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)
I peel onto the road and use my burner phone to text my siblings, Phoebe, and her brothers.
Godmothers are in town
I have no idea where my father is, but if they’re here, it’s likely he’s not far behind.
“I’m in the car,” I tell Phoebe and Jake. En route to Victoria. “Who are the matchmakers?”
“Isla Rivers and Wendy St. James,” Phoebe says.
So our moms are using aliases. Phoebe’s voice sounds strained, and I hear a thump of a tennis ball or racquet.
I forgot they’re sharing a closet. “Let’s video chat.”
“You’re driving,” Jake says like it’s unsafe.
Jesus Christ. “I’ll pull over just for you, sweetheart.”
THREE
Rocky
I drive into an old historic cemetery and park in the back where fog hangs over mossy headstones. It’s quiet and only filled with the dead. Then I switch to video.
Jake comes into the frame. Just his too-fluffy, light brown hair and uptight face. I think a bucket of golf balls is on a shelf beside his head.
I adjust my phone and see my scowl in the minimized frame. “Where’s Phoebe?” I ask.
“We’re in a closet,” Jake says, like that explains why I can’t see her.
I glare. “Hand her your phone.”
“I’m right here. It’s fine,” Phoebe says, trying to problem-solve. Only, her way of problem-solving involves slipping in front of Jake’s body. His long arms must wrap around her. How else would he be holding the phone and have Phoebe in the frame? Her back is flush against his chest.
What kills me is her expression. It’s flat. No fire. No flame. No anything. She’s dissociating from her body, and I crave to reach inside the phone and cup her face until her eyes wield more than an empty vacuum of nothing.
“Phebs,” I say slowly.
“What?” she snaps, blinking a few times. “We’re fine. We’re figuring this out. Right?”
“Right.” I rake a hand through my dyed-black hair and skim her again. Her dark blue hair is falling out of a pony, and pieces brush against her beautiful heart-shaped face. Her brows crinkle, and a scowl forms the longer I stare. She’s okay.
“I didn’t know about the matchmakers,” Jake says with a heavy, aggravated sound. “It is something my mom would do. She must feel threatened by my relationship with Phoebe.”
“Why?” I ask him.
“Because she can’t control her. Which means, she’s losing control over me.”
It’s a motive for Jake.
A desire. To be free from Mommy’s gilded prison.
Is Phoebe really the key? It doesn’t matter to me if she is. These are Jake’s interests. Jake’s hopes and dreams. But what about hers? What about ours? This has nothing to do with us.
“People in this town are too invested in our love lives,” I tell her. “You sure you don’t want to pack your bags, Phebs? Catch a one-way ticket to anywhere else?”
We could leave. Run. Start over again. But she’s expressed multiple times that she wants to stay in Victoria. To plant roots. Whatever the fuck that means.
So I’m not surprised when she says, “I’m staying here. We just need to decide what we’re doing next with the whole fake-dating thing.”
Jake shifts uncomfortably behind Phoebe.
She stiffens. “I can move to the side?”
“No, you’re okay,” he says. “I just need to shift my arms a bit. Can I touch you?”
I glare out at the headstones and breathe out fire from my lungs.
“Yeah…sure.”
Back to the phone, where my gaze darkens on Jake. “You touch her ass and you’re dead, Koning.”
“How about her collarbone?” Jake asks. “Is that off-limits, Phoebe?” He specifically asks her like he knows it’ll piss me off, and he’s probably reaffirming she’s the only one who can give permission over her body. Jake Waterford has a thick moral bone.
I’d like him to choke on it.
And I know exactly what that says about me.
Though, there is still a part of me that wishes I could be better. To have somewhat of a moral compass. But times like this, where he’s so goddamn infuriating, I would rather not take a single note from Jake’s virtuous handbook.
“The whole savior complex is tired,” I snap at him. “Get a new bit.”
“It’s not a bit. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand consent.”
I let out a dry laugh. This guy. He knows nothing about me. “You’re such a little—”
“Guys,” Phoebe cuts in, wide-eyed. “I thought we were friends.” She’s glaring at me like I have the power to play nice, and I do. I should. I need to.
Things have changed, I remind myself.
Jake cools off, and there’s a brief second where I remember our conversation at the horse stables, where he broke down. Where I broke him down. Where I agreed to help him.
Still, I don’t fully trust him. I’m too cynical. Too paranoid. I just can’t.
“We’re something,” I mutter as Jake wraps an arm around her collarbone and leans his other elbow on the shelf. He’s long limbed and cramped, and he exhales in relief at the new position.