Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“Bet you’re used to that,” Vance mutters.
Being used.
Yeah.
I’m the informant, the rat, being used by private security and the cops. But he could be referring to me turning tricks. What used to be a wishy-washy rumor in security about me getting paid for sex is now a full-blown fact thanks to my dad. Bodyguards overheard it while I was wearing a wire, and Oscar told me that it’s spread throughout the whole team.
“Bet you’re used to coming in last place,” I say with less heat. “Don’t know how that feels. Wanna describe it for me?”
I hit a nerve with Vance. His hands tighten on the wheel. Someone doesn’t like being called a loser. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it to me.
“Do you ever shut up?” Vance retorts.
“Nah, it’s a disease. I can give it to you. Maybe you can share something insightful.” I stare out the window. Where the hell are we going? I snap my eyes back to him. “I thought we were headed to Fishtown.” We’re now going towards Villanova, a rich neighborhood where the Crow lives.
They say nothing.
What the fuck…
I go absolutely still, only shifting my gaze. “Not going to Fishtown then,” I mutter. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?” I ask Ian.
“They’re not in Fishtown. We decided to take a detour.”
A detour.
He’s the one who said Eliot would most likely be in that area of Philly because of Frankford Hall, a German beer garden he loves. But it’s not open this late, so I already had my doubts.
“You get a tip or what?” I ask him.
“Just sit back,” Ian says with a side-eye. “Relax. You’re along for the ride. We’ll tell you what you need to know.”
Fuck you, too.
I glance out the window. It might be late but Philly is still alive. Poles are greased. Celebratory chants echo through the old high-rises, and green confetti litters the sidewalks.
Even amid everything, I start to smile.
I love this city.
I will always love this city.
It’ll always be mine.
Ian and Vance start checking on me with short glances. Like they’re expecting me to play Tetras on my phone or watch replays of the game. Instead, I’m keeping track of where the fuck we’re going, and let me just say, it’s nowhere I’d put money on Tom and Eliot being.
We’re now out of Philly.
We’re not even in Villanova.
“Turn here,” Ian whispers to Vance.
We do three loops. We’re making circles. I try not to laugh.
They’re mad. “Shut the fuck up, Donnelly,” Vance snaps.
“Said nothing.” I raise a hand in defense. “You like circles. No shame in the circle game.”
Ian tells his brother, “Ignore him. Just drive.”
I flip my phone in my hand. There’s a five-percent chance Vance is actually lost. I’m not a dummy. They’re trying to get me lost.
But I keep my eyes on them and the highway signs flying by.
“How’d your family’s watch-party go?” I ask them. “Must’ve been hard with your little brother playing for the enemy.” James Wreath is the Bill’s best kicker.
All three Wreath brothers look like classic American-bread football stars. Clean-cut, coifed brown hair, brawny. But only one of them made it to the big leagues.
“I didn’t think you knew shit about that,” Ian says with another glance back at me.
“About your little brother?”
“About our family. That there even was a watch-party.”
I heard about the party on comms. They mentioned it more than once. What’d they think, I had them muted?
“I pay attention,” I say.
“Sure,” Vance mutters.
I stare out the window, watching the landscape change from city to pastoral. “Vance Harrison Wreath. Twenty-seven. You were a prized soccer player in high school, then started as a kicker for Penn State’s football team, graduated with a Bio degree that’s gone unused. Think your mom didn’t like that. But you gotta do you, and with zero military or MMA experience, you followed your big brother into security. Do I have that right?”
Vance says nothing.
I’m gonna take that as a yes.
“Ian Rohan Wreath. Love the middle name by the way. Thirty-four. Legendary tight end of Penn State but got robbed of the NFL. Competitive year and all. You trained in MMA before joining private security, where you’ve been for almost eight years.” He’s the bulkiest of the three brothers.
Ian is in quiet contemplation.
What the hell, I keep going. “Your dad went to Annapolis. Prestigious stuff. So did your grandfather. Instead of following their footsteps into the military, you were able to use their connections to get into private security.”
Ian nods a few times, then says, “Paul Donnelly. Twenty-nine. High school dropout. Son of two meth addicts. You followed your more talented friend to Yale and all the way back to Philly. He gets with a Hale, and you think, yeah, I’m going to do that too. And so you seduce the girl you think is easy-pickings. Luna, the most sexual—”