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)
Phoebe suddenly pulls me out of the line and tells the family behind us to skip ahead.
“What’s going on?” I ask her as we reach the curb and she squeezes between a parked BMW and Mercedes.
“I swear I just saw your brother.”
Shit. “My brother?” I jog across the road with Phoebe.
Reaching the other sidewalk, she says, “Trevor. Nineteen. Skinny. Wears cashmere in the dead of summer. Loves to pretend he’s Nosferatu and acts like he’s a psycho-killer, which turns out was never an act—”
“Keep your voice down,” I growl.
“I’m whispering.”
We’re both glaring. Heat ramps up between us. I watch her gaze drip down my muscled frame. Her tits rise with each inhale, especially as she crosses her arms underneath them.
I have the sudden urge to push her against the brick wall and fuck her until she can’t stand.
Flush ascends her neck. She releases a short breath to say, “We all promised to keep a closer eye on Trevor. We shouldn’t be relaxing with ice cream while he’s at the local nightclub. It should actually be the other way around. He should be innocently eating sherbert, and we should be getting drunk.”
“I’d rather be stabbed than get drunk.” Being so inebriated my vision blurs, time slips, and my body can’t be controlled—no.
She groans. “That’s not the point, Rocky.”
I put my lips closer to her ear as I whisper, “What he did—it won’t happen again.”
Her cheeks flame at my closeness while others who know of us—Grey Thornhall and Phoebe Smith and our contemptuous relationship—pass.
Phoebe waits for Lola, a bartender from VCC, to stroll out of earshot with her girlfriend.
“You don’t know that,” Phoebe counters, eyes rising to mine. “You said it wasn’t the only time. But you won’t even tell me how many times it’s happened before.”
“You don’t need to know.” I’m not making her a fucking accomplice to his crimes.
“What if he…” She waits for an older couple to walk past us on the sidewalk. Once they’re out of earshot, she whispers, “What if he offed Boyd Delacy?”
Trevor’s stalker from Halloween last year. “There’s been nothing in the news, and I trust that Trev would tell me.”
Phoebe eases slightly. “We all need to be more proactive. We should at least figure out what he’s doing in there.”
“He’s not a dog we need to put on a leash.”
“No, he’s your brother that we kind of need to babysit. At least right now, Rocky.”
She has a point. I’ve been so hands-off, in fear of treating him like a liability the same way our parents have, that I haven’t properly guided him. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t have taken matters into his own hands and killed Claudia.
“Okay.” I motion toward the entrance of Gulp Seafood & Lounge. “Ladies first.”
She flips me off with both middle fingers, then spins toward the bouncer, Jerry Caldwell, who barely pries his attention off his phone. Until he stares at her ass as she goes inside.
Jerry catches my dark glare and shrinks backward. “Uh, hey, Grey.” His face reddens. “You think you could get me Phoebe’s num—”
“No,” I cut him off. Don’t piss on my territory is a warning I’m writing on his forehead with a fucking knife.
His expression drops. “Yeah, yeah.” He coughs a little. “Have a fun night.” He goes back to his phone.
Five feet inside, where it stinks of sweat and oysters, Phoebe stops dead in her tracks. I bump into her back, then grab her biceps to keep her from falling forward.
It’s instantly clear my brother isn’t alone.
He cups a glass of amber liquor while sitting stiffly at the bar. A silver cross around his neck. The top buttons undone on his black shirt. Pieces of his sweaty hair hang on his forehead, like he’d been dancing at some point.
His demeanor right now isn’t casual. He’s tensed. Barely blinks. Narrow eyed and angled toward a man who’s not seated.
This fucker encroaches on Trevor. I can’t place him. Not from the back. He’s wearing a nondescript gray sport coat, appears of average height, average build. He seems older. Maybe forties.
Varrick.
It’s all I can think. Varrick just sought out my brother the night before we’re supposed to board his yacht.
I whisper quickly against Phoebe’s ear, “Follow my lead.”
She nods.
Pulling her behind my back, I stride forward. A new popular EDM song, “Levels” by Avicii, thunders in the nightclub, so I slip closer to the bar to better eavesdrop.
“I don’t want your money,” Trevor says flatly. His eyes shift covertly to me. He notices me down the bar, but he’s trained well enough to hide it.
“You’re going to regret this,” the man warns.
I recognize that pretentious fucking voice.
Weston Burke.
One of the rich widowers who frequents Victoria Country Club and the father of Trevor’s girlfriend. He likes my brother about as much as he likes me. Which is to say, he’d throw us overboard any chance he gets. I haven’t given him the opportunity.