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)
Jake is giving me the type of honesty I wish my parents would. He really has more to lose by showing me his cards, but he’s taking the risk anyway.
Blind faith in someone you barely trust.
It’s dumb as fuck, and yet, I admire his ability to try.
Because if I don’t extend the same honesty to him, am I any better than the people who raised me? I could open the door and let him see the light. Or I could keep him in the dark.
And protect the people I love.
Yeah.
I’m not spilling shit. “Phoebe told you all of this?” I ask a question I already know the answer to.
“No.” Guilt pinches his Abercrombie-model face. I sincerely wish it made him look ugly. He twists the beer bottle in his hand. “She…she doesn’t know I’m aware of what she really does for a living. I’m a little terrified of telling her because she’s been helping me and I’ve been lying.”
Oh, she knows now, sweetheart.
She’s also been lying to him.
We both have been. So weighing the scales of morality when they’re heavy with lies? Not our thing. No one is the better person here.
“The plan was to come clean soon,” Jake professes, “but you’re trying to cut the con short, so I need you to get on board first. I think there’s a way we can all work together that’ll benefit each of us in the end.”
My head pounds. “Who told you about Phoebe? How do you even know they’re a credible source?”
“I just know.”
“That’s too vague, Jake.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d say that.”
“Because you know me so well,” I quip, stuffing a hand back in my jacket.
His attention veers to his Rolex again. “He’s actually on his way.”
My father. Did he expose Phoebe? Makes no sense. It wouldn’t benefit him. And he wants us to leave Connecticut.
Jake clearly wants Phoebe to stay.
I down another gulp of piss beer.
“I know, it’s a lot,” Jake says, consoling me like he’s petting a kitten and not a brown recluse. It’s a little insulting he thinks I’m naïve enough to be played by my ex-wife.
And then I hear an old song. It’s muffled in Jake’s peacoat, but once he retrieves his phone, it blares more distinctly throughout the galley.
“The Boys Are Back in Town.”
Before he answers the call, the sound of footsteps swerves our attention to the entryway. Blood pulses in my ears, and my muscles flex. I force myself not to reach for my gun yet.
“Knock knock!” a male voice echoes toward us. “Anyone home? Ah, I love this song!” His accent sounds English. East London, maybe. The familiarity explodes an ember of anger inside my chest. I grind down on my emotions until they’re dust.
First thought: I’m going to kill him.
“In the galley!” Jake calls out.
My fingers twitch on instinct, even as my pulse slows into a calm, alert rhythm. I take off my Rolex, which feels like a thousand fucking pounds on my wrist.
The thump thump thump of feet headed our way dials up my vigilance.
Jake stands to greet his source, and as soon as a guy in his late twenties saunters into the galley, I try to pretend he’s no one I’ve seen before.
He’s very tall—well over six-three, Black, built like a pole vaulter, and dressed sharp in a black houndstooth twill suit like he might attend the funeral, too. He has dark brown eyes the same color as his skin, short-buzzed hair, a squared jaw, and a charming smile that I’ve been the recipient of once or twice.
“Carter,” Jake says with a smile and hugs his old boarding-school buddy.
Fucking Carter. Our forger. We rely on others to keep their mouths shut, and they rely on us to do the same. It’s a very, very small network of like-minded criminals, and he entered the fold when I was eighteen.
Seven years later, and he sold out Phoebe.
Fury flares inside me, but I’m burying it so far down.
“Jakey,” Carter says warmly, slapping Jake’s arm with lighthearted mirth as they retract from a friendly hug.
Jake smiles brighter. “It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”
“We won’t make a habit of it now, will we?” He grins. Jake grins back, as if there’s an inside joke there. The song cuts off when Jake ends Carter’s phone call, and that’s when they both rotate toward me.
I raise my beer to Carter in greeting. “Grey Thornhall,” I introduce myself.
His face fractures in a flash of confusion. “Mate, you can’t be serious. He wants to work with you, and trust, you’ll want to work with him, too. And this’ll be a hell of a lot harder if I got to go about lying to my oldest friend.”
Jake frowns at him. “Lie about what?”
“Oldest friend?” I ask.
Carter swings an arm over Jake’s shoulder. “Roommates grades seven through twelve. We survived Faust Boarding School together. We’re bonded for life.”