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)
You wish.
“Not today.” I slip back into the masses and check my watch.
It’s been ten minutes.
What the fucking fuck.
Why can’t I find her?
Why am I still looking for her?
She’s probably in some back room getting dicked down. I comb a rough hand through my hair. No. I’m not letting those unwanted, puke-inducing thoughts raid my brain.
I pass more bodies, the age range about twenties to early thirties. A mixture of locals, college students (haven’t warmed up to calling them caufers yet), and skunks.
Then there’s me. I’m something else. A snake that’s found a crack in the foundation, slithering my way inside.
No one hired a bartender, but the booze is flowing. It’s an informal party, held by the girl with blonde waves and a perpetual wince. “Really, Karl?” she keeps saying. “Were you raised in a barn?”
Her friend oinks, and laughter follows.
Hilarious.
I shift further through the house and overhear a couple girls chatting by a large Murano glass vase. “Jake was supposed to be here tonight, but he got a call from his mom.”
His name sends obnoxious smoke signals to my head. He’s the last person I want to think about right now, and I’m about to walk away when I hear, “I’m surprised he doesn’t loathe her. She treats him like her errand boy compared to his other brothers—”
The host of the party suddenly rounds this way with extreme worry. “Get away from the vase.” Her eyes pinpoint to the fragile Murano glass near the girls.
I take my cue to leave this area.
As I make my way around the house, I gather her father loves Italy. He’s either traveled there frequently, is Italian, or just has an admiration for the country. Or maybe it’s all three. Most of the artworks on the walls are Italian painters. I recognize Caravaggio’s realism and dramatic contrast of light and dark. And instead of hanging family pictures, the boathouse owner framed landscapes of Venice. I walk past photos of the canals and the Bridge of Sighs.
Houses say a lot about people.
Yet, the more information I’m collecting, the more a grating sensation rubs me raw. She’s fucking someone right now.
Yeah, I am a thousand percent distracted. Not only from learning more about the people in this town but from getting laid, too. Can’t even be shocked that Phoebe is a mental disruption. She’s been a jackhammer carving out a chunk inside me since we were kids, and I couldn’t excise her.
Mostly because I never wanted to.
Why would I evict the one person who I trust more than anyone else in this dog-eat-dog world? I never need to put on a false pretense with Phoebe, and where most people probably couldn’t stomach who I really am, she always could.
I weave and slip around college students. One drunker guy in a Caufield Lacrosse tee tries to fill his glass with an empty bottle of Absolut. He rattles the bottle like more will magically appear.
The liquor cabinet is nearby, and I pluck a full bottle of Grey Goose from the half-empty shelf. I hand it over. “Here.”
He sees and immediately grins. “Thanks, man.” He pats my shoulder and pours the liquor.
“Hey, we’re about to run out of beer,” I tell him. “I’m collecting some funds to grab some more.”
“Yeahyeah. No problem.” He sets down his glass and takes out his wallet. I watch him fish out a couple hundreds and absentmindedly give them to me.
“Thanks, bro.” I pat his arm like he did me and slip back into the crowd. It feels as easy as breathing. Asking for money. Having people give it to me.
Sliding the cash into my back pocket, I decide to return to the rooftop. To look for Phoebe. I’m not deluding myself. I know that’s what I’m fucking doing.
Chatter disturbs any semblance of quiet up here, and then a high-pitched scream pierces the night: “Collin!”
Collin Falcone backflips off the rooftop and splashes into the bay. His friends strip buck naked and join him. Others start goading women to do the same. Bras fly, then panties.
Under the moonlight, more people begin skinny-dipping.
A blonde girl slinks into my line of sight. She tries to steal my attention as her fingers toy with the strap of her deep red bra.
Sidney Burke.
Nineteen-year-old Caufield student majoring in Economics.
Daughter of Weston Burke, a widower and prominent member of Victoria Country Club. Also known as the fucking prick who acts like Phoebe is his on-call escort.
And oh yeah, we hate each other. Publicly.
Gossip is currency in small towns, and my stock shot down after pissing off Weston. Not that I care. As long as I’m not banned from the club and these social circles, I’d rather make an enemy out of him. I’ve walked more dangerous lines.
“I heard about you,” Sidney says, trying to draw me back. “I’m Sidney.”
I know.
Being a pawn between a father and a daughter—that’s not my idea of a good time. So if she’s looking for me to fuck her to stick it to her rich daddy, she’ll have to use someone else.