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)
“They spiked your drink,” I breathe angrily against her ear. “Don’t let them make you feel like shit.”
She’s nodding a ton, squeezing her eyes shut.
I press my lips to her temple, almost kissing her. I’m holding her from behind. She’s gripping on to my forearm like we’re about to tandem-skydive and free-fall to the ground together. She’s never been drugged before. Being roofied has been one of her biggest fears since she learned what it meant. I know that.
I saw how eager they were to get Phoebe wasted. They wanted her incapacitated. To take advantage of her, likely to rape her, and they wanted me out of the way to accomplish it. I should’ve sent her a signal. She was too far away.
I should’ve texted.
I should’ve run to her.
All night, I’ll be replaying what happened and torturing myself with what I could’ve done to prevent it. Too close—they were too fucking close.
Phoebe rubs at her cheeks.
“Try again,” I urge, not sure how long she has before the drugs take effect.
She tries to make herself puke with her middle finger. Nothing. She’s shaking, too upset. “Rocky.” She’s scared.
With one hand, I hold her hair, and with the other, I stick my finger down her throat. Not letting up until she vomits, and she covers the pavement with what she drank tonight.
“Fuck,” she cries, spitting out saliva. “Do…do you think that was everything?”
“I don’t know.” I help her again, and she throws up more. When her stomach is emptied, I grip my black shirt, pull it over my head, and let her use it as a towel. She wipes at her mouth. Then I help her to her feet.
She’s woozy, more emotionally spent than physically.
No one pays us much attention. She’s just another drunken mascara-smeared girl on the street, and I’m just another person taking care of a wasted friend.
Soon, a black Land Rover with tinted windows slows to the curb. Sliding into the back, I brush aside newer-looking X-Men: First Class comics off the seat and an older issue from the ’70s titled Nova.
“Careful with those,” Nova says from behind the wheel.
I pry another comic book out from under my ass. “Guess I don’t need to ask what you were doing this whole time.”
Nova twists around, probably to tell me off, but he sees his sister’s clammy face. “Phoebe?”
“Where’s Oliver?” she rasps.
“I’m picking him up next.” He puts the car in gear but checks on her through the rearview. “Polar bear?”
She blinks a few times, battling tears. “Platypus.”
It’s a triplet thing. All I know is platypus means she feels like shit.
“What happened?” Nova asks when we’re on the road.
“She was roofied,” I say with bite, still furious. Partially with myself for letting it get this far. I failed her tonight, and she is the last person I ever want to fail on a fucking job. Her role puts her in some of the riskiest positions with outcomes that I can’t…I can’t let happen. Ever.
I smear a hand over my mouth, feeling sick to my stomach. Acid rises in my throat, and I swallow the burn.
Nova’s fists tighten on the wheel. He says nothing. Doesn’t ask if she’s fine. I’m positive that’s what platypus / polar bear is for.
Once Oliver is in the front seat, he puts his cowboy hat on the dash and shows me a check. “Daily limit at the ATM is five grand. I got him to write me a check for three hundred. But…”
It might bounce. “Cash it in the morning.”
Oliver salutes me, but the gesture dies out when he catches sight of Phoebe. She’s slumped down and still has my shirt balled in her hand. His face falls on me. “Don’t tell me…”
“He roofied her,” I say again. “Probably GHB.” The date rape drug.
Oliver is not Nova. He reaches back and squeezes his sister’s knee in comfort. “Phoebe? Are you hanging in there?”
She buries her face in her palms and groans, “I’m so stupid. Mom will be so upset. She’s told me…so many times. To not…to look out for…to watch…”
“Breathe, Phebs.” I tuck my arm around her shoulders.
“You’re not stupid,” Oliver reaffirms. “You’re savvy and sly, and those pricks had it coming.”
“We didn’t do anything!” She sounds wounded. “Five grand? That’s it? And I did nothing. I should’ve dick-kicked him.”
“I dick-kicked him,” I remind her.
“It should’ve been me…I was just stuck…in shock.” Her eyes redden. She presses the heels of her palms to her watery gaze. “Stop crying,” she tells herself. “Stop it.”
I wrap both of my arms around her. It takes her a second, but she nestles her face in my bare chest and grips on to my bicep. She breathes deeper, her body gradually loosening. I clutch the back of her head, feeling her heartbeat start to slow.
It’s helping me, truthfully. Feeling her ease. Feeling that she’s here in my arms. In no one else’s.