Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
What else is he capable of?
My skin crawls, and as I scan my surroundings, my body tightens in preparation to throw a fist, knee a groin, or run for my life. Luckily, I’m alone near the sunny entrance of the restaurant. Just me and some potted yellow daylilies.
“You didn’t think to call me on the bus?” Rocky questions. It sounds like he’s power walking as angrily as I just was.
“I did think about it, and I thought that you would’ve followed me.” I hear the slam of a car door over the phone. It swells my lungs, knowing he’s quick to be there for me, but at the same time, this isn’t one of those cases where he should show up. “You can’t come here.” I hear the engine. “Rocky.”
“Give me one decent reason.”
“It’d look exceptionally shitty banging my ex-husband shortly after breaking up with the town sweetheart.”
“I’m not going to fuck you in Rhode Island, Phoebe. I’m just making sure you weren’t tailed.”
My face flames. I open my mouth, but I replay the gritty mean tone he had with me. And now I do just want him to fuck me in Rhode Island.
He must hear the shift of my breath. Because he says, “Don’t worry, I’ll destroy your cunt later.”
I glare. “If I let you.”
“Funny you think I won’t just take you anyway.”
I’d flip him off if he were near me. I chew the corner of my smile. “Threatening me with a bad time.”
“Always. I’m fuck out of good times.”
“Same.” I love how deranged this conversation is, and shit, I really need to go to lunch. I’m stalling now. “I need to go. I love you. Bye.” I hang up, not giving him the opportunity to serve an I love you back. It feels like a victorious declaration of love. One that doesn’t need reciprocation.
While gathering my dark blue hair into a messy high pony, I barrel into the fancy restaurant and offer a brisk smile to the hostess. “I’m meeting someone on the patio.” Then I follow a server out into the glaring sunshine, squinting as I locate Hailey, Addison Tinrock, and two empty chairs.
Confusion knits my brows. How is my mom still not here? I plop down unladylike into a free wicker seat. “Hi, Hails,” I greet my best friend, happy to see signs of good sleep since I spent the night at Rocky’s boathouse and didn’t wake up in our loft. No dark circles under her eyes. Her platinum-blonde hair is combed and tangle-free. I catch a glimpse of her toes, which have a new metallic polish.
Go, Hails.
Smoky shadow accentuates her gray irises. She appears reserved and standoffish, but her smile peeks at me over a sip of coffee. Her black lipstick leaves a stain against the rim, and I watch how her body relaxes like she’s relieved I’m a part of the lunch.
I smile back, then notice Addison staring more at the door. Maybe she’s expecting her own best friend to trail after me, but my mom is nowhere in sight.
“So, Addison, did you happen to tell your old creepy friend that I’d be here today?” I stretch forward like this is an interrogation. Because it is. My trust in her and my mom hasn’t just been on thin ice. It’s plummeted into hypothermic waters. They’re lucky Hailey and I have retrieved it, but like hell am I holding it in my hand just to get frostbite.
I believe in actions more than words.
“My old creepy friend?” she repeats like I doled out a freezer-burnt dessert when she’s only ever been fed Michelin-star soufflés.
“Six-foot-something. Dresses like he’s old money. Clean-shaven. Very fit. Probably runs ten miles to the soundtrack of babies crying. Stupidly good-looking according to ladies at the club who need to be checked for cataracts, but he’s grotesque to my own two eyes. That old creepy friend. You know, the one you lost touch with back in ’86 in Victoria.”
Addison sends me a sharp reprimanding look to lower my voice.
I’m not feeling demure. I’ve learned too much. Like how our parents ran jobs with Varrick Wolfe in the eighties. They have history with him that we don’t. They know him, and I simultaneously want nothing to do with the man while also wanting to know everything about him. The latter, mostly to protect myself.
“I haven’t said a word to Varrick,” Addison says, pushing a plate of oysters toward me. Even as my stomach grumbles, I don’t take the distraction.
“But my mom has,” I state, knowing she’s been popping in and out of Stonehaven since Claudia died. The historic mansion is located on a tiny island a short boat ride from the Victoria harbor, and it’s belonged to the Wolfes since they founded the town in 1887. Unfortunately, Varrick married into the Wolfe dynasty before he killed them off, so he has sole claim to the residence.