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)
“Man, you’ve gotta come out and see the Stampede. It’s worth another trip here.” I clasp a friendly hand on his shoulder and block out the violent urge to wring his neck.
He’s bobbing his head but losing interest. His attention swerves over to the dance floor. To Phoebe, as she stands off to the side in her Daisy Dukes and claps to the gasoline-fueled beat of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” She hollers, cheering on a few girls who tear up the floor with a complicated line dance.
“Huh?” Shane asks me.
I force myself not to stake him with a glare. It’s only easy because I fixate on Phoebe for a long beat. She’s cupping her hands to her mouth and cheering even louder for the talent on the floor and stage.
A smile almost crawls across my mouth. I almost push away from the bar and pull her back into the line of bodies just to dance with her again. It’s a craving—being beside her. It’d be an addiction if I didn’t have this much fucking self-control.
Seeing Phoebe having a good time is actually making me have one, but she’s also making tonight harder. Because Shane is practically busting a nut in his fucking pants, and there are about three, four, six other salivating fucks checking her out like she’s a prize.
Phoebe is so captivating that she’s catastrophic. A siren who’ll drown men as they try to board her ship, but I can’t even stand watching them try to climb.
She doesn’t want these guys around her.
And I can’t pretend that it’d be different if she did. I’d still want to shove them into eight-foot swells and hope they choke on salt water as a riptide wrenches them under.
“Penelope can really hold her liquor,” Shane says to me. “A girl that size, I would’ve thought she’d be on the floor by now.”
Then why the hell have you been feeding her more shots, you fucking dipshit? I post my elbows back on the bar and chew on the toothpick. I remember what Phoebe said about me gnawing on the thing. Yeah, sure, I like taking my aggression out on it when I can’t deck him in the face.
“You should’ve seen her freshman year.” I let out a long whistle. “Girl drank half a keg and could’ve walked a perfect line. Penelope never gets drunk.”
“She puts out though?” Heath, the groom’s younger brother, pipes in with a laugh. “I’d fuck her.”
“After me,” Shane laughs, then he catches the raging heat barreling out of my body and eyes. “We’re joking, Rhett. Lighten up, man.” He pats my tensed shoulder now, but he’s still drooling over Phoebe while she jumps to the tail end of the song.
“You can’t be talking about my friend like that,” I warn.
“Yeah, yeah.” He’s fixated on her bouncing tits.
My ribs are on fire, and my knuckles throb as the desire to punch his lights out overwhelms me.
I laugh hard and block his line of sight, then pat his chest. “We should get another round.” I draw him closer to the bar, farther away from Phoebe, and I scan the bachelor party to find her brother. “Oakley!” I call out to Oliver, who’s currently entertaining the groom with alcohol. “You like Jäger bombs, don’t you?” It’s the code for tonight to pull the rope.
Let’s screw them over now.
“What was that?” He feigns confusion and swoops over to me with a bottle of Koning Lite. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, drawing me away from Shane.
I whisper, “You ready?”
He angles his head to me, lifting his cowboy hat up some. “We could try now, but it’d be better at the next bar.” He looks ahead at the groom, who talks animatedly about wintering in Monaco like it’s out of fashion. He’ll be in the Maldives this year. Oliver has no facial inflections, no noticeable reaction, but under his breath, he murmurs, “No one should have that much.”
“Then let’s take it from them,” I whisper back.
Oliver contemplates.
“I’m getting her a double,” Shane says loudly from the bar. He’s flagging down a bartender who still hasn’t handed me a water.
“Getting who a double?” Oliver asks me.
“Who do you think?” I whisper back with a dark look. I can’t exactly say, Your sister, out loud, but we’ve been doing this shit long enough that all it takes is one serious glance.
Oliver’s brows jump and freeze, his lips in a flat line of concern. He sees Shane is trying to get Phoebe drunk. To get laid. “Jäger bombs, now.” He dips his cowboy hat, and mirth replaces his concern—a grin breaking over his face. He hollers and slips back to the groom.
I convince the bartender to give me a water before Shane catches anyone’s attention. “Rhett!” he calls out, but I pretend not to hear him or notice his plight.