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)
Unfortunate, I think now.
It’s too lonely. Too sheltered from the mansion party. I can only see so far down the shoreline.
The air tastes more humid. Sticky against my heavy tongue. My ears prick at the tiniest noises. The flapping fabric of a lopsided umbrella. The whoosh of the water kissing the sand. The faraway thumping bass from the poolside DJ.
Drunken cackling. Drunken laughter. Is that originating up at the mansion or down below where we are?
Jumbled chatter grows louder. More distinct. I freeze as several figures descend the wooden stairs that lead to the beach. Then they drop onto the sand. Deep husk gravels their voices.
I squint harder. Male figures. Four of them?
As they trek farther into the orangish moonlight, I know for certain. Four men.
My pulse shoots out of my chest. “They’re coming over here,” I whisper to Nova. He really needs to call the others. He’s now the only one who knows we’re on the beach.
“Who are?”
I’m afraid to talk.
Scenario one: They don’t see us. They mind their own business. We mind ours. But does staying silent outweigh giving Nova information? Especially if they see us anyway.
“Hailey,” Nova forces out. “Who?”
I fight the urge to hang up on him. He’s too loud. Nova is always too loud, yet he can be the most silent of us all.
Making a fast decision, I whisper, “Men. They’re drunk.” As they near, the broad-armed one falls into his lanky friend with hearty laughter.
They could be good men. There’s a scenario where they sincerely, empathetically care that my friend has been drugged, and they wait in aid while I call my brother for help.
That percentage lowers due to their alcohol consumption, due to the entitled types that frequent these parties, and due to the fact that this is a group, which could be negatively influenced by peer pressure.
“Is there a weapon around you?” Nova asks. “Anything metal?”
“No,” I whisper, “and fighting them isn’t a solution, Nova. They’re huge. I think one is wearing a Caufield jersey.” Football players. College students.
Wow, we really did not luck out tonight. There are still several positive scenarios, but trying to crack a linebacker over the head with an eight-foot umbrella or wrestle him to the ground isn’t a realistic option.
Nova is thinking like a man.
And unfortunately, in this scenario, I’m a woman, and my options for success are drastically limited.
As they near, their glazed, heavy-lidded eyes come into focus, their hands occupied with bottles of Don Julio, and I’m painfully still, even as the broadest one squints into the dark.
“I-I have to hang up,” I murmur.
“No—”
“You need to call the others. Tell them where we are.” My voice trembles. “They’re going to hear me.”
“Can you hide?”
“I’ll find a solution.” I end his call, and I want to silence the phone but not at the risk of moving.
I wish Phoebe wasn’t wearing white. She glows like the arresting moon that dangles over the ocean. I’d rather they fixate on the magnificence of nature and not the breathtaking beauty of her. And I regret ever dyeing my hair a blinding platinum shade. I should’ve worn my black baseball cap tonight. I should’ve lain down next to her. I should’ve shielded her completely from view. The option slips out of my hands—it’s too late.
“Hey!” the broader jock shouts. “Who’s out there?!” He points directly at me.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. My heart pounds harsher and heavier.
“Is that a chick?” he asks his friends. “You see that?”
“Man, I bet it’s that whore Genevive. Fifty bucks she’s touching herself.”
“Oh God, I hope it’s Priscilla. I’d face-fuck her until she pukes.”
They laugh, then argue over the repulsiveness of vomit on a dick.
“Who art thou goes there?!” one shouts in a boozy slur. “Julia Kelsey?!”
“Virgin,” one singsongs. “I’ll pop your cherry, baby!”
“Fuck, I think there’s two of them.”
“I’d fuck them both.”
These are not good men.
“Watch them be goddamn Craig and Bert.”
“In that case, you can have them, Timmy.”
“Fuck off.”
Their footsteps carry more intrigue, their strides lengthier.
I glance backward at Phoebe as she lies like Sleeping Beauty in a dainty white cotton dress awaiting to be saved or be ruined. She’s femininity twisted around haunting vulnerability. Her pink-painted toes are speckled with sand. Dozens of scenarios zip rapidly through my head with outcomes that steal my breath, that choke me, but I land on the ones that keep her safe.
“I’ll be back,” I whisper to my best friend. “I promise. I won’t do anything that you wouldn’t.”
It would scare her.
It honestly scares me.
Springing quickly off the edge of the chair, I sprint toward the four men. “Hey!” I shout. “Hey.” I roll to a stop, and instinct nearly causes me to recoil. The pungent tequila stench alone knocks me backward.
Their mops of perfectly coiffed brown hair scream, Rich! One sports a flashy A. Lange & Söhne leather-banded watch, another a navy-blue Brioni polo and khaki shorts. Two have on forest-green Caufield Sea Serpent jerseys and hungry glints in their eyes.