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)
To be honest, I never want to let her go.
“Mom won’t be upset,” Oliver consoles. “She’ll be happy you’re not passed out in some guy’s hotel room.”
I clench my jaw. “Thanks for that mental image,” I say dryly.
Phoebe doesn’t respond. Her breath is shallow, and her eyelids go heavy.
“Phebs?” I whisper.
“I feel…weird. This isn’t right.” She’s panicking. “It must still be in my system. It’s still in there.”
Shit. Fuck. I try to untense—for her sake. She’s on me. She can feel my muscles flexing beneath her. “Take deeper breaths. I have you. Your brothers are right here, too.”
Nova tries to peer over his shoulder, but he slams on the brakes as a group of sash-wearing girls jaywalk across the road. “How much did he dose her with?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him slip it in her drink.”
Phoebe tries battling the effects. “Rocky.” Her voice pitches in fear. “Everything is getting hazy. I can’t…see…”
I pull her more across my lap, holding her in a cradle against my chest. She blinks slowly, like she’s already consumed five vodka martinis past her limit.
I cup her face, and her hooded eyes fight to stay on mine. “You’re going to pass out,” I tell her. “Nova is going to drive to the nearest motel. He’s going to rent a room, and you’re going to wake up on a bed beside me.”
I can’t carry a limp girl into the Ritz. Sure, I can talk my way out of it if anyone asks. I can say she drank too much, but the elevators have cameras. So do the hallways, and I can’t be sure if more management will ask questions in the morning, if I’ll have to convince them I’m not the one who drugged her.
Our aliases aren’t helping. The three of us aren’t related to Phoebe in Nashville. We’re all just college friends. It’s safer to spend the night somewhere else.
“A motel?” she repeats.
“A motel.” I nod. “I’m going to carry you out of the car and to bed.”
Tears squeeze out of her eyes. “I hate this. I hate this.” She tries to lift her arms, but they’re deadweight at her sides. “Don’t leave me.”
I dip my head toward hers. “You think I’d let you out of my sight?”
She eases.
“The whole time you’re out of it, I’ll be with you, Phoebe.”
“We’ll all be there,” Nova inserts.
And I try not to be rigid. Try not to wish it were only me that Phoebe needs. It’s good she has her brothers. I’m not trying to replace them. I’m definitely not a sibling to her—I’ve never wanted to be her brother. I think it’s very clear we’ve been something else to each other.
I thumb away her escaped tears and whisper against her ear, “I have you in my arms. I’m not letting you go. You’re safe tonight.” I repeat the sentiments a few times. “Then tomorrow, we pack our bags and we’re leaving this shithole.”
She shuts her eyes, her breathing slowing. “You wanted to stay in this shithole, too.” That was before Nashville became the place where I failed her.
The truth is…I’d only stay in this city for her. I’d stay anywhere Phoebe is.
TWENTY-ONE
Rocky
NOW
I rack a shotgun. As I aim, a loud bang fires off on my right, and the quail drops from the sky, thudding to the grassy earthen floor.
Nova Graves lowers his gun before I even put my finger on the trigger.
Quail hunting is apparently Nova’s fifth talent. Every time he shoots down a bird, his narrowed gaze finds Varrick among us. No love spared for his dad this summer. He sends him blatant threats every now and then.
And still, Varrick seems more impressed by his son’s firearm skills than offended by his brusque attitude. It puts me on edge, but then again, I haven’t been relaxed around Varrick since we moved into Stonehaven.
The Bennet brothers invited us to these private hunting grounds. A gentleman’s outing of tracking and killing easy prey. This is Damian Bennet’s way to try and ingratiate himself with Varrick since he believes the inheritance is still undecided. He whistles at his English setter, and the dog skips ahead of us to locate more quail.
“Nolan, goddamn,” Trent says to him as we all follow the sniffing setter. “Save some for the rest of us.”
He’s begun calling Nova by his “legal” name ever since a dinner at Stonehaven, when Trent declared, “Nova is a girl’s name, you know. Whoever nicknamed you must’ve hated you.” He looked to me when he laughed, so I had to share in his ugly snicker. He pointed his butter knife at Phoebe’s brother. “You should go by your real name. Nolan. It’s stronger. Better.”
Nova didn’t care to correct him.
“A name is what you make it,” Varrick piped in, cutting his rib eye with a fork and knife. “You only believe it’s a girl’s name because that’s all you’ve heard and seen. But now you know a man who’s being called Nova. Your perceptions will change.”