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)
“And we’re parked,” my sister says, shutting off the ignition. “Best parking spot. Great weather. Looks good, right?”
She found a parking spot on the street near an overflowing trash can. The weather is cloudy. Since it’s August on the East Coast, I’m predicting a swell of heat when we exit the car, and it’s likely humid, being this close to the Atlantic Ocean.
She’s trying too hard to make this bad idea seem perfect at the start.
My sister is a try-hard dressed like Wednesday Addams. But I can’t tell if she’s doing her best to convince me, Phoebe, or herself.
“Looks good to me,” Phoebe says while tying her deep blue hair in a high, messy pony.
Whenever she does that, I have to look the fuck away. I don’t have some ponytail kink, and I could lie (I am great at it) and say it does nothing for me seeing Phoebe lift her hands to her head—her shirt rising and her bare skin peeking—but I’ll never lie to myself.
I check the view out of the window.
We’re parked in front of a small bookstore called Baubles & Bookends. A coffee shop next door has the quintessential chalkboard easel outside the entrance.
“I thought you gave up collecting paperbacks last year,” I tell Hailey. She’s a speed-reader and reads more digital books now. We’re on the move so often that lugging around physical copies isn’t really practical.
“The apartment is above the bookstore, genius.” That sharp, brittle voice does not belong to my sister.
I rotate in my seat so I can stare into Phoebe’s brown eyes. “Convenient. Maybe you can finally learn to read.”
Her nose flares, but it’s her lips forming an annoyed pucker that draws my gaze.
Phoebe Graves has been my best friend, my sister, my girlfriend, my lover, my wife. For all that we’ve pretended to be, and all the roles we’ve taken, I’m one hundred percent sure that I have zero idea what she really is to me. No fucking clue.
I’m not sure a word exists for it.
But I know what we aren’t.
We’re not together, and it’s good. I need that in indelible ink as a reminder of what can’t happen, and two years ago, we figuratively signed the agreement.
I was twenty-three.
She was twenty-two.
Most cons are well thought through. Planned in advance. Some take weeks. Some months. All are agreed upon by our parents.
One led us to the worst night of our lives.
Phoebe calls it the Job That Shall Never Be Named. I won’t ever name it, but I do have two words for it. Fucked up.
Things have been explosive between us since.
Still in the car, she flips me off.
My brows rise. “That’s it?” I expected a verbal retort.
She flips me off with her other hand.
I roll my eyes and unsnap my buckle.
“Wait,” Phoebe says hurriedly. “You’re not coming inside like that.”
I frown, glancing down at my navy blue slacks and white button-down. Suit jacket is on the middle console. There is an art to flaunting wealth, but nothing about my wardrobe is too showy to where it’d be tacky.
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, hearing the grit in my voice. It comes out more with Phebs, and it’s probably because she’s annoying as fuck.
Trust me (everyone eventually does), she’d say the same about me.
Phoebe unclips her seat buckle. “You look rich, and we’re supposed to be middle class.”
I try my best to keep my jaw set and not on the floor. “Middle class?”
We rarely pretend to be middle class. Usually, it’s only for social proof. Like, when someone in the family needs a shill to vouch for their con. At times, that shill can be less wealthy and desperate, a role that typically doesn’t last long.
The principals (what we call the main runners of the con) most always need to appear wealthy in order to gain trust.
Phoebe tilts her head. “Looks like you’re the one who’d benefit from reading more.”
A rough groan dies in my throat. “I know what middle class is. I just don’t see how it’s a good idea for both of you to pretend to be something you have very little experience pretending to be.”
Hailey is rechecking info on her phone while she tells me, “We’re not pretending. That’s the point, Rocky.”
They’re not pretending?
As shitty as it is, I prefer deceiving people. Being openly myself is not only a risk but it’s too fucking personal. I’ve spent more years lying to strangers than I have being truthful, and Victoria, Connecticut, isn’t changing that.
“You be whoever you want to be, Hails,” I tell her. “But I’m not a middle-class bitch.” I leave the car to Phoebe’s loud retort.
“Be a rich bitch, then! Asshole.”
My lip twitches into a partial smile, then I shake my head a few times and rewire my mouth. When Phoebe exits the backseat in a huff, I ask her, “Am I a bitch or an asshole? Make up your mind.”