Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

won’t be performing, but I made the costumes, and Army and Iron like to be
supportive. I quickly check my missed-call list to make sure there’s nothing
from Lambert.
“On the desk,” I tell him.
He steps in and finds tickets for all my brothers. I get one for everyone,
even though only two or three of them ever show up.
I don’t see anything from the theater director about performing tonight. I
would’ve loved it if Callum kept his word, but on the other hand, I’m kind of
glad he’ll now be off my back.
I look up to Army. “You don’t have to come.”
“We want to come.”
I smile coyly. “Dallas doesn’t want to come.”
“Dallas will be a pain in the ass until the day he dies.”
Yeah.
Army plops down next to me, a full head-and-a-half higher than me, and I
don’t bother to strain my neck looking up.
Digging something out of his pocket, he hands me a key on an old ring.
I take it. “What’s this?”
I examine the silver key that looks vaguely familiar.
“Call it Macon’s belated birthday present,” he says.
It takes me a minute, and then I remember. “The Ninja?”
The bike he bought when he was in the Marines and had only himself to
support. He hasn’t driven it in years, though. It’s been in the garage under a
tarp.
“I thought you’d be jumping up and down,” Army says when I don’t
smile or do cartwheels over finally having my own transportation finally.
“When do I ever jump up and down?” But I smile. “Why didn’t he give
this to me himself?”
“Because you know why,” he retorts. “And don’t thank him. He’ll just get
pissy about it.”
I chuckle as he slides off the bed. I’m pretty sure he’s right.
So instead, I tell Army, “Thank you.”
He winks at me and leaves, taking tonight’s tickets with him.
I stare at the key—my key to my very own bike—remembering what
Clay felt like hanging on to me that time she rode with me.
My phone rings, and for a split second I close my eyes, the urge to answer
too much to deny.