Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

that years ago when I first met her, had a crush, and couldn’t stop thinking
about her.
And she’s cruel. I know that plain as day now. I can’t even begin to
contemplate what the hell my subconscious is thinking, but hate-fucking Clay
Collins would be even less fun than bathing in lava.
You’d think with a local suicide that was probably the result of bullying,
Clay Collins would back off. Alli Carpenter is dead. A queer girl who’d had
enough.
Is that what Clay wants? What is her problem?
Picking up my phone, I check my social media, seeing I picked up a few
new followers on Twitter.
I run across a trending tweet by Rev. John J. Williamson condemning a
young, new senator who happens to be homosexual. I shake my head,
appeased by the comments on the thread condemning him instead. These
guys are always the ones caught in motel rooms with fifteen-year-old boys.
Prick. I retweet, punching out the caption I hope your daughters grow up
and have wives, and hit Send, and then I check texts.
One from Becks. Call me.
I don’t talk on the phone. I text.
Another from Jonasy, Trace’s ex, who thinks maintaining a relationship
with the family will get her back into his bed. A new vintage shop opened in
Little Cuba. Come with me!
Nope. When did she ever get the impression that I like vintage clothes? I
might love wearing Macon’s old motorcycle jacket with holes in the lining
from when he was fifteen, but I’m pretty sure old does not equal quaint.
I toss the phone onto the bed and hop up, stretching and then pulling my
hair free of my low ponytail, shaking out my hair.
“No!” I hear a bellow outside my door and twist my head to the sound.
“Give it back now!”
I groan, closing my eyes and let my head fall back. Trace and Dallas.
Twenty and twenty-one respectively, they were the youngest boys in the
family, but still older than me. You wouldn’t really know it, though, based on
their behavior.
“It’s too fucking early!” Dallas shouts back.
Then I hear squeaks against the hardwood floor, heavy footsteps, and
then…a thud shakes the house, the shelves on my wall rattle, and my copy
containing all of Henrik Ibsen’s plays plummets to the ground. Another thud,