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)
Hailey has her platinum-blonde hair in two braids. She wears black cargo pants and a matching mesh black top, standing out like the lone goth in a sea of prep.
Red Solo cups are in their hands, and I’m guessing Hailey has water in hers. Phoebe, no clue. It’s just a reminder my sister is fucking pregnant.
There’s still no one who knows that I suspect it. I think she might’ve told Jake and Oliver the truth yesterday. A sneaking suspicion based on Oliver’s insistence on role-playing scenarios where Trent peer-pressures her. And also Jake asking if we’ve ever failed a job before.
The short answer: no.
The long answer: it depends on the definition of fail. Have we fumbled and had to leave a city very quickly with less money than we desired? Yes. Have we ever been accused of fraud? No.
At least my sister told them.
I push down my thoughts to tell Jake, “Yeah, that’s them.”
Phoebe and Hailey disappear from our vantage point. Dread tries to wash over me.
Jake fixes his weighted gaze on mine. The same worry coursing in his blue eyes can be uncovered in my grays. We need to find them. Acid is in my throat. In my lungs. In my core.
After I show him Phoebe’s text, I try calling, but she doesn’t pick up. I shake my head with aggression. “What kind of girl emergency couldn’t they solve any-fucking-where else?”
He’s dialing a number, then frowns. “Hailey isn’t answering.”
The window rattles from the heavy bass outside. “Maybe they can’t hear the phones ringing from out there.” The music is excruciatingly loud when stepping out the doors.
We go silent as male voices grow louder from upstairs.
“No, really. I swear.”
“You swear?”
“Dude, he paid him to put it in her drink. I heard the whole thing. TK is planning to fuck Phoebe Smith tonight.”
TK as in Trent Koning Waterford.
Raw, brutal rage and urgency slam into me. I skip two steps at a time going downstairs to search for Phoebe. Jake is following without hesitation or conflict. We bump shoulders with guests in a narrow hallway, and I ignore the glares.
“Heads up!” a guy yells, cupping his hands up high. A porcelain vase sails through the air and lands in his palms like a football. College-aged students laugh shrilly and continue racing down the hall.
Everything is too fucking loud. It’s all piercing my eardrums.
We come upon a makeshift bowling alley with plastic bottles of vodka for pegs. I walk straight across their game, kicking aside the pins.
“Hey!”
“Booo! You fucking suck!”
“Grey looks pissed.”
“He always looks pissed.”
I entertain no one with a response. I’m gone.
Into the living room.
Out the side door. The remix of “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics hammers into my skull. I can’t stand this song. It’s toxic fuel in my bloodstream. Feasting on my last fucking nerve.
“Grey!” Jake shouts, trying to catch up to my hurried pace across the patio. “Grey!” I’m not stopping. “Rocky!” And then, “BRAYDEN!”
I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t.” I tear his arm off me as my shoes sink into grass.
“Call Trent,” he advises in a heavy breath. “Get to Trent first.”
“I can’t. I have to get to her. If he drugged her…” Nausea and ire barrel up my throat, scorching my voice. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand, Jake. I don’t lose sight of her in these positions! I don’t leave her like this! Not without her fucking brothers!”
His concern for me is so unnecessary and infuriating. This isn’t about my trauma, my past with her. This is about the stark, merciless present that doesn’t care what we endured yesterday, five years ago, or what we’ll withstand five years from now.
“You go east!” he yells over the high-octane tempo and earsplitting beat. “I’ll go west in case they left the garden!”
Breath tries to reach my lungs, but it’s on fire, charring me.
We break apart, and while I’m on a fast-moving hike east, I start calling the cavalry.
“What the fuck?” Nova answers groggily. “It’s two a.m., Rock.”
“Get your ass out of bed. You need to get here now.”
Adrenaline clears his voice. “What’s going on?”
“Grey! Come play with us!!” women shout from a beer pong table. I don’t waste time acting interested. I’m not saving face. I’m not playing a role.
I’m just trying to find her.
And fuck this song.
I fist the phone against my ear.
“Rocky?” Nova growls. “What the fuck is going on? You’re still at Trent’s party?”
“Yeah. I’m still here. Hailey and Phoebe showed up.” I grip the phone closer to my mouth to drown out the music on my end. “Phoebe might’ve been roofied.”
“Where is she?” I hear the slam of a car door. The ignition.
I’m on the east side of the mansion. On foot, this rave is mind-bending chaos as liquor drips down lips, as sweating bodies shift and dance and pack the area. My vigilance sears the pits of my eyes. I’m barely blinking. I’m searching and weaving between people, trying to reach the stone fountain. Not stopping when girls grab my arm and call out my name.