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)
“Happy birthday,” Hailey says from her book.
“Thank you,” Oliver and I say in unison.
I shake my head at him. “She was talking to me, dummy.”
“Hey, don’t you dare call your big brother a dummy. We share the same genes, so that makes you—”
“Also a dummy,” I say unabashedly. I wear my lack of smarts as fact. Not necessarily with pride.
Oliver leans over the bar. “You’re not dumb, Phoebe.”
“You have to say that. You’re related to me.”
He purses his lips in such an Oliver way that says he disagrees.
“What’s the markup on a bottle of Macallan?” Nova asks while checking his phone and walking toward the bar. Stern lines crease his forehead. “Ten grand?” He’s asking all of us.
“I thought it was more,” Hailey mentions.
“I thought it was less?” I chime in.
“It’s more.” Oliver procures a notepad to check.
I glance between Nova and Oliver.
The three of us look too much alike. Natural dark brown hair. Same cocoa brown eyes. Olive skin tones and heart-shaped faces. We had to make conscious choices to appear different.
Nova buzzes his hair.
Oliver dyes his strands a lighter shade of brown.
I keep mine dark and use makeup to plump my lips and widen my eyes. Honestly, I do the bare minimum, and I should one hundred percent thank my brothers more. Anytime Mom has pressured me to dye my eyebrows and cut my hair, they remind her that wigs exist and they’re already doing shit to look less like me.
I guess the irony is the less we look like one another, the closer we’ve become.
“Markups aren’t supposed to matter that much, right?” I ask my brothers. “We’re still going to slap on an insane service charge.”
“And hostess fee,” Hailey pipes in. “And the fees for the broken bottles that they don’t remember breaking. Overtime fees, for sitting in the VIP section for longer than allowed.”
“Fees for breathing,” I add, which is a fake fee that makes Oliver grin and Hailey smile.
“Numbers matter,” Nova says seriously. He’s the cleanup guy. The getaway driver. The one who ensures none of us ever get caught. I see Nova as the fail-safe. The last rope that’ll break our fall, and I can’t imagine what it’s like being that person.
I can’t reply to Nova—not when another voice booms throughout the empty nightclub. “Has anyone talked to the bouncers?”
Everett Tinrock.
The godfather.
And in actuality, Hailey’s father.
Air suctions from the bar. We’re all sitting stiffer and breathing less. Pissing him off just comes with lectures that I’ve already memorized, and I’m not in the mood to be talked down to. We’re not twelve anymore.
As Everett approaches, he instantly shuts Hailey’s book. “Go get ready. The other servers should be here soon.”
Hailey obeys without much protest.
“The bouncers will be here on time,” Nova tells Everett. “They know if no one can pay the bill, they’ll need to escort them to an ATM.”
“Good.” He eyes Oliver, who’s busying himself behind the bar, basically removing himself from the godfather’s long to-do list.
Everett side-eyes Nova. “What are you wearing?” he asks.
My brother is in a cargo jacket. “I’m changing later.”
“Change now. I wouldn’t believe you’re the general manager of this place unless I was blackout drunk.”
Nova just nods and pockets his phone.
“Phoebe, you need to change, too,” Everett decrees. “It’s time.”
It’s time.
Nova gives me a long look, but I don’t want to see the emotion he’s battling. I don’t want to know what’s tumbling inside his head. I just want to do my damn job like he’s about to do.
I have a purpose—a thing I’m good at. And tonight, we’re supposed to bank three times as much as all the nights before. I won’t screw this up.
* * *
• • •
Neon lights blink frenziedly inside the club. Music thumps harsher against my temples—a sensory overload I’d like to unplug from with a shot of whiskey. Or even Oliver’s shitty vodka. But I know it’s better if I stay sober and in control.
So I’ve been pretending to sip tequila shots, cocktails, anything that men keep buying for me. As a bottle girl, I’m hired to socialize with different VIP sections and coax them to order more alcohol. But my mom specifically told me, “You’re something between a bottle girl, a stripper, and an escort, bug. You’ll be the girl all the men want in their section.”
I think she severely overestimated my sex appeal.
Even though I’m scantily dressed, the pole dancers are drawing more attention and tempting more men. They actually have talent, and even if I would grade my lap dance skills as a solid B minus, I’m not the second coming of Marylin Monroe.
I could use a strong drink, and the sheer amount of willpower to not down bourbon right now is impressive on my part. I’m giving myself some kudos in case this all goes haywire. Might as well be self-congratulatory now.