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)
The men she chooses are . . . not good men, and yet, she wants me with Rocky so badly.
The obstinate pieces of me resist her advice to go after him. She once told me, “He’s so cute, bug. Look at him. I think he likes you, too.”
“I don’t like him,” I lied.
I trust my mom completely, but when it comes to which men I should be with, it’s about the only advice I dump in the garbage can.
I feel myself resisting the draw toward him, but Rocky turns his head away first.
He hasn’t made a move on me outside of a con, and I doubt he ever will.
I’m numb as I exit the elevator, floating into a great, endless nothingness.
Eight
Phoebe
NOW
Step One: Find a place to live
Step Two: Get a real job
With step one complete, I focus on the next part of our plan to live honestly. This isn’t a temporary life that I can ditch tomorrow and erase for good. This is supposed to be a permanent thing—a part of my career résumé that I can build upon. Permanence. It’s definitely new for me.
I’ve never had a normal paycheck.
Don’t have a social security number.
Never passed a driver’s test to get a license.
If I even have a real birth certificate, my mom hasn’t showed me. I understood, even at a young age, that having paperwork means being tied to something—to someone.
We can do this.
I breathe in the encouragement as Hailey and I walk into a five-story, white brick mansion near the New England coast. Thanks to being spritzed by the sprinklers outside, my heeled boots squeak on the marble floors. The manicured green lawns and freshly planted peonies all scream, Country club!
The squeaking I’m making screams, Outsider!
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, trying to tiptoe like an idiot. I feel like the Grinch coming to steal Christmas from the residents of Victoria—which shouldn’t be the case. I’m not here to steal.
So why do I feel like I’m up to no good?
“You’re fine,” Hailey consoles, her fair face seeming bare without the heavy dark eye shadow and black lipstick. Though, she’s still wearing eyeliner. “You’re not supposed to be prim and proper.”
“I’m just supposed to be me.” I try to scrape wet grass off my boot and onto the marble. Under my breath, I add, “The only problem is being me means being a liar.” I am a liar. I am a deceiver. These things have been ingrained deep inside me, and they don’t just go away with the snap of a finger.
Hailey sends me an encouraging look. “We’re working on that part.”
I’m supposed to learn how to be better. Be good and truthful. Not sure how to do that without ripping parts of my personality away.
For Hailey, I remind myself.
The two words might as well be branded on my heart.
I’m trying to make this work for Hailey.
I won’t screw up.
She scours the empty rotunda for an employee, and I twirl around and take in the glamorous surroundings. Through big, spotless windows, I see the wraparound porch with cushioned rocking chairs and an impressive golf course. Victoria Country Club also has an Olympic-sized pool. It kinda sucks we can’t go sunbathe and drink piña coladas all afternoon.
Hailey glances at her Betty Boop watch face. “I swear the orientation was supposed to be at nine.” Her natural-brown brows furrow like she’s struggling with getting a fact wrong.
“Katherine is probably late.” I help myself to a beverage from a refreshment cart. Cucumbers float in a water jug, and I fill up a polished glass.
Hailey browses a table of magazines.
I squeeze at her side. “Oooh, Celebrity Crush.” I grab the gossip rag and sip my cucumber water.
“I don’t know how you can read that.” She’s already flipping through a National Geographic History magazine titled, “Hellraiser: The Hideous History of Satan.” “Maybe two percent is actually true.”
She’s not wrong. “But even though people know ninety-eight percent is likely garbage, they can’t help themselves and want to believe it’s true,” I tell her, flipping the page. “I’m one of those people when it comes to celebrities, Hails. I want to believe my favorite boy bander is dating my favorite actress. Aren’t they cute?” I flash a photo of the alleged couple shopping at the Grove in L.A.
Hailey has the best deadpan expression. “It’s staged.”
I examine the photo. “Even if it’s pretend love, it’s way more of an exciting love story than the boring girl-meets-boy, girl-dates-boy, girl-marries-boy. I like twists. Girl-realizes-boy-sucks, girl-dates-girl. Or girl-hates-boy, girl-sleeps-with-boy.”
“Girl-pretend-loves-boy?” Hailey questions. “Boy-pretend-loves-girl?”
“Exactly.”
She looks up from her magazine. “Sounds more like you and my brother.”
I try not to tense. “No, what I have with Rocky is diabolical love.” I turn a page. “Two stubborn hotheads imploding at the same time.”
“A proven bad combo,” Hailey concludes while skimming the National Geographic with interest.
It shouldn’t hurt hearing her say that, but my stomach clenches.