Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

bounce off her lips. “Especially Callum Ames.”
Her expression is unreadable, unchanging, but her chest moves up and
down harder but not faster. Like she’s feeling things but not angry.
“He’s going to cheat on you,” I point out. “Because women like you are
displayed. A statue will never be good for anything else.”
Water pools in her eyes, the blue looking like jewels, and I falter.
What the hell am I doing? This is the kind of shit she would say. I’m
sinking to her level. This kind of behavior makes my world smaller, and I’m
never cruel.
I catch sight of her wrists, still by her head, on the grass. The tattoo I saw
the other day peeks out between her fingers.
An inch. That’s what it looks like. Five lines, two of them smaller,
looking like the quarter inch marks on a ruler. She hides the tattoo well
enough that most people won’t notice it, but not so well that she never sees it.
It’s important only to her.
What does it mean?
But then, she closes her fist, hiding it again.
I meet her eyes. What few tears she might’ve had there are now gone, and
so is my fight. I don’t give a shit what’s underneath her layers. We all have
problems and don’t treat people like dogs, and I’m not giving Clay Collins
the power to change me. I won’t let her make me cruel.
Maybe I was an asshole just now, but she’ll always be one.
I climb to my feet, grabbing my stick off the ground and wipe the water
off my face. Without a word, I head off the field.
Heading past the bleachers, I pull out my key ring again, unlocking the
women’s locker room door. Staying late and coming in on weekends and
vacations to sew costumes and build sets has its perks.
I stalk through the room, open another door, and step into the school
hallway, my shoes squeaking against the terracotta tile. I pass the courtyard,
rain hitting the palms and flower beds and splashing off the stone benches. I
veer left toward the theater and just then, I hear the locker room door swing
open again, down the hall right behind me.
Jesus Christ. She hasn’t had enough, I guess.
Diving into the theater, I climb up on the stage and head behind the
curtain, down to the dressing rooms. I pull open the wardrobe in the hallway,
seeing discontinued sets of school sweats and T-shirts sitting folded on the
shelves. The theater director keeps the never-been-used, out-of-date