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)
I’ll be twenty-five in July. If they attend Caufield for undergrad, then I presume I’m older than all four of them. It’s wild how I don’t feel older.
Not as their gazes roam crudely over me. I do my best to smile and not scowl. “Nice night, huh? How about we go thataway?” I make silly, inoffensive finger guns toward the mansion.
They laugh.
“Whoa, whoa,” the broadest one says, his jersey clung too tight around his muscled biceps. I watch as he rests an arm on his friend’s shoulder and leers toward me. “You’re Grey Thornhall’s sister, right?”
“Isn’t she friends with Phoebe Smith?”
“Man, she is so hot,” the preppy one says about Phoebe.
“Oh shit.” One stares past me. “Is that her?” They’re pointing to Phoebe’s unconscious body on the lounge chair.
I step closer. “Let’s not go over there,” I say. “Seriously. You could just…leave us alone? We’re pretty beat.” I play it nice. It’s one of the weakest scenarios, but I’m not against exhausting most of them.
“Aw, did she have too much to drink?” the broadest one laughs.
I layer on the nastiest glare. “Seriously.”
“Seriously what?” He moves to go check on Phoebe, the predatory look in his eye enough to rattle me. I block him with my body and two outstretched palms.
“You’re not going over there,” I warn.
“Or what?” He laughs. They all laugh like I’m a weak little twig they can just toss into the ocean and let drift out to sea.
My stomach caves in on itself. What would Phoebe do? I twirl a piece of hair that escaped my braid, cock my hip, and bite the corner of my mouth with dusty seduction. Flirty, I am not, but I try. “What if I want you all to myself?”
I seize their attention enough. I doubt my minimal sex appeal entices them. They’re wasted. I bet they’d fuck a cardboard box right now, but if they weren’t drunk, we might not be in this situation at all.
“Yeah?” The broader one tips his eyes from my lips to my chest.
“Man, she’s the easy one,” the preppy guy whispers to the barrel-chested jock. Maybe my reputation as a slut is the real godsend.
“What would you do for us?” the barrel-chested one asks. He likely weighs 250.
“Follow me and find out.” I walk backward toward the stairs, drawing them away from Phoebe step by step. This is the last scenario where I get out of this without dropping to my knees.
They’re five feet from the twisting wooden staircase when they abruptly stop. My stomach plummets with my pulse.
“I’m not going up there, Callahan,” the prep says to the broadest one. “It’s too fucking loud.”
“Yeah, my ears are still ringing.”
Callahan up-nods me. “Come back here.”
“It’s better if—”
“Nah, come here. Don’t be a bitch.”
It takes everything not to glower. Face-to-face manipulation is not my forte, but I’ve been working on it this summer. I let out a tiny laugh to cover the disgust. I approach. Inches from them, I peer upward to meet their faces, feeling small. Like a solitary doe among hunters. They’ve gathered for the skinning.
My mother would loathe knowing I feel like prey. She’d say I’ve taken a crucial misstep. That somewhere, I’ve lost the greatest leverage. They should have the illusion of power, but I should always be the one holding the shotgun to deliver the fatal blow.
I motion them to stand where their backs will face Phoebe. “Line up.”
“How about we tell you what to do?”
“Yeah, take out your braids.”
“I kinda like the braids.” One snickers.
I touch one of the two sloppy fishtail braids. It’s already come unraveled. “Take off your pants,” I tell them, hoping to bide my time.
“You first.” Callahan grins.
Phoebe would strip without issue. She was trained for this.
A pit forms in my chest, and I pry my mesh shirt off my body. It was see-through anyway. I’m left in a simple black B-cup bra. “Now take off your pants,” I counter.
“We call the shots.”
I swallow a grimace. “Or I could just bite your dick off.”
Callahan grips my face with one palm, painfully pinching my cheeks together. “You bite us, we will fuck you ragged in this fucking sand.” He throws my head to the side, my neck aching, but I don’t turn back to him right away.
I stare at a divot in the sand. A footprint.
This is not my role, and I hate that it had to be hers. I hate that it could belong to anyone who’s perceived as weaker. Isn’t this what it is? Perception? I’m smaller. They’re bigger. Two simple, important facts.
My brain buzzes with more solutions, scenarios, and possible outcomes until I land on one that gives me more time. That’s all I need. Time. The longer I can distract them, the better chance Nova will find us before it’s too late.
My eyes flit between the four of them, not shying from their gazes. “Have you heard of the term oral fixation? It’s a controversial theory developed by Sigmund Freud.”