Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Hearing him call me that name—it nearly steals the life out of me. I don’t even flinch. I’m a solid block of ice. I catch his gaze, because he’s eating up my frozen reaction like it’s candy at a movie.
“Who are you?” I ask him on a public street at sunset. No one who’s anything like me would utter the truth, but I’m not thinking clearly right now.
His lip rises. He’s amused. “Varrick Wolfe.”
“You know my parents?” I ask him.
He chuckles, tipping his head in thought. “Something like that.” His smile settles on me before he says, “I hope to see you around.” As he climbs into his Corvette, a feeling wrenches and gnarls inside me.
Something like that.
Something like that.
It’s in this moment I think Varrick Wolfe might be my father. And he’s fucking with me.
I peel my feet off the sidewalk. I make sure not to appear shaken, but if he’s anything like Everett—then he could tell he threw me the length of ten hundred football fields. With one name.
Seven letters.
Once I see him drive off, I reroute back to my McLaren and hop in the front seat. I don’t start the car.
I call the man who raised me.
“Bray?” he answers.
I dig the back of my skull against the headrest, my phone in a fist against my ear. “How do you know Varrick Wolfe?”
Silence. His breath strains. Until he says, “What’d he tell you?”
“No, that’s not how we’re playing this. How do you know him?”
“You need to stay away from him, son,” he cautions, his unleveled breathing unmanufactured. His fear is real. “You need to pack up everyone and leave.”
“Afraid he’s going to tell us the truth?” I retort.
“If you love Phoebe at all, you will get her out of there—”
“Don’t ever fucking use her against me to get what you want,” I sneer, my eyes burning in their sockets.
“I’m on your side,” he growls back. “I’m actively helping you with this job that is so massively intricate. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to have eyes and ears around the estate. If you think, for a second, that we’re not the people you should be trusting—then why ask for our help? We need each other. We’re all we have, Brayden. That is real love, son. Whatever he tells you, it’s not real.”
I don’t know what to believe.
My nose flares as I restrain more emotion, and I wonder if Hailey has already thought this far ahead. Right now, I feel as fucking tormented as she’s looked for the past four months.
We hang up not long after, and I climb rigidly out of the car. That’s when I see the girls’ Honda parked a couple sedans away. The tires appear sunken. Crouching at the front wheels, I instantly notice gaping cuts.
Someone slashed their tires.
Wonder who? Gee, let me crack a guess.
I stand back up and glare at the road Varrick drove down. Now I’m starting to wonder if he was the cause of Oliver’s catalytic converter being stolen. So Oliver couldn’t make it to The Hunt.
Why is he targeting us?
And now he might be buying the loft. With this news bearing on my chest like an elephant, I leave the sidewalk. It takes me less than twenty seconds to enter Phoebe and Hailey’s place, and I toss my keys on the kitchen counter.
I need to piss, then I’ll check on Hails, grab Oliver, and head to the boathouse. Phoebe is probably already there, waiting for me. All I want is to be with her right now.
So I go to the only bathroom, and I turn the knob. Locked.
I knock.
“Give me a sec,” Oliver says, sounding…strange. I rack my brain for how many lines he did. Worry mounts, and I don’t know if Varrick or Everett or both have me on edge—but I’m digging my bump key out of my pocket.
I crack the lock on the door in under ten seconds.
One foot in, and I’m solid ice again.
Oliver is lifting his pants hurriedly up his thighs. Facing him, Hailey sits on the sink counter, and with the same haste, she slips her arms into a long-sleeved mesh shirt over a black bra.
They just had a quickie in the bathroom. Even catching them after-the-fact, it’s obvious.
“Rocky,” Oliver says like he’s gauging my temperature, as he buttons his slacks. I am at a degree that would melt a fucking bullet.
“It’s not what you think,” Hailey says, more nervously.
I arch my brows, hurt in my face that she thinks I’m that dumb. They’re rushing to get dressed. They’re still in positions that scream, sex.
“Oh-kaaay,” she says with wide eyes. “It might be what you think. But, but…it’s not as bad as you think.”
I plant my drill bits for eyes on Oliver Graves, who’s quieter than a fucking church mouse. “Oh, so now you have nothing to say?” I ask him. “Claude got your tongue?”