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)
“Definitely hotter than your mom. Take off the bra, too.” It ends with some murmuring and a grunt before they likely head to Trent’s room.
Currently, his leg is jostling in pure rage. “The motherfucker who recorded me is a dead man.”
It was a woman.
One of their groundskeepers who’s in charge of fresh floral arrangements on their property. Everett paid her to drop audio devices in vases around the estate.
“Look, man, I don’t know if it’s that big of a deal,” I tell him. “No one said your name. There could be plausible deniability. With technology, things get faked all the time.”
Highly un-fucking-likely.
Trent nods, trying to ease. “You’re right. I could just say it’s not me. It sounded like me, but that’s not me.”
Oliver sniffs a couple times before he says, “Deny, deny, deny.”
Collin throws up his hand. “Why does this matter anyway? So you might have banged an eighteen-year-old and her mom. I’ve seen you finger-fuck a girl while getting your dick sucked.”
Trent is seething at Collin. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t finger-fuck. You crude piece of shit.” He throws a pillow at him. “Do you know what I’ve been through?” His face fractures like he’s grasping a heart he suddenly purchased. “It matters. What they’re saying about me isn’t true. I loved Scarlett. I still love her. My wife was my everything. You know that, Grey?” He looks to me, seeking validation.
He does often express love for his late wife. But only to gain sympathy from others. “I know,” I say, consoling. “She was your one and only.”
“My one and only.” He nods strongly. “Now they’re saying I’m a pig? For what? Did they honestly expect me to never physically be with anyone else? Because that’s all it was.” He wipes at his mouth, incensed. “This better not get to the board. I’m a widower.” He points at his chest. “I’m not a fucking porn star.”
Step two: tarnish Koning Jesus’s reputation.
Weeks ago, I warned Valentina de la Vega never to accept a tennis match with Trent. How he’d been talking about her ass among his friends. She thanked me for the heads-up. And then yesterday, I slipped the audio flash drive in Val’s locker at the country club. Her family owns the Victoria Weekly, and I thought there’d be a fifty-fifty chance she’d either post it on their website or just text it among her best friends.
No post on Victoria Weekly, but it’s been sent to enough twenty-somethings in town that it made its way right back to Trent. And people are whispering. Side-eyeing. Scrutinizing him from head to toe.
“It’ll blow over,” I say casually, undeterred, like I have all the confidence in the world that Trent will ride this out. And he will. He’ll skate through the barrel of the wave unscathed, because this isn’t the wave that takes him down.
Trent ingests my confidence with another hearty nod. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right, Grey. I shouldn’t be freaking out.”
“You shouldn’t,” I agree. “Freaking out is for the guilty.”
“I did nothing wrong,” Trent says deeply. “And do you even know how many people would kill to play tennis on the Koning courts? Celia was happy to be there. She even texted apologizing for this audio getting out. Everyone needs to just chill.”
He truly believes he is a gift from God to those around him.
“I’m chill,” Oliver says, then mimes taking a hit on a joint and blowing out.
Trent shakes his head with a laugh.
I join in the laughter. So does Collin.
Then Oliver.
Until we’re all laughing, full-bodied, like it’s all just bullshit, and Trent’s passing around the Ardbeg to commemorate his “innocence.” The scotch tastes like acid down my throat. We spend the next half hour taking Trent’s mind off the scandal, which involves more alcohol, six hours of Transformers movies, and more drugs.
Luckily, I’ve dodged all cocaine use by citing my employer doing frequent drug tests. I insinuated to Trent that I work for the government, but I usually tell people I invest so I don’t blow my cover. He felt special being brought in on a secret that I tell no one.
Not even my ex-wife could know that I work for the CIA.
Halfway through Transformers: Dark of the Moon, I get a call. Casually, I glance at the screen, and then rise to my feet. “Sorry, I have to take this,” I tell Trent.
And through my body language, I convey this is an important call, more important than him. Leaving through the sliding glass doors, I step closer to the Konings’ Olympic-sized pool. Pink flamingo floaties drift on the surface of the crystal-blue waters.
I put the phone to my ear. “Hey,” I say. “I’m outside. You can talk freely.”
“Hey,” Phoebe replies with the same easygoing tone. She called on her burner, but I recognized the number. There was a zero percent chance I was going to ignore her call. All I want to do is hear her voice. “Jake said you got the SOS call from Trent. Are you still with him?”