Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

“Olivia?” I hear the leather seat grind under her weight as she sits up.
She reaches for me, but I pull away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done
this. This was wrong.”
I don’t know why it’s wrong. It feels good. Clay probably let that jackass
fuck her, and I know she doesn’t love him, so why do I feel guilty?
Megan moves in closer. “Are you okay?”
But I swing open the door and climb out. “It’s not your fault,” I tell her,
but I can’t get away from her fast enough. “I’ll see you at school.”
And I leave the door open for her, quickly escaping back into Mariette’s.
The embarrassment settles over me of what she must think, but there’s
nothing I can do about it. She won’t talk. I’m a student—and still technically
a minor. I’m safe.
I slip into the employee restroom on the opposite wall to wash my hands
and splash some water on my face, yanking two paper towels out of the
dispenser.
I hold my eyes in the mirror as a tornado whirls around me that I can’t
seem to stop. Have some damn control. You’re better than this.
It’s just the pressure. The play and college and Clay… Lots at once.
And Callum. I’m just tired of taking it.
I swing open the door and walk through the kitchen, into the restaurant
and around the divider. I stop at Callum’s table, Becks and Krisjen sitting in
the booth opposite of him and Milo. There’s a round of sodas in front of
everyone, and a basket of fries in the middle.
“You’re not welcome here,” I remind them calmly. “Not in the Bay.”
They know this.
Callum looks up, a gleam in his eyes as he cocks his head. “We just want
to eat,” he tells me. “I hear your Cuban sandwich is the best around.”
“Mariette?” I call out, pulling my blade out of my back pocket and
leaving it sheathed at my side. “This table wants their order to go.”
Callum’s eyes drop to the switchblade, trying to hold back his smile. “I
would think you’d like to see more business in your neighborhood.” He
sighs. “I would think my understudy would be more grateful.”
Oh, yes. I’m grateful for the scraps. Thanks for reminding me that nothing
good comes unless by the good graces of the rich and beautiful.
“If it were up to me, you’d have the part,” he taunts. “If it were up to me.”
And his meaning isn’t lost. It’s not up to him. It’s up to me and whether I
use that key.