Page 39 of Craving Venom

The guy sighs like I’m the most annoying part of his day, and that’s saying something considering he works at a prison. “Fine. Give me the number, and I’ll check if it’s within our security protocols. If everything checks out, we’ll allow him to make the call. But don’t get your hopes up.”

“Thank you.”

I hang up before he can ask any more questions.

I lied to a prison.

I impersonated someone.

I just committed some kind of crime, probably.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.

But what’s done is done. The message is out there now. Whether Zane gives a fuck or not, that’s up to him.

I stare at the receiver in my hand, half-expecting sirens to wail outside the window, or the phone to explode in my hand, or thunder to crash overhead in divine protest. But nothing happens.

Maybe this was reckless. Maybe it was desperate.

But if it gets Zane to answer me?

Then it’s worth it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE MONSTER

Icross my arms, watching the latest ridiculous attempt at “rehabilitation” unfold in front of me. Some genius up top decided that car repair would be a good therapeutic activity because, yeah, that’s exactly what a bunch of murderers and thieves need. A fucking hobby.

Mark is currently hunched over a rusted-out junker, trying and failing to loosen a bolt. His brows are furrowed, and I can tell by the way his arms flex that he’s putting way too much effort into something that should be simple. The stubborn motherfucker won’t ask for help, though. Not from me.

Fine by me.

“Yeah, real graceful there. You sure you don’t want to take a break? Maybe go cry in the corner for a bit?”

Mark doesn’t even look at me. “Fuck off, Zane.”

“Come on,” I drawl, uncrossing my arms. “I’m just trying to help.”

I roll my shoulders as my mind re-runs against my will to Faith. I’ve been ignoring her. Leaving her messages unread. It’sbetter this way. Who the fuck knows if she’s even who she says she is? For all I know, she could be some thirteen-year-old kid sitting behind a laptop.

But that’s not it.

Something’s different about her.

I shake my head, pushing the thought away, and focus back on Mark, who’s still struggling.

“You want a hand, old man?” I ask, watching as he braces his foot against the car frame for leverage.

Mark finally looks up. “I swear to god, Zane, “ he exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, and turns back to the bolt. “I got it.”

I snort. “Yeah, sure you do.”

The wrench slips again, this time with enough force that Mark nearly falls forward. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as he shoves away from the car, breathing hard. His fingers flex like he’s debating whether to throw the wrench or just punch something.

“You sure you don’t want to ask your mom to come help?” I grin. “Or is she too busy fucking the mailman?”

“You’re a real fucking pain in the ass, you know that?”

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