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)
“Oliver will do it,” Hailey contends, and my stomach curdles again, not loving the fact that my brother might be taking my role in clip joints.
“Maybe I should go back, just for this one,” I mutter.
I expect Rocky to take this response like a tanker of gasoline and ride off to our parents at superspeed. Instead, a darkness shadows his brooding gaze. “There’s no time.”
“I could drive—”
“You’re already here.” Gravel in his voice roughens the words. “Just leave it to them to figure out. And when your brothers call, you let me talk to them.”
Hailey turns to me. “I like this plan.”
I do and then I don’t. Rocky isn’t exactly besties with my brothers, and if he tries to manipulate them, they will lose their shit.
I’d pay to see those fireworks.
And I don’t know what that says about me. I like watching explosives blow up in Rocky’s face? Or I’m just way too used to the big Double Ds called Drama and Danger, and no matter where I go, I can’t live without them.
Six
Phoebe
THREE YEARS AGO
THE CLIP JOINT
Las Vegas, Nevada
Harsh lights expose an empty nightclub at three p.m. before opening. Barren of most employees, this naked shell is the realest part of tonight. Truthfully, it’s my favorite part—the before.
“Flip the bottle. Twirl around,” Oliver narrates behind a swanky bar. He flips a bottle of Belvedere with the grace of a master juggler, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled to his elbows. He whirls in a circle, winks at Hailey beside me—who doesn’t notice him (her nose is in a book)—and then passes the bottle from hand to hand. “Make them look at your face, not your hands. Smolder.” He tries to catch Hailey’s attention with winks. He mouths, Hey there, sexy.
I laugh hard. “Your smolder is no match for . . .” I lift the back of her book. “Ariadne.”
“Who is she? I’ll smolder her, too.”
Without looking up, Hailey eats from a bowl of bar nuts. “She’s the wife of Dionysus.”
“She married the God of Wine,” Oliver realizes. “So she has taste, then.”
Hailey flips a page. “Leave her alone. Her life is tragic.”
“Aren’t they all.” Oliver slides over a purplish cocktail to me. I didn’t even see him pour the drink, let alone add cranberry juice.
“What do you call this?”
“Vodka cranberry. Nothing complicated.” He splays his hands on the bar, waiting for me to drink it.
I take a sip. “Mmm.” I smack my lips and cringe at the sharpness. “This isn’t Belvedere.”
“It’s painfully cheap vodka.”
I set the glass down. “What happened to watering down the Belvedere?” That’s what Oliver has been doing the past few weeks. He found similarly shaped bottles, poured a quarter of Belvedere in each, and then diluted them. Saves us money on the inventory, and we can still hike the prices and charge obscene amounts for a single glass or a whole bottle. Doesn’t matter which.
“They’re not getting wasted enough.”
He means the marks. The people we’re trying to con.
“I’ve relabeled all the bottles already,” he adds, swishing the fake Belvedere.
Smart. “Did the godfather approve?” I joke about the Tinrocks’ dad.
“No, but the godmothers did.” He means our mom, Elizabeth Graves, and her best friend, Addison Tinrock. Oliver reminds me, “They’re the ones who run this place.”
One month ago, Elizabeth and Addison took over this struggling establishment. New management made Vanity Nightclub more exclusive. High rollers only. At least that’s according to word in the town. Spread by my brothers and the Tinrocks through other VIP circles in Vegas.
It’s made pulling in high-end clientele easier. Gaining trust is an art form.
And we’re all artists.
“Everett Tinrock is the one who enforces the rules, though,” I remind Oliver.
Everett could’ve easily been the one to purchase the failing club alongside his actual wife, instead of my mom buying it with her. Just because he didn’t, it doesn’t mean that he’s beneath them in some con artist hierarchy.
“He’s a stickler for rules only because he’s paranoid of ending up like Dad.” Oliver mimes slamming jail bars shut. “Burghm.”
I snort. “Is that the sound of metal hitting cinder block?”
“Yes, it is, Phoebe Graves. You win at charades.”
I pat myself on the back.
He smiles and tries to take away the shitty vodka cranberry.
I cup my hands over the glass. “Hey, I’m drinking that. It’s Belvedere, incredibly smooth.” I take a sip, and this time, I don’t grimace. “And that’s what I’m going with when someone asks me why this tastes like asshole.”
He gasps. “You’ve tasted asshole before?”
Hailey laughs at her book, but she’s definitely laughing at him. His grin widens over at Hailey, then his deep laughter cascades when I flip him off.
I lift my glass. “Bartender, you never carded me.”
“You’re twenty-one, aren’t you? You just had a birthday recently,” he teases.
I’m smiling, and I reach across the bar and shove his shoulder.