Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“Close the fucking door, Trevor,” I tell him like he’s being obtuse, and my brother is many things, but he’s not an idiot.
He hesitates, a phone in the pit of his hand. He’s not in pajamas. Black slacks, snakeskin belt, black button-down with gray swirls and gold buttons—he dresses like an immortal vampire with thousands of years of accumulated wealth.
“I would,” he says, “but I have a problem. And I need your help, Rocky.”
Phoebe rubs her nose, and I can feel that she’s about to break away. So I ask him fast, “It can’t wait?”
“It’s Boyd Delacey. According to his socials, he’s in Connecticut. I think he followed me.”
Shit. I scrape a hand through my hair, and Phoebe inches away, quickly wiping her face. I crave to draw her back, but she speaks to me. “If Boyd tailed him here, he shouldn’t leave the loft.”
Trevor cracks his neck, tension building. “See, this is why I need someone’s help, so I’m not a hostage in this loft.” He turns to me. “You call him. Tell him he won a trip to Bermuda, Bahamas, Antigua—I don’t care. He has to collect it at a port in Miami.”
Phoebe asks, “You think he’ll fall for that? He was already big-time scammed. By you.”
Trevor glares. “Can you tell me something I don’t already know?”
“Phoebe’s right,” I interject. “It takes a certain kind of mark to fall for telephone sweepstakes scams. He’s going to hang up unless you open with something familiar and actually give him the trip.” I’ll have to pretend to be his distant relative. “You want to pay for Boyd’s vacation?”
“Away from me, yes.” Trevor nods. “So you’ll help?”
Do I want to leave Phoebe right now? Fuck no. But if Boyd is already in this state, he might be closer to Victoria than we know.
“Yeah, I’ll help. You have a gun on you? In case he finds you while we aren’t at the loft?”
Trevor reaches in his pocket and displays a switchblade. With the flick of his wrist, the double-edged blade opens from the hilt. “You know I don’t like carrying guns.”
“You should keep mine in the living room,” Phoebe says to me. “Just in case.”
“Where is it?” I ask her.
She points to the top left drawer of her dresser.
I’m closer and reach the thing. It’s in her panty drawer. Of course it is. I shift aside her lacy pink thong, her white panties, baby-blue panties, red mesh lingerie, and as I comb through more and more pastel-colored panties, a new type of heat gathers in my veins.
Frustrated on two counts, I turn my head back to her. “It’s not in here.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Her arms are crossed. “I forgot it’s in the drawer next to it.” She doesn’t hide the subtle lift of her lips, a smile peeking.
I nearly smile back. “You’re so full of shit.”
“Takes a liar to know a liar.”
I do know Phoebe, and I’m not complaining that she led me into digging through her panties. I flip her off while I open the other drawer.
Through the mirror above the dresser, I see her smile growing behind me. I also see it flickering in and out.
The gun is beneath an old journal, the cover faded and creased with a bright pink strawberry on the front. I push aside a pink tin with strawberry-flavored mints and her Strawberry Shortcake pens. Once I have the Glock, I press the release and pull out the magazine. Ten rounds. I push the mag back. It clicks, and slowly, I draw back the slide and check the chamber.
“It’s fully loaded,” I tell my brother, about to hand him the weapon.
“You take it.”
Jesus. “Fine. I’m putting it on the bookshelf behind the fern.” Gun in one hand, I grip the doorframe with the other, and Trevor is gone. But I linger and glance back at Phoebe.
She’s climbing on her bed. Remote in hand, she rewinds some of A Nightmare on Elm Street. As I shut the door behind me, it takes so much in me just to walk fifteen feet away.
Thirty-Six
Rocky
After learning about Carlsbad, one of the last places I want to be tonight is in the back booth of a 24-hour donut-scented breakfast diner—but here I am. The things I do for my brother.
I thought it’d be better to let Phoebe have her loft to herself and not deal with the messiness of a potential stalker there. So I left with Trevor and walked down the street to this local place. It’s taken all of my energy not to peel my ass off this booth, give a finger to Seaside Griddle, and go back to her.
If she’d given me permission, I would’ve been on the first flight to California. Gun in my bag. I would’ve hurt those entitled sick fuckers who hurt her. Made them pay in ways they didn’t. In ways they should’ve.