ”

“For you to process your pain, Jude. I’ve been learning a lot about unprocessed trauma lately, and while I don’t claim to be an expert, I know the first step to dealing with it is accepting it.”

“Shut the fuck up.” I sidestepped her. “You know nothing about my life, so don’t bring your hopeless idealism into this equation just because you learned some fancy psychological garbage.”

“That’s not⁠—”

I drove away before she could finish her sentence. Seeing her gentle expression and feeling how goddamn forgiving she is made me even more enraged at myself.

Because that made me think I could’ve met her under different circumstances. Like after that time she gave me her blue umbrella and protein bar, whispering, “Stay strong.”

But we didn’t start like that.

I stalked her.

Invaded her privacy.

I killed a man right before her eyes to terrorize her.

I pushed her far enough that she chose a coma and the possibility of death instead of me.

And no matter how much I’ve liked to gloss over those facts these last couple of weeks, nothing can erase them.

And now, I’ve found out the reason I did all of that was a lie all this time.

Violet didn’t ask for any of this.

And yet she got me as her fucking grim reaper.

I lift my head to the stands, searching for her fiery hair and bright-blue eyes, but I only see Dahlia and her former roommate. Both are wearing Vipers jerseys and cheering the team on.

Not sure why I was expecting to see Violet up there when this is the fifth time I’ve checked .

Fine. Tenth.

Why would she even come to watch the game when I’ve ghosted her since that night?

Yes, I made sure her bodyguard escorted her home safely, and he’s always keeping an eye on her, but I haven’t dropped by the penthouse since.

I’ve been busy slashing faces open and pretending they’re Regis’s.

The first few days, Violet texted me.

Are you okay?

You probably need time to deal with this, so I shouldn’t bother you, but I wanted to check in just in case you need someone to talk to.

It doesn’t have to be me. Kane and Preston would also listen, right?

I’m sorry you had to find out about your mother’s suicide that way. I know it must’ve hurt, but it’s not your fault.

Isn’t it strange that you used to tell me that about my own mother, and now I’m saying it to you? I guess we’re really alike in that regard. Preston said the three of us should form the Mommy Issues Club.

Jokes aside, I’m starting to unravel my past now that I’ve accepted that it’s not my fault. Sometimes, it’s hard, and Mama still appears in my nightmares, calling me names, but it’s better than before I met you. In a sense, your telling me it’s not my fault or I’m not my mom helped open my perspective, and it’s part of the reason why I’m in therapy. Aside from being able to afford it now, of course. So I’m truly thankful for that, Jude. I know we haven’t known each other for a long time, and what we have is just physical, so I’m probably overstepping, but I wanted to say that your mother’s illness or choices are not your fault. It’s not hers either, because she was obviously struggling and battling her own head, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the victim.

Can you text me back to say that you’re okay? I promise I’ll stop bothering you. Preston says you’re living your best life, but I feel like he jokes about everything.

All right, then. I guess this is it.

She sent that last text three days ago.

Then she completely stopped contacting me. Not that I wanted her to, but the last text’s tone keeps bugging me.

What does ‘this is it’ mean? Does she think I’ll ever let her go?

Fuck that.

It doesn’t matter what I unveil about my past or the lies I painted for myself; Violet will certainly not stop being a part of my life.

I just need to stay away from her while I’m in this enraged murderous mood. I like to think I wouldn’t hurt her, but I’ve also never felt this fucking attached to a person before.

So goddamn gone that the past week felt like fucking torture.

It’s part of the reason why I’m slipping back into old habits with this game and embracing aimless fucking violence.

The moment I’m unleashed from the box, I go back to hitting people and picking fights, pumped by the crowd buzzing and the shouts and bangs that echo in the rink.

It’s like a hit of a potent drug. The only problem is that the high only lasts a few minutes.

Seconds, even.

And then I’m back to that fucking itch of wanting more and more.

Fucking more .

I end up committing another penalty, and the coach benches me while cursing and shouting.

We end up losing.

Despite Kane’s, Preston’s, and the rest of the team’s efforts to hold the fort, I fucked it up to a degree of epic proportions, and now everyone else has to suffer the same prickly mood I’m in.

Coach Slater pulls me aside to give me a piece of his mind and reminds me that my father won’t be pleased by what he calls ‘the worst game of your entire career.’

Fuck my father.

If he wanted the perfect hockey season and all the bragging rights that come with it, maybe he shouldn’t have shown me the letter or the security footage.

He should’ve pulled a Julian and left me ignorant for the rest of my life. It would’ve been convenient for him, me, and the whole world.

But no, he had to make me doubt my relationship with my mom.

Julian said that all these years, Regis has really loathed that I’ve held her on a pedestal while he’s been labeled as Lucifer in my head.

So if I can never develop any affection for my father, then he’d rather taint any affection I had for my mother, too .

He’s always been the cruelest motherfucker.

Whenever I liked something or got attached to someone, he’d show me the hard way that people like us don’t get attached. Everything is a transaction, including interpersonal relationships.

He only approves of Kane and Preston because they’re part of our world and understand the meaning of the legacy we need to uphold.

After I listen to the coach blabbering about how I’m actually a superb player but let violence take over, and I should be more mindful of the team I dragged down with me tonight, I leave the arena, my phone in hand.

Me

Where is she?

Larson

At home.

When did she get there?

A few hours ago. After dropping by Stantonville.

Larson said that Violet went to HAVEN, probably to check on Laura and her kid, because Violet doesn’t forget about people. For instance, she still visits Mario all the time and even talks to him. According to her, “You never know. He could be listening. I want to keep him company.”

One time, she said her online embroidery sales were doing well, but instead of spending that money on herself, she bought a shit ton of stuff for Laura’s daughter.

Even with Larson around, I still don’t like her going to that grimy place.

A weight slams against my back, and I grunt, losing my balance.

Preston jumps in front of me, grinning. “Drive me home. ”

“I’m not your fucking chauffeur.”

“You should be whatever the fuck I want, considering you screwed us up tonight, and now we’re behind the Wolves.”

“Do I play hockey just to beat the Wolves?”

“Why else would you? They’re the most annoying motherfuckers and need to go down.” He smiles again. “Anyway, I’m coming with you.”

He walks beside me, completely ignoring my attempts to push him away.

“What a fucking shame that despite my sacrifices and my busted lip and provocations that will add more enemies to my bucket list, your lousy penalties axed us.”

“Stop being dramatic.” I shove him toward his car. “You would’ve been provocative anyway.”

“True, but I wouldn’t do this.” He taps the corner of his lip. “My precious looks are stained because of you, so you better make it up to me by telling me what the fuck got your panties in a twist, big man.”

“Just get out of my sight, Pres.”

“Nah.” He steps into my space. “You haven’t been yourself, and Vee keeps asking if you’re okay. And you’re totally avoiding her. What have you done?”

“Why do you think I did something?”

“Because she’s kind and sweet and would never hurt a fly. Can’t say the same thing about you.”

“Whose friend are you?”

“Yours, of course, which is why I call you out on your bullshit.” He grins. “Come on, tell me about it all over a drink?”

I don’t want to.

But I do need to talk to someone, though Preston is not the best choice. He’ll clown around and say ‘Called it’ about my mom being off and my whole obsession with revenge being weird.

“I have a better idea!” Preston taps me on the shoulder. “We cockblock Kane and make him cook us something, and then you can at least receive the sane bullshit advice. Deal? I’m glad you agree, deal!”

I shake my head, but I slide into his car’s driver seat as he blasts some godawful loud music and starts singing off-key.

What a nuisance.

But at least maybe after I talk to the guys, I’ll be able to face Violet properly.