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)
“That was a bad one,” she murmurs, her eyes skimming my arms, which I rest on the lips of the tub. “Would you get a tattoo, if you could?”
Never get a real tattoo. A rule we’ve all followed to this day.
When you’re trying to be forgotten from city to city, it’s not smart to have permanent ink on your body that can identify you. It’s not even to evade law enforcement. It’s so these rich fucks don’t hire PIs and come seek revenge if they’ve felt slighted. Hell, Trevor’s stalker didn’t even need a PI to find him.
Though, we have worn fake tattoos for certain jobs before.
Applying them constantly is a bitch.
“Probably not. Would you?” I ask her.
“I’d have a whole thigh tat,” she says. “Maybe something right beneath my boobs, too. Or on my sternum between them.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?” She makes a face.
“You’ve thought about this before.”
Phoebe shrugs. “I had a cherry-blossom vine on my hip for one job, and I liked it. I was sad when I had to take it off.” She sips her water. “Oliver says to just do it, that I can wear makeup, but Nova says it’s stupid.”
“It is stupid,” I say, sitting up higher to stretch out my leg. “If we leave. It’s not if we stay and you quit conning for good.”
Phoebe contemplates this silently. “Yeah…so your sister.”
I’m all right with the change of topic. It seems like she hasn’t figured out what she wants to do yet. Phoebe isn’t a two-years-down-the-line planner. She’s a week-ahead type of person, and one week from now, we’re still working a job.
“Your brother,” I reply.
“Did you see it coming? The two of them sleeping together?” She gathers her hair in her hands.
“I was ignoring the signs. Purposefully. I didn’t want to know.” I drag her to my side and reach out to do her hair.
Leaning her shoulders against my chest, she lets me collect the wet strands. “I had no clue,” Phoebe says. “None. I think that’s the worst part.” She hands me her hair tie. “Feeling like I didn’t catch on.”
I twist the elastic into a high pony. “They’re grifters, too, Phebs. They’re trained to lie. It’s not a knock on your skills.” When I release her hair, she eases back against me.
I curl my biceps around her and hold her forearms, which lie against her abdomen. Our breaths sync again, and I finally say, “I saw Varrick at the bookstore, before I drove over here.” And she listens as I recount the entire interaction, his threat to buy the loft, her slashed tires, the phone call with Everett, and how Varrick knew my name.
I end with the thing that’s bugging me the most. “I think he might be my father.”
“Your…birth father?” She turns slightly to meet my gaze. “You’re serious?”
“There was pride in his eyes, Phebs. At The Hunt. It just hit me today that it’s a look a father would give a son.”
“Okay, yeah.” She nods. “That’s plausible. Why wouldn’t it be? There’ve been stranger things in our lives. So Varrick might be your father.” She’s cringing.
“Yeah, I know.”
“I hope he’s not, Rocky. I really do.”
“Me, too.”
She stares off at the Venice Canal painting. “I have another theory. It’s not about Varrick, though.”
“What is it?”
“You and Jake…I think you might be brothers.”
The second I realize she’s serious, I start laughing.
She sighs. “I’m not joking.”
“Yeah, that’s why it’s funny.”
She shoves my arm, then tries to leave for the other side. I wrap my arms tighter, not letting her pull away. “Rocky—”
“Why the fuck would I be related to a Koning?”
“Jake, specifically,” she says. “Because hating cilantro is genetic, and you both think it tastes like soap.” Her face reddens. “Shut up.”
I bottle the laughter and process this. “Phebs, if he’s my brother…” I shake my head repeatedly. “I can’t see it. I’m sorry. He has Dutch ancestry. More Germanic. We don’t look very similar, but if you’re right…you can have my million.”
She perks up. “Deal.” We shake on a million-dollar bet.
* * *
—
“Meat lover’s, extra cheese,” Phoebe tells me while she switches on the hair dryer. Wet blue tendrils soak the shoulders of her very old, baggy Strawberry Shortcake tee. One she left at my place.
I mentally file her request. “Ordering my favorite pizza for me?”
“That’s been my go-to order since forever. Not yours.”
“Since forever?” I arch my brows and knot the strings to my sweats. “You didn’t even like pepperoni until you were thirteen.”
Her jaw drops. “That’s so not…” It is true. She steels her gaze. “I influenced you and that’s the hill I will fucking die on.”
“Great. Make sure it’s a small hill so I don’t have to climb Kilimanjaro to come visit you every day.”
Her emerging smile is the last visual I have of her. Honestly, it almost coaxes me back to Phoebe, but I leave the loud whoosh of hot air to call the local pizza joint.