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’d say I want the same for Phoebe. But really, I don’t know what I want for Phoebe other than for her to be…mine? No, not mine. I can’t have her.
I don’t fucking know.
I don’t.
She’s digging her shoulders farther into the door, but her hips are angled out toward me. It’s unconscious, I think, how much she’s splitting her knees apart. How much she’s opening herself to me.
My cock is aching in my cotton track pants, and I’m trying not to get a fucking hard-on. We’re both aroused. We’re stoking each other’s arousal just in these silent seconds, staring, and I hate the idea of her going back in the yurt and the park ranger smelling her.
I know nothing about him.
He’s nice.
That assessment isn’t good enough for me.
I edge closer to Phoebe, and her breath catches.
My muscles contract. “So this is the part where you ditch,” I tell her.
She peers back, but the door is still shut. “My bag…”
“I’ll grab it,” I say.
She frowns and straightens up. “You sure?” She’s not worried about the park ranger. Not concerned about what I’ll do or say to him when I get in there.
It makes me feel better that she doesn’t give a shit about this guy. Makes me feel worse that her first time was as meaningless as mine.
I nod. “Yeah, just start the car for me.”
“Can I borrow your phone?” she wonders.
I dig in my pocket, then place my cell in her outstretched hand. She smiles, the first one I’ve seen all morning, and I know she’s excited to dish to my sister. Not to me.
We’re not best friends.
We’re something else.
She steps onto the graveled street, and I head into the yurt. The park ranger is lying naked on the full-sized flimsy mattress. He immediately jolts when I enter, then he reaches for the thin sheet to cover his dick.
“Don’t bother, I’m not looking,” I tell him.
“Who the hell are you?” he panics.
“No one.” I reach down for Phoebe’s duffel bag by the door. It’s already packed like I knew it would be. Quick exits are a thing we do.
“Hey!” he barks. “That’s not yours!” He’s not even moving a pinky toe off the mattress. Maybe he is nice.
“It’s not yours either.” I try not to get a good look at him. Don’t want the mental image of Phoebe’s first in my brain. I will die happy just picturing Smokey the fucking Bear. “Have a nice life.” I leave the way I came.
He doesn’t put up a fight, which is a little disappointing. I would’ve loved to punch him in the face.
Two steps away from her yurt, I feel a vibration in the duffel. I pull Phoebe’s burner out of her bag. She did not give that wet noodle her number. Phoebe’s not dumb.
I flip open the phone and put it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Rocky?” Elizabeth’s honey-coated voice is unmistakable. “Is my bug with you?”
“She’s around. I can get her.” I walk toward the car, but stop short when I see Phoebe crouched on the ground behind the silver Chevy Impala. With her phone to her ear, she presses her other hand to her forehead.
She’s crying.
Fuck. My stomach clenches.
I wait and hear her. “It just kind of sucked, Hails. He made me do all the work, then he lasted like five minutes. If that. He came so hard, thanked me, and fucking rolled over…yes, away from me. It made me feel like a glorified sex toy…hell, I bet sex dolls get more affection than that.” Her voice cracks, and I back away before she can catch a glimpse of me.
Fire blazes in my lungs. I’m breathing out toxic fumes. It’s taking too much control to not storm her yurt and sock that fucker. Remorse, guilt, balls up in my chest just as fast, and I wonder if Oliver was right. If I should’ve just slept with Phoebe.
I can’t.
We can’t.
I feel like I’m physically being ripped in half. Pulled in two directions so forcefully, the pain down my core is visceral.
“Rocky? You still there?” Her mom is still on the phone.
“She’s actually busy,” I tell Elizabeth.
“That’s all right. We have an issue all of us need to go over.”
I go still. “Everyone?”
“Yep,” she says casually, like we’re dealing with a missing set of keys. But no issue is that small if it means a group meeting with all nine of us. “I’ll call you with coordinates in about an hour. Just head due west until then.”
“Anything you can tell me over the phone?” I wonder.
“MySpace isn’t the only thing blowing up,” she says. “Facebook is gaining legs. Especially out here in the colleges.”
“Shit,” I curse. Social media. My mom has been warning all of us that we need new strategies to combat the rising popularity of posting pictures online. Guess it’s that time.