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)
A shield.
His shield.
Let’s hope the crown he’s granting me shines like the motherfucking sun.
Thirty-One
Rocky
Should not have confronted Jake.
That thought has been ringing in my head for a full half hour while I pour my attention into helping my sister fix the Bride of Frankenstein’s broken nose. Carving pumpkins with Hailey and Oliver is my only attempt to try and forget Jake and the Burkes. Just for a moment, before something catches the corner of my eye.
I go still.
A familiar figure passes our carving station. Lithe and quiet, the person slips into the crowd like a shadow. My nerves spike, on high alert.
“I’ll be back,” I tell them and leave the table, following the white guy dressed in an expensive all-black suit with a black button-down. Tailor-made for his lean body. His dark hair brushes the back of his neck.
I watch him weave between bodies like he’s made from the sea, water slipping around rock. Closer to the stage, a Tears for Fears song thumps the ground and makes it hard to hear. He uses the opportunity to slip his fingers into a man’s pocket.
Wallet in hand for a solid three seconds.
Then he slides it back.
I follow him around the square, observing him as he picks the pockets of seven more locals. His fingers dip into purses. Satchels. Backpacks.
Each time, he returns the stolen wallet, never taking a dime. And then he settles in the long line at the beverage tent.
I stand right behind him, my muscles beyond tensed. He’s close to my height, and I bow my head forward to whisper against his ear. “Boo.”
He doesn’t turn around. “How long have you been following me?” His voice is calm and unsurprised.
“Too long, little brother.” Even from behind him, I see the corners of his mouth begin to pull in a smile.
“No one notices me.” He’s next in line, and we both drop the conversation while he fishes out his wallet and orders. “The hard apple cider.” He flashes a fake quickly.
The bartender is busy enough that she barely glances at it. After pouring his drink in a to-go cup, he pays, and we step out of the line together.
He has a slanted smile, and we only face one another when we’re under an ice-cream shop’s shaded overhang. It’s closed during the festival, and fewer people stroll past us.
We can’t hug or embrace the way that most brothers would reunite. Not in public. Not until we determine what we are to each other in this town. And I’ve wanted Trevor here—but I didn’t know he was coming.
Why now?
How did he even find us?
Stuffing my hands in my leather jacket, I stare at my nineteen-year-old brother head-on.
I remember when he was born—I was only six, and he was the first fragile thing I ever held in my arms. But the older he grew, the more I realized he was as fragile as a viper in a cage.
I have so many questions. Ones I can’t ask outright.
“Hey,” I say casually, not sure what alias he wants to use.
He takes the biggest swig from the apple cider, two signet rings on each of his fingers. He has a helix piercing in the upper cartilage of his left ear, but his hair is long enough that I can’t tell if he’s wearing an earring today. He appraises me in a slow once-over like I’m cattle he’s considering purchasing for his ranch.
“You let yourself go,” he deadpans.
“You’re still a twig. And see, one of us is bullshitting and it’s not me.”
His lip begins to rise. “I feed on misery and despair, so I should be satiated as long as I’m around you.”
“Oof.” I feign a wince and smile. “Thank God you took all the shithead genes.”
Trevor laughs, and I try to be happier that he’s here more than I’m on edge. But alarms are blaring so caustically in my head, my ears ring.
I nod to him. “You here for long?”
“Long enough.” He glances around, catching the eye of a group of young Caufield students who huddle together next to an outdoor heater. A few of the girls ogle him.
Trevor doesn’t feed into it and flirt back. He just turns to me. “Where is everyone?”
I lead him past the carving tables where Hailey, Oliver, and now Nova hang out. I signal to them that we’re going to my sister’s loft and they should follow, and all three make a casual exit from the festival.
The loft is on the same street, and from the living room windows, I can peer down and see Phoebe still on a date with Jake.
So I avoid looking that way when I enter the loft with my little brother, spare keys in my hand.
Trevor, however, fills the frame of the window, the wispy white curtains blowing on either side of him as he observes the festival below.