Page 13 of Sweet Venom
I wipe the counter absentmindedly, my rag catching on a deep scratch in the wood, one of many scars from years of slamming glasses and flying fists. Their voices push their way in, seeping into the cracks of my mind like smoke.
A glass thuds against the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, spilling beer where I just wiped. “Jesus Christ, Callahan’s at it again.”
“Cheap shot on the back-check?” another guy grunts.
“Nah, worse. Laid that poor bastard out with a reverse hit. Kid never saw it coming.”
“That’s Callahan for you,” another man mutters, shaking his head. “Most violent bastard in the league aside from our own Osborn.”
My ears perk up at Marcus Osborn’s name. He’s one of Dahlia’s useless exes, and I’m glad she only stayed with him for two weeks before realizing he’s a can of worms she shouldn’t go near.
I’ve always wished I could be as assertive as Dahlia in the way she treats men. She loves danger and having fun, but she also doesn’t hesitate to throw them away the moment she gets bored. Which is what she did to Marcus.
He’s still a hockey god in this town, and even someone like me knows he’s the Wolves’ captain and Stantonville’s pride. So to hear one of the regulars compare someone else to him in the form of praise is rare.
I glance up just as the instant replay rolls. The Callahan everyone’s talking about plays for the Vipers, the team from the neighboring affluent town, Graystone Ridge.
No way.
My fingers clench around the rag as he stands there, his large physique and the glare I’ve had nightmares about on full display.
The replay shows him skating at supersonic speed, but he doesn’t chase the puck—he’s tailing the other player like a predator timing his strike. The other team’s forward barely turns his head before Callahan plants his skates, shifts his weight, and slams into him with the force of a car crash. The guy crumples, chest first, against the boards, his stick clattering to the ice.
A collective wince ripples through everyone watching the game.
I can’t stop staring at the screen, held captive by the scene as my heartbeat thuds against my rib cage.
Callahan—Jude, judging by the banner that appears on the screen—isn’t celebrating or even looking back at the wreckage he left behind. He just skates away, his jaw tight, his eyes empty under the harsh lights of the rink.
The same dark eyes that peered into my soul last night and filled my nightmares.
My stalker has a name and it’s Jude Callahan.
But that’s not what sends bile up my throat, forcing me to rush to the toilet, my eyes watering, my knees shaking, and vomit filling my mouth.
He…couldn’t have been related to Susie Callahan, right?
The woman who was killed right before my eyes, and I couldn’t do anythingto stop it.
4
JUDE
The end of the unofficial summer skate leaves me with…nothing.
Just another flare of violence.
Another burst of light.
But then it’s all done.
And I’m back to square one.
Violent-less. With these goddamn urges still coursing through my veins with the blood.
Slipping beneath every ridge of tense muscle, every scar, tattoo, and godforsaken memory.
The shower is scalding, but it does nothing to burn off the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins. My muscles ache in that raw way that should imply I left everything on the ice.
