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)
“Her own mom?” Jake grimaces.
“You do know Elizabeth is also in the same role, right?” Trevor asks Jake. “She’s the OG seductress.”
Jake parks the golf cart at the next hole. “I didn’t know that. Actually.” He catches my gaze. “Phoebe said she loved her mom.”
“You’ve never met Elizabeth,” I tell him. “But there’s a natural warmth to her that’s hard to manufacture, and I do believe, in her own warped mind, she really loves her kids. There were times she chose positions in a job that Phoebe might have taken. Positions with older men that were far worse than anything Phoebe has done. So yeah, Phoebe loved her…loves her…maybe there will always be something there. I don’t know.”
Trevor jumps out of the golf cart, and I hang back with Jake. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I groan when Trent’s name is on the screen. For a second, I was actually enjoying my morning—even if it consisted of deep diving into our twisted histories.
Jake sees my screen. “Don’t answer it.”
“I can’t let him go to my voicemail.” I answer on the third ring.
“Grey!” Trent’s hysterical voice is new to me. “I need you now. Shit, fuck, shit.” He sounds like he’s about to have a panic attack. “Something horrible just happened.”
I smile.
THIRTY
Rocky
Trent runs two hands through his hair, pulling at the strands in severe distress.
He’s pacing. He’s been pacing for the past thirty minutes. Inside the Koning pool house, two empty bottles of Ardbeg line the counter, and Trent pours from a third into a shot glass. I’m not the only person he called to this little emergency meeting.
Collin Falcone and Oliver “Smith” sit on the blue toile couch, watching Trent spiral in a whirlpool of scotch and panic.
The four of us, coined the Fortunate Four (hate it) by town gossipmongers, have been playing damage control in Trent’s eyes, and playing babysitter to a petulant man-baby in mine.
“I just don’t get it,” Collin says, leaning over the glass coffee table. “Who would’ve recorded you? You were in your own house.”
“He was in the carriage house,” I correct Collin.
“Same difference.” Collin snorts a line of white powder off the table.
Trent glowers. “It’s not the same, you dipshit.” He waves a tensed hand toward me. “Grey understands. Facts and details matter.”
Collin grimaces. “Yeah…” He sinks back into the couch and pats Oliver’s back, nodding toward the cocaine on the table.
Oliver is quick to comply, and I look away. Try to ignore. Try not to let it get to me. My pulse thumps harder. I pull at the collar of my black button-down, heat surfacing within me. I had to go straight from the golf course to the boathouse just to change out of my wick-away polo and golf shorts. Lest Trent think I played eighteen holes without him.
“Play the audio again,” I tell Trent.
His nose flares as he takes out his phone. He sinks onto a wicker chair and rests his elbows on his knees. The recording starts, and it’s his unmistakable voice that arrives first.
“Celia, Celia.” He laughs, and I can only imagine he’s squeezing her in a hug. “You looked like a pro out on the court. Caufield’s coach will be an idiot if he doesn’t make you number one singles on the team.”
I do everything not to grit my molars.
Celia Whitlock. Newly eighteen. She has a full ride to Caufield for tennis and graduates from Victoria High in May. The fact that her parents even let her play tennis alone with him is…something.
But they’re divorced. And her mom has already routinely slept with Trent. So I’m guessing he was drawn to the idea of fooling around with her daughter.
“Thanks,” Celia replies bashfully. “I’ve been working on my forehand.”
“Your topspin is flawless. Just like you…and you know, I really like you.”
“I like you, too.”
I concentrate on the weight of the Rolex on my wrist. On the collar of my shirt itching at my neck. Just to stop my face from cinching in pure disgust.
“I could show you a good time, if you’d like that?” Trent asks on the recording. “Up in my room. You’ll love it there. And you’ll love me here.” I imagine he touched her.
“Yeah…okay.”
Here in the pool house, Trent extends his arms at me. “She consented. How is this fucking bad?”
Oh, let me count the fucking ways. Instead, I’m forced to appease him. “People are sensitive, man.”
“I can’t believe this.” He has a hostile glare on his cellphone like if he could, he’d reach into the past and sucker punch the person who made this moment public.
In the audio, Trent says, “You know I’ve been with your mom, right? I like you more, though. We should see if you inherited the best of her assets.”
“You want me to…?” There’s some rustling on the recording, like she’s shedding her clothes.