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 pick up speed with glee. We slip into the line dancers, and side by side, we mimic the moves in seconds, sharing smiles at the ease of our inception. Shuffle to the right, toe forward, heel back, clap our hands, spin, twirl our hips.
Rocky looks like a skilled country boy from Footloose. I’m captivated for a heady moment. In how effortlessly he becomes someone else—and in how deeply I still see him through the veneer. In a way, this is all of him, and this is all of me.
We’re every skill we’ve learned, every lie we’ve created, every secret we’ve shared.
Even dancing, he’s still attentive, observant. His eyes land on me, then the bar as we rotate—where Oliver hands the groom a shot. Then back to the fiddler on the stage.
We glide closer to each other. With the music blasting, we can have a private enough conversation, so I ask him while we dance, “What would you be doing tonight if you weren’t working?”
“Is it work?” He claps, then we spin side by side.
Our eyes are fastened with our movements. “It’s called a job.”
Rocky passes close, his lips brushing my ear. “It’s a lifestyle.” My skin vibrates with electricity, especially as he whispers, “Think about it. Have you ever gone out and not done it?”
It.
As in, lie.
Scheme.
Con.
Hailey and I got tickets to some underground heavy metal band she loved, and even at that concert, we fucked over this raging dick who purposefully spilled a drink on his girlfriend’s head. The girl was mortified. Crying.
So we stole his wallet and his phone (unlocked) and found his passcodes typed out in a notes app. Including his ATM pin.
We emptied his checking account.
It was impulsive. Unplanned.
And I rode that high all the way to our hotel, where we ordered the entire dessert menu from room service.
“I usually do it,” I answer Rocky, knowing in little instances and bigger ones, I’ve always cheated my way through a day. “I can’t imagine not doing it.”
We shuffle back together and dip forward.
“Same,” he says with the raise and lower of his brows.
My pulse skips. I stumble over my boots on a side step, and before I can brush off the momentary lack of coordination, Rocky rotates out of sync with the dancers and catches my hips. He spins me into his chest.
Breath evacuates my lungs.
His arms, around me, are familiar, devoted, protective, powerful.
And he says, “I’d still be doing this. It’s not work to me.” His gunmetal grays dive deep into me, and I imagine his hands rising to my cheeks. I imagine him possessing me with a forceful, agonizing kiss.
It’s not work for him.
Rhett could have the hots for Penelope.
Penelope definitely has feelings for Rhett, even if she shouldn’t. Even knowing this’ll all end when the job ends. Because Rocky does clock out.
He’s still never kissed me outside a job. Practicing when we were younger doesn’t count.
Just when I think he’s easing in, he veers to my ear and whispers, “I’m getting you a water.”
“Yeah.” I nod assuredly a few times, forcing down the aggravating flush. “Okay.” We both see the bachelor party at the bar. They’re searching for us.
Get the job done, Phoebe.
Rocky is likely going to try to keep them at the bar, away from me. He leaves after a deep “Be careful.” And I don’t need to imagine his dark gaze lingering on me. I feel the heat of it stroking the length of me in a red-hot caress before he peels away from my side.
I struggle to intake breath. It’s like he took my oxygen with him.
In the next minute, I miss his presence. It’s hard to have the same energy dancing alone.
I slide to the brick wall for a breather.
“Was that your boyfriend?” a girl in a disco cowboy hat asks me, her face full of glitter.
“No, he’s just”—Rocky—“a friend.”
She gasps. “Oh my God! Is he single?!” She’s about to flag down her friends to share the terrific news.
My face burns, heat gathering in my lungs. “No,” I lie fast. “He has a girlfriend.”
Her shoulders slump. “Really?”
“Yeah, she’s not here. She’s super nice, too.”
The blatant side-eye she gives me is deserved. Penelope was a little too cozy with a taken man, but I want to brand him with the name he gave me. I want him to brand me with the name I gave him. Phoebe. Rocky. Deep, thick, bleeding scars visible over our thrashing hearts. More permanent and painful than ink.
I shut my eyes, my breath deepening, and I picture the bloody mess as his lips crash against mine, as our limbs tangle. I picture how everyone can see who we are to each other—ingrained, embedded, entrenched.
And I wonder how long I’ve really been in love with him.
TWENTY
Rocky
THE MELON DROP (CONTINUED)
The mark’s bachelor party hasn’t migrated away from the bar. I’m waiting on a water for Phoebe and talking Shane’s ear off about bull riding.