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)
He laughs.
That’s good. “Everyone else can’t make it out but I thought, Like, this might be a Boyd thing to do. Take a trip at the last second. Seize the moment or whatever. It’s not a cheap cruise either. So you want it or do I need to go ask Randy?” Boyd’s brother.
“No, I’m interested,” he says fast. “Text me the details.”
“Sure, but there’s documents and shit. It’s not easy to text.”
“Okay, email me at . . .” I memorize the address and quickly rush to Hailey’s notebook on the kitchen counter. I jot down his email while we’re saying goodbye.
Once I hang up, Trevor asks, “And?”
“Good chance he’ll take the cruise.”
Trevor eases back against the couch, hands laced on his head like his scrawny ass just completed an Ironman Triathlon with no training. I tell him to rest easy tonight. He thanks me, and as I get ready to leave for the boathouse, I stop at Phoebe’s room.
Her door is ajar, and I peek inside. She’s sound asleep beneath the comforter, her TV off. I battle the urge to wake her and say and do so much more, but I can’t fucking destroy the kind of peace she’s in. So I close the door and go.
Thirty-Seven
Phoebe
Late-morning light filters into my bedroom. I haven’t heard from Rocky since our texts last night, but running a sweepstakes scam on Boyd wouldn’t be a fast task. I don’t have work until this evening, so I’m in no hurry to completely self-eject from the comfort and luxuries of a foam mattress.
I’m not against a sloth-like lounge day, even if I’ve already showered and jumped into jeans, a T-shirt, and a bra—and you know what, maybe I deserve this time to myself. My swollen eyes would agree.
Just me, my bed, and sinister deeds on my TV.
Leaning on the fluffed pillows against my headboard, I scroll through Netflix on the mounted TV, looking for another horror movie to dive into. For some reason, I keep going back to A Nightmare on Elm Street. I didn’t finish it last night.
I’m about to press play, but I glance at my shut door. Is Rocky going to stop by before I leave for work? Or will he just show up later at the country club?
Rocky.
His name causes an onslaught of vivid memories from last night to gush forth, but one thought overtakes every mental image.
He loves me.
My heart swells, but then I remember . . . he won’t ever be with me. Won’t ever sleep with me.
Has anything really changed?
It stings a little, and I try to accept the agreement we’ve had in place for two years. Pining after him—not my favorite hobby. At least speaking about Carlsbad—sharing that night with him—has removed the heaviest weight from my body; this morning, I feel lighter than I have in a while.
I always thought the truth was my ten-ton burden, and I didn’t want anyone else to carry it. Hailey was enough. But I realize that I wasn’t passing weight to Rocky.
He helped throw it off me, catapulting that night into the clouds. Shrouded and out of sight. Floating further and further away. Maybe one day it’ll even begin to fade.
There is no rewinding and altering the bad course of events. Only moving on. Sometimes I believe my job makes it easier to deal with what happened. Pretending to be someone else gives me nice little cupboards to fit horrible nights into. Then again, I wouldn’t have been in that position if it weren’t for my job.
A conundrum of epic proportions.
I raise the volume a little and then sink against the pillows. Settling in to watching the horror movie, I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting to Rocky.
The strong cut of his jaw. How his masculine hands encased my cheekbones. The way he stared into me like I belonged to him. Like he would rip through every circle of hell just to reach me.
I picture his lips dipping toward mine, the warmth of his breath ghosting over me. A rush of heat pricks my body, and a long-built need throbs my pussy.
“Fuck,” I murmur in a frustrated breath. Shifting my legs and arching my back, I’m wrestling with an escalating desire. Honestly, satiating this craving sounds too good to kick away.
I begin to rewrite my reality into a fantasy. I imagine Rocky didn’t run out of the room last night.
Instead, he stayed.
He pushed me down on the mattress where I currently rest. Oxygen jettisoned out of me, and his hands—he planted them on either side of my face. His gaze dripped with deep longing and carnal, filthy need.
Yes.
While I paint this hot visual, pretending he was on top of me, I unzip my jeans and slip my hand below my pink panties. With my other hand, I pat the bed and find the remote. Muting the movie, I tangle up in my thoughts and close my eyes.