Page 39 of Rawest Venom

Game on.

Over a somber and almost silent limousine ride over, we reach downtown Varingo as Jane stares up through the windows at the city’s vast skylines. Eyes filled with wonder, she steps out of the car and lets her head drop back to take in the grand hall in front of us.

Entering the Lyrical Opera House, Jane gasps at the majesty of the main foyer. Carved marble columns as thick as elephant legs reaching three stories high line either side with red-carpeted staircases between each, leading up to the mezzanine. Echoing every step we take, the glistening black and white tiled floors lead to the back of the room, where a concierge awaits, waving us toward the upstairs with a suited arm.

“There’s no one here,” Jane whispers into my shoulder.

Clutching her hand and placing it in the crook ofmy elbow, we follow our guide. “Nah, I thought we could use a private show from my box.”

Almost tripping on the runner, she thrusts her hand in front of her, but I instinctively catch her, helping her upright. “Y-you bought the show?”

Pressing my lips onto the top of her head, I say, “And the company.”

“For tonight?” Her gasp echoes in the empty hall.

“For you.” Smiling down at her, I say, “Hope you like your gift.”

Once we reach the second level, a waitress hands us some champagne, which we down before heading inside the theater. Settling inside my box, Jane’s head swivels around, taking in the seats, the curtains, the stage, everything. The concierge taps me on the shoulder, and I give the nod that we’re ready as the orchestra strikes its first dramatic chord.

Jane’s jaw drops as she leans forward in her seat.

Over the next two hours, I watch the music on her face instead of the dance below us. Basking in that Unnamed, observing the realness in her reactions, was the best vacation I could have asked for. It’s a feeling I never want to part from.

“You didn’t see the show!” she says as the candelabras light up the booth when the final curtain draws.

"I saw a much more entertaining one,” I say, dragging a finger across her cheek.

Exiting the Opera House, the wind whips her hair around and she grabs her arms with her hands, rubbing them. Shirking off my coat, I place it around her exposed freckled shoulders, and her lashes blinkbashfully as she smiles up at me, tugging the fabric tighter around her waist. Throwing my arm around her, I lead us to the limousine waiting to escort us to the restaurant.

“You’ve thought of everything, Cal,” she says as she slides onto the cushioned seat inside.

“I told you, I’m sorry. This is my way of trying to make things up to you.”

Without me even doing a thing, she smooths her palm across my thigh and threads her cold fingers through mine and squeezes. Warming her hand between mine, I bring them up to my mouth and kiss each tip. Even in the darkness, her cheeks flush bright with color.

In a few short blocks, the car pulls over, and I help my date out, walking down a darkened brick alley side by side. Jane stiffens underneath my tuxedo jacket, but I continue to guide her with a hand on her back. Halfway down is a black wooden door, and once I knock, it opens immediately, the waiter nodding at me before leading us to a private dining room near the kitchen.

Blue velvet walls and silver brocade accents outfit the place, just for me. A cushioned U-shaped booth surrounds a whitewashed table in an alcove, the table set for two with a single globe candle providing a romantic glow.

“Cal! This is all just too much.” Pulling my jacket off her shoulders, I hand it to the waiter, who hangs it on a hook near the door.

“Pierre has prepared the menu you requested, sir. I’ll have your wine out shortly.”

“Thank you, Matt.” Unnoticeably, I slip him a few thousand dollars. He smiles at me with his deep-setbrown eyes, then slides out of the side door toward the staff area.

“Don’t worry, I’ll have the chef prepare something you would actually enjoy,” I tell her, taking a sip of my water with a small smile.

“What would I actually enjoy?”

“You seem like a steak and potatoes kinda gal to me. Are you not?”

Her smile falters as she stares at the table. “I really don’t know what kind of ‘gal’ I am.” Gathering herself, she peeks up at me. “But I’m pretty sure I like steak.”

Once our first course arrives, we settle into discussing Skee-ball strategies in a comically heated debate. By the main (mine vegan, hers a perfectly seared filet), we’ve moved on to discuss video games and the ballet. The topics covered are easy, Jane freely talking with opinions so sure, I want to revel in each one. Then combat it, just so she will get that fire in her eyes that comes about when she’s ready to explode.

Observing her eat is some type of slow torture and a test of my ultimate self-control. Each time she puts her fork in her mouth, her lips wrapping around the metal tines, I get a tinge of envy. Who gets jealous of a fork?

My dick, that’s who.

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