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)
“Phoebe and Rocky,” I cry. “This is what they were taught to do. Th-this is what happens. She almost…and he comes in…” I choke out. “Their roles. Their responsibilities.”
He casts a hard look backward to where my mesh shirt lies crumpled in the sand. Then back to me with the devastation I feel.
“It’s not fair what they had to do for our parents. It’s not fair what they gave up for us…” My chin quivers as I remember Carlsbad. The Fiddle Game. The mark. His grotesque friend. “I just hear them in that fucking room with her, and I couldn’t get in. They wouldn’t let me in to stop it…I would’ve done anything to stop it.”
I sob, and Jake pulls me into his chest. I weave my arms around his shoulders. As he stands, I’m lifted with him, and I don’t have to hang on. He holds me against his muscled, towering build.
His cerulean-blue eyes sweep over me. Into me. Dreamlike. I stare into him, unable to look away. His thick brows harden like his jaw, but he’s not severe or stern. Of his many layers, most are soft. Caring. There is only care in his expression now, and it begins to calm the torture in my lungs.
This is a good man.
I gaze longer, soaring inside the summer sky, and I wonder how high I can truly go before gravity brings me down. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, the soft act a caress to my heart.
We both hear the quickened, urgent breath of someone running toward us. Our heads turn in unison, and I see Oliver.
His eyes sweep our embrace, my lack of shirt, my tear-streaked cheeks while I slide down Jake. I’m shaking. I can’t stop the full-body tremors as panic and anxiety crush my windpipe.
“What happened?” Oliver asks with mountainous concern, then he spots his sister passed out on the lounge chair. He bolts for Phoebe. “Shit. Shit. Phoebe?” He pats her cheek.
I sink on the edge of the chair beside her bare legs.
Oliver sends an alarmed glance back at me. “You need to tell me.” It’s not a harsh demand. Oliver is never harsh or unkind or cruel. Unless he has to be. But never with me.
“I-I…” I watch Jake trek away to retrieve my shirt. “I was here when she passed out. I didn’t see who drugged her.”
“Did anyone come over here?” Oliver asks, taking Phoebe’s pulse on her wrist. “Hails?” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Was anyone else on the beach before Jake got here?” It’s a gentle ask.
Yet I feel sick.
I puke between my knees. Barely missing my combat boots. Terrific.
“Just let it out, Hailstorm.” Oliver steps over the lounge chair with his long legs, coming to my side while unbuttoning his white shirt. “Nothing like a regular Saturday night rager. One for the history books.”
A strangled laugh is stuck in my burning throat. “I don’t want to reread this one.” I spit off to the side.
Oliver hands me his shirt to use as a rag and kicks sand on top of my vomit. Then he squats in front of me, scrutinizing my features. I fixate on his hair that curls around his ear. On the curve of his soft kiss-worthy lips. Whether he’s a warm golden tan or paler from avoiding the sun, whether he’s stubbled or clean-shaven, whether he’s shed weight or gained ten pounds of muscle, the glimmer in his caramel-flecked eyes stays the same.
His very existence is a cool balm to my wounds. Soothing, trying to wake me.
I’m not like him. I worry I’m not something that can heal others, but rather, something that will hurt.
He shifts in his squat, his eyes still tracing me. “Well, she seems fully intact. Where are her wits?”
“Lost for a moment,” I say.
“Nothing I can’t find.” His charismatic smile could draw a faraway one out of me, but his is slightly dulled with concern for me and for his sister tonight.
His pupils are also ginormous. I stare right into those big black orbs. He knows that I know he’s high. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party tonight. Without me here and while he’s around Trent, he probably thought it was a good time tonight to snort a line or two to assimilate. Blending in as the chameleon comes with its own plights.
I wipe my mouth with his shirt. “Thanks, Olly.”
“How many were there?” he asks in one breath. He holds up his hand, and I lower his pinky finger. “Four?”
I nod. “I-I did something gross to bide me time.”
His brows rise in consideration. “I’m sure I’ve done grosser.”
My eyes burn. I wish that weren’t true. My lip quivers, and Jake returns with my shirt. His dark gaze and visceral heat on both of us. “We should leave.”