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)
He nods over and over in an attempt to stop emotion from splitting apart his face. He loses that battle and runs a palm over his eyes. “Fuck.” He whirls around quickly and mutters more curses under his breath.
I wonder if his parents chastised him for crying. Made him repress certain emotions. My mom taught me about toxic masculinity when I was little. When to feed into it to be one with my peers and when to abandon it because it’s not who I should be. And despite that, I’m still bad at dealing with my emotions. I bury everything and let it feed on me.
Jake clutches the stall with white knuckles, and I’ve been there before. Different situation. Same battle.
“Be real with me, Jake.” I step closer. “This is really just about a horse?”
He doesn’t reply immediately. He’s trying not to cry. “Yeah.” His voice fractures.
Even with his genuine emotion. I. Don’t. Believe. Him.
Never be seduced by others’ emotions. Another hard taught lesson.
“You want me to buy the horse,” I say. “Turn off the security cameras.” I spotted two when I walked into the stables.
“They’re already off.” Interesting.
“Show me.”
He unburies his phone from his slacks pocket, clicking into a security app, and he passes it over. I verify that all the cameras are down, and then I put his phone face down on Bowie’s gate.
Jake waits.
“Beg me,” I tell him.
He blinks. “What?”
“I want to know how badly you want this horse,” I say. “So beg me for it.”
He glowers. “You’re a fucking asshole—”
“You’ve never thought I was a nice guy,” I retort. “Yet, you called me. You asked me for a favor, knowing that I am a fucking asshole. So if you really, sincerely want this horse, you’re going to drop on your goddamn knees and you’re going to show me just how much you appreciate my act of kindness.”
Jake is full of blistering anger, his scowl hardened. “Fuck you.”
“How much is your dignity worth? Is it worth your sister’s memory?” I say, driving in the knife deeper.
His hands clench at his sides, a nerve struck. “Is this because of what I said at the festival? Or because I’m fake dating your ex-wife?” Jake snaps. “Is this your sick, twisted way to get back at me for that?”
Yes . . . and no.
“She deserves to be with someone who’s not weak,” I tell him. “You’re a pathetic piece of shit who’s crying over something so damn trivial—”
“Shut up,” he grits out.
“Boo-hoo, son of one of the richest families in the country can’t buy a horse—”
“I said stop!” He’s a second away from lunging at me. Rage scorches his eyes.
“I guess you’re just going to have to bury that memory of your dead sister.”
“She’s not dead!” he screams, and instantly Jake’s face breaks in surprise like he’s shocked he even said it out loud.
I control my body not to blow backward, but I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect that. I go so still, my muscles cramping. My mind reels in a million directions.
His sister didn’t die. So he what—lied about her death? Orchestrated her disappearance? Every theory leads to the same gnawing thought.
I didn’t peg Jake Waterford correctly. From very beginning, my read was wrong. I saw him as too uptight, too ethical, too moral to deceive even a stranger. Has he been pulling the wool over his entire family? Or are they in on this, too?
“Shitshitshit.” His hands fly to his head.
Pushing buttons to surface the truth—not my finest moment. Usually, I couldn’t give a shit when I go this far, but usually, I go this far with the bastards of the world. The seemingly untouchable men who treat Phoebe like she’s nothing more than a warm body at night.
Jake isn’t one of them.
It doesn’t feel right breaking good men.
A biting sensation eats away at my core, and I have trouble looking at him. Because it feels like Jake is where I should be. And I’m no different than the men I’ve always hated.
Disgust with myself—what a new wretched feeling. Guess it’d catch up with me in time.
I’m still motionless. Watching.
Jake crouches, breathing harder. “You can’t tell anyone. You can’t tell anyone.” His wrought gaze strikes me. “Rocky.”
I run my fingers over my sharpened jawline. Fuck. If the Waterford family is behind this . . . I’ll be bought off to keep my mouth shut? At best.
Threatened to leave town? Second best.
Followed and stalked and possibly killed? Worst.
Except, he’s begging me. He’s not spinning the knife in my direction.
“I don’t even know what I’m agreeing to, Jake.” But I see his earnestness, and a raw honesty that’s hard, if not impossible, to fabricate.
With another exhale, he stands. “Let me explain,” he pleads, hand outstretched. “Can we take a walk?”
“All right. Lead the way.”
We end up among a thicket of trees, walking along a wooded horse trail, and through all this, I think about Phoebe and her horror movies. “Don’t murder me, yeah?” I ask Jake casually.