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)
His reaction sends me into overdrive. It’s the dread of someone who’s already committed the crime.
I’m not slow to reach her. Shane and some other ugly fuck are crowding Phoebe. She’s careened as far back as she can. Her shoulders are mashed against the brick wall.
I tear through the guys, sloshing their glasses of whiskey.
“Hey!” Shane yells.
“We’re getting out of here,” I tell Phoebe in a hot Southern drawl, then I see her empty plastic cup. “You drank the double?” Tell me you didn’t drink it, Phebs. Each tight breath scorches my lungs.
“Yeah…?” Her face falls as mine hardens. “Is something…? Did he…?”
I can barely nod. My neck is scalding, burning steel.
Shane tries to wedge himself beside me, and I shove his chest with a furious hand, keeping him away from her.
He stretches his arms out at me. “What the fuck, man?” Then to Phoebe, he shouts, “You’re really going to let your friend control you like this, Penelope?!”
Her horrified eyes are giant saucers. She spins on him. “Did you spike my drink?”
“What?” He acts offended.
“Did you?!” She raises her voice with real fury. I know just how real because involuntary tears glass her eyes. The bachelorette party starts to stare.
“No, I didn’t spike your drink.” Tiny creases form along his forehead.
He’s lying.
Phoebe nearly crumples against the wall at the realization. Blistering rage erupts inside me, and I unleash on him, throwing a right hook into his jaw. My violent pulse hammers in my ears. I hear nothing but my heartbeat for a split second.
Then the commotion slams back at me as he stumbles into a wooden barrel and the crowd ooohs.
I spit my toothpick at Shane. “You like to roofie girls? You like ’em unresponsive? You wanna see how it feels, motherfucker?” I kick him in the crotch with my steel-toed boot. He yelps into a wail and rolls into a fetal position.
The bar lets out a collective wince.
I bend down very, very close to him, and against his ear, I sneer in a whisper—one void of my fake drawl, one entirely, completely real—“Guys like you shouldn’t have a fucking cock. You’re lucky I can’t cut it off.”
Shane chokes on air in mounting terror, as though believing I’m a sociopath. He pisses himself, his jeans darkening at the crotch. Well, at least I got that tonight.
His friends panic, and even though they didn’t hear my last threat, they shy away from me. They’d rather leave him to the monster than risk being torn apart. Let the white-collar elite fight with checkbooks and backhanded, petty insults—I’m not doing it tonight.
They’re already waving the bouncer over to come escort me out.
Some locals applaud me as I rise, and they even try to shoo the bouncer away. The fiddler entertains everyone with another high-octane song.
I’d say I grab Phoebe’s hand first, but that might be a lie. She’s pulling me out of the bar as much as I’m pulling her.
Broadway is packed, and we’re pushing through the drunken commotion. “Hey, hey.” I try to stop Phoebe, but she’s tearing through the masses like she can outpace the drugs in her system.
“Text Oakley,” she tells me while I have my phone out. “Tell him we’re around the corner.”
“Jesus, slow down, babe.”
She halts suddenly and crushes into my chest. She shoves my arm. “Don’t call me that. I’m not your babe, I’m your…”
Phoebe.
My chest collapses. “Penelope. I say this as nicely as I can—you’re going the wrong fucking way.”
She blinks, then notices we’re heading into the most congested part of Nashville’s night scene. “Where…that way?” She points back to where we came.
“Yeah.”
Phoebe lets me lead, and in a matter of minutes, I bring her a few blocks from the bar we left. Then around the corner. To a narrow alley.
She squats beside the brick siding and gathers her hair with one hand. Again, she tells me, “Text him.” Her brother.
I shoot both of her brothers a text.
Phoebe sticks her finger down her throat. She gags. Nothing comes out.
This is killing me. I crouch behind her.
Tears have pooled in her eyes. Sweat built on her forehead.
“Phoebe,” I say gently and hold her hair for her. I wrap the brown strands around my fist.
She wipes at her watery eyes with a groan and a growl. “I should’ve known. I knew.” Her pain is mine. Her hurt, mine. “I knew they were the type to slip me something.” A strained, wounded sound escapes her. “What was that about me being perceptive?”
“Us,” I correct.
“This was on me. It’s my body. I should’ve…I could’ve—”
“No, this isn’t your fucking fault,” I cut in harshly, even as guilt ransacks me. I didn’t reach her fast enough. I should’ve been there sooner.
“Then why does it feel like it is?” Her voice cracks, and she keeps wiping at her eyes, uncontrollable tears falling. “I shouldn’t have drunk it, but they kept pressuring me. I couldn’t figure out how to convincingly get rid of it. I took that risk.”