Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
The window rolled down. I saw her older brother in the passenger seat, and then from behind the wheel, my oldest brother careened forward into view.
They said nothing.
Their eyes said enough. Concern. Urgency. Time to go.
We climbed into the backseat with a secret and the start of a plan.
In the motel room, thousands of miles away from the California coast, I settle with the fact that I dived headfirst into this now well-formulated plan. Connecticut. Leaving behind our families and the paths they set for us at birth. Starting something new.
Living a normal life.
What even is normal? I grew up in hotels and one-month rentals. Every time I whimpered as a kid about staying in a city, my mom would crouch to my height with glittering hazel eyes and her blonde hair in Instagramable waves. Her charismatic, radiantly maternal face made other kids ache for her to be their mom and had older men fantasizing about a life with her on their arm.
And she’d tell me, “Why would you ever want a house in that boring neighborhood?” She’d teasingly gag enough that I’d laugh, and her perfect, genuine smile lit up my world. “We’re doing what other people dream of. Never forget that, bug.”
She nicknamed me bug since I was technically her youngest of three. Bug is sometimes spider or sweet spider, what she calls all of us endearingly, but all the nicknames remind me that I’m as squashable as the roaches I killed.
Maybe that’s why my whole life was lived on the run. Go for the air vent and you’re free to keep breathing.
Rooting myself for longer than a handful of months is foreign to me, but the idea of moving to a small town feels epically normal and tugs at some heartstrings.
A new town. A new name. A new, honest job. Would I really like what Hailey advertised? Really starting over. From the beginning.
Hailey’s cellphone alarm beeps in the motel. “Mine is done.” After capping her black polish, she pops up from the chair. She’s bleaching her already dyed-blonde hair to a platinum shade. Nothing as drastic as me. “Want this?” She tosses a gas station bag of nail polishes.
I sift through the reds and pinks. My fingers brush the Barbie-pink bottle, about to choose that one. This color is so pretty on you, bug. She’d definitely love me in Barbie pink, and a knot is in my chest before I choose an off-white polish.
I shake the bottle. Unlike Hailey, my pink tee with an embroidered strawberry and my light-wash jeans aren’t exactly intimidating anyone. I gravitate toward the soft, delicate look, and she gravitates toward the hard-core. Our insides do not entirely match our outsides, but do anyone’s? Most people aren’t what they seem to be at first sight. We know that better than most.
On Hailey’s way to the bathroom, an aggressive knock pounds the door.
We flinch before going motionless and quiet.
I listen to the fist rapping outside our motel room again. Our eyes meet each other as concern builds. Did someone already find us? No way.
Another knock, and then a graveled male voice follows.
“It’s me!”
I blink hard. It’s official, our dream has become a nightmare. With more annoyance than fear, I climb off the bed.
“How’d he find us?” Hailey asks, sounding a lot less irritated than I feel.
“No clue.” I nod toward the bathroom. “Wash out the dye. I’ll deal with him.”
“You sure?” She wavers. “I can deal with him if—”
“I’ve got it,” I interject. “Really.” I want to be more helpful in this whole plan of hers. She’s done a lot of the preparation and legwork, and if handling him will take something off her plate, then I’m signing myself up.
Hailey nods and slips into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
I steel myself for the incoming aggravating lecture that I know he’ll give me, and my stiff stride carries me to the motel’s door.
When I swing it open, I’m met with molten gunmetal eyes, windswept dyed-black hair, and a crisp navy-blue suit more fitting for the Four Seasons than a Super 8.
Hailey’s older brother.
Two
Phoebe
He’s so ugly, my eyes are trying to roll into the back of my head. Lies. I’m supposed to be living a truthful life now, and I guess that begins with being completely honest with myself—and Brayden Tinrock has always been hot. Never even had an awkward teenage phase like me. Acne on my chin. Hair that either frizzed or fell greasy flat.
No, his hair teleported straight from the nineties. Full and lush with those teasing pieces always brushing his lashes. Even dyed black, his hair still carries that nineties allure right now.
Truthfully, he’s good-looking in a way that can con many women and men out of their fortunes. And he knows this fact, which makes him even more of an annoying pest than he already is.