Page 3 of Venomous Kiss
Honestly, I wonder if it was lust at first sight.
He smiled that perfect white teeth smile and spoke to me one night. He’s a smooth-talker, Deven. I guess that’s how he got his job as a radio host. I never dreamed I would be with someone like him, someone so clean cut, who seems to have their life so put together, or at least I thought so, but he kept coming into the office every day and talking to me.
And he grew on me.
I’m not sure I’ve ever had a type, but if I did, it more than likely would not be him.
After a week of him coming in every day, he asked me out for coffee.
I said no.
The following week, he tried again.
That time, I said yes.
What could it hurt, right?
Wrong!
The difference between Deven and me is one of us is more fucked-up than the other.
And it’s not him.
He doesn’t know how to repair or even deal with my broken pieces, and that’s okay. I never asked him to. The first time I opened up to him, just shortly after we were married, I described some of the dark thoughts and feelings living inside me. But instead of freaking out like I thought he would, he told me it was something I could overcome with professional help.
What a naïve little man.
Lately, though, he has been looking at me differently.
Can he see that the glass box I trapped myself in when I agreed to marry him would someday start cracking?
Deven thinks I see a therapist. But in reality, my so-called appointments are just me sitting by myself in a bar. Drinking. Not enough that it makes me intoxicated.
I have a glass of vodka, people-watch, and imagine all the ways I could kill them.
Except for the one man who is always there.
I watch him the most.
Tall, dark, and handsome. I never really understood that expression until I saw him. If God had created the perfect specimen, who was dark and stormy, it would have been him.
I’ve never spoken a word to him, and I never intend to—I am a married woman, after all.
And no matter how fucked-up my head is, I will never cheat.
Climbing out of the car, I check my watch. I’m home from work two hours earlier than expected, but I’ve been sitting in my car for at least an hour.
After locking it, I walk to the front door, my heels stabbing into the perfectly manicured grass that Deven works tirelessly on.
I hate the grass.
The only place that should have grass is a cemetery.
Opening the door, I step inside and try to think of a good excuse for why I’m already home. Perhaps I should explain to Deven that I quit and told the boss to go fuck himself. No, I need something better than that. Something… acceptable. My husband doesn’t want to hear that all I wanted to do was stab Carol from HR on my way out. Though I know he sees that in me already, so why do I care so much?
Pushing my copper-colored hair out of my face, I kick my heels off so they don’t dirty the perfect white floors of our perfect two-story house, then hang my handbag on the hook near the door.
As I continue to walk through the house, I hear his voice floating in through the patio doors, and I instantly know exactly where he is. His favorite thing about this house is the backyard—it’s his happy place, a place where he relaxes. He is always swimming in that pool he had built, claiming it’s part of his workout routine.
