Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

The truth is…there’s no point to any of this. If being a lifelong Catholic
school girl has taught me anything, the idea of heaven is as much of an
abhorrence as the idea of hell. Who the fuck wants to be in church forever?
My mother has her shopping and her all-too-important schedule, and my
father has another woman, both of them running as fast as they can from
themselves, because they now realize there’s no point in denying the sins that
keep you feeling alive.
I stalk down the nearly empty row, drop my bag, and look at her. She
turns her head, sees me and rises, grabbing her backpack, but I slide into the
seat, grab her wrist, and yank her ass back down.
“Sit,” I growl through my teeth, feeling heat rise up my neck as she
crashes back into the wooden pew, her jaw flexing.
There’s no point in denying myself any of this. I’m a bitch, but only to
her, and only because it feels so good. Fuck it.
“Do something for me?” I ask her, keeping my voice low as students fill
the rows around us, and the altar servers light the candles. “Move your ass a
little faster than my grandmother down the field this Friday, or is that too
much trouble?”
Liv doesn’t look at me, just stares ahead as she lets out a quiet little laugh.
“I haul ass down that field.” Relaxing back into her seat, she hangs her
elbows over the back of the pew, and her shirt creeps up a little. I spot the
switchblade she keeps hooked over the waist of her skirt, but hidden on the
inside, that only I seem to know about. So far anyway. She goes on, “I’ll
never understand how a princess who can’t pass a ball for shit and brags to
anyone who will listen about being a Swiftie,” and she does air quotes,
“‘even before she went pop’ is our team captain. Oh, wait. Yes, I do
understand. Daddy is useful. When he’s there.”
My father didn’t get me that position. She can think what she likes.
But I grin and turn toward the front of the church, my arm brushing hers.
“Swiftie?” I say. “Aw, you stalk my Twitter.”
That was like four years ago when I said that.
But she just mumbles, “I couldn’t care less about your Twitter and your
twenty-eight followers.”
“At least I don’t lose a dozen every day,” I retort.
Yeah, maybe I stalk her Twitter, too. And I don’t have twenty-eight
followers. I don’t have as many as her, but it’s more than twenty-eight.
“The world just doesn’t like tattooed feminazis with hairy armpits,” I tell