Home > Craft (The Gibson Boys #2)(7)

Craft (The Gibson Boys #2)(7)
Author: Adriana Locke

“I told you. It’s all in the wrists,” Peck laughs, tipping the bottle Machlan’s way. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“If you put this much energy into work every day—” Walker starts, but Peck promptly cuts him off.

“As much as you eye-fucked Sienna today while I was working—”

“Don’t start with your shit, Peck,” Walker says.

Peck rolls his eyes and plops his bottle back on the bar. “I will start my shit because I’m exhausted. You better show up tomorrow ready to do some actual labor.”

“Take it easy on him,” I tease, scooting in my seat towards Peck. “I’d have a hard time working too if I had that to go home to. Hell, I’d probably never get out of bed.”

Anticipating the punch before it comes, I duck. His hand dusts the edge of my jacket and misses me entirely.

Machlan laughs. “Getting slow there, Walk.”

“If he gets too slow to—”

I don’t anticipate the second punch. His fist plows into my bicep at about a quarter of the power he could’ve used, jolting me into my cousin. Peck’s beer sloshes out of the neck and splatters the front of his shirt.

“That hurt a little,” I laugh, rubbing my arm.

“It was a warning shot.” He grins like he doesn’t mean it. He did though. He doesn’t play when it comes to Sienna which is mostly the reason I fuck with him.

And Machlan fucks with him.

And Peck fucks with him.

“So was mine,” I wink.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Walker asks, shaking his head.

Peck fiddles with a napkin in front of him. “What about that nurse you’ve been messing around with? With the legs. What happened to her?”

“I haven’t met her yet,” I admit. “Things keep coming up. She works a swing shift thing at a hospital that’s always messing up her schedule.”

“Sounds like an excuse,” Machlan notes with a hint of smugness.

A little unease settles in my stomach because there’s a part of me that thinks so too. It has to be more than a coincidence that our schedules never match. But, when I really think about it, it’s my fault sometimes. Like the time I had to go to Nana’s because her insurance refused to pay for her insulin and I had to go sort it out. Or the time I had an emergency parent-teacher conference that made me cancel on her.

Focusing on that, I wait for the jitters to stop. They don’t. Refusing to consider that maybe it’s not the scheduling part of this little thing that has me off-balance and more like how much I like talking to her, I take a long, unhurried drink.

“What’s that look for?” Peck asks me.

“What look?”

“That one.” He points at my face.

“Probably the headache I’m trying to drink away.” For good measure, I take another swig.

Walker sighs beside me. “Just tell us the story you’re dying to tell.”

“I don’t have a story.”

“You always have a story,” they all say at the same time.

I down the rest of the glass as they laugh.

“Who you fucking? Where you fucking her?” Walker asks. “I went home on Sunday after dinner at Nana’s and thought, ‘Wow. Lance didn’t tell us one story today.’ You go making it two times in a row and I’m gonna have to call Blaire and see what we have to do to get you committed.”

“Our sister is an attorney, not a doctor.”

“Yeah, but who has rights to you?” Walker laughs. “If you lose your mind, which one of us gets to have you committed?”

“Me. Oh, God, let it be me,” Machlan deadpans.

Sliding my drink down the bar, it slams into a napkin dispenser and falls over. The dribbles of Old-Fashion left in the glass slowly pool on the countertop. They go on, teasing me, speculating about everything from my sex life to offering to take an ad out for me online. Bastards.

“I hate all of you,” I mutter, fighting the urge to clean up the spilled drink.

“This answers my original question,” Machlan says.

“What was that?”

“Why you’re in here. You’re just not ready to accept the reason.”

“Why is he in here?” Peck asks, side-eyeing me.

“Because he’s not getting laid.” Machlan says it with the biggest shit-eating grin. “Did you finally work your way through every girl on your fuck app?”

“He did it faster than even I thought he would,” Walker chimes in.

Getting to my feet, I grab a few bills and place them on the bar. Fuck this. “I always get laid. That’s never been a problem.”

“Until now,” Machlan adds.

“Jealousy is an ugly thing, boys,” I call out, heading to the front door. I pause at the bulletin boards and turn back around. “The rest of that isn’t a tip. Put it on Peck’s tab. He’s the only one of you I like.”

“Hey, thanks,” Peck calls out as the door slams behind me.

Climbing into my car, I get situated in the driver’s seat but don’t pull out. I don’t move. I can hear my stomach churning, feel the prickle of something at the back of my neck, but I can’t quite locate where it’s coming from.

My brain is still a mess—maybe messier than before. I hadn’t realized I haven’t been with a woman in a while until Walker pointed it out. It feels like I have, but I haven’t. It’s my trademark, my hobby. What’s wrong with me? Am I broken?

My cock still gets hard. I’d still fuck if an opportunity presented itself. I’m not having any unusual symptoms or urges, like monogamy, which would require a medical evaluation.

Still, something’s off. I can sense it. I can feel it. Hell, I can tell. I didn’t even want to talk to Jessa today at lunch. She called and it got me two things: out of a conversation with a flirty Principal Kelly and into Mariah’s office.

Mariah.

“I could really go for a cupcake right about now,” I say aloud with a chuckle. Turning the key, I swing down the street and head home to try to get some work done.

Six

Mariah

“Name something you only do when you’re sick.” The announcer sets his card down as the contestants slam the big buttons in front of them.

“Puke!” I say, shoving the spoon back in the tub of ice cream.

The female contestant looks downright smug. “Nap.”

“Nap? You only nap when you’re sick?” I ask, rolling my eyes. The number one answer flips across the screen—nap. “Where do you find these people?”

Scooping another helping of lemon cake ice cream into my mouth, I watch the rest of the top answers cross the board. Every now and then it crosses my mind to get up and go pick out my outfit for my date tomorrow night. I respond by taking another bite of ice cream.

Dating isn’t my forte. Just thinking about it makes my stomach get all squirmy. If I were being introspective, I’d probably conclude that not having to date is one of the major reasons I prefer relationships over one-night stands or hook-ups. Talking about myself is awkward. Listening to someone else explain themselves while trying to be interesting is uncomfortable. Making it through dinner when you have nothing in common is horrific and not many men share my interests. Even if it goes well, hopes go up and, often times, dreams go down. It’s a no-win situation.

Be positive. Things could always be worse.

Flipping the television off, I still. There’s a ringing sound coming from down the hall. My pint of lemon cake ice cream goes to the coffee table as I race down the hallway and into my bedroom to retrieve it.

All the ice cream in my stomach starts to slosh around when I see the name: Mom.

See? Things just got worse.

Every time she calls, I tell myself this might be the day. Maybe she was at the salon and someone asked about me and she realized what a missed opportunity our mother-daughter relationship has become. Or maybe she was going through old photographs and felt guilty for not remembering when I won gold at Solo and Ensemble for my flute solo in middle school.

I let her go to voicemail a lot, but sometimes, I have more hope than brains.

One.

Two.

Three.

Inhaling a deep breath, I swipe the screen. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mariah.”

“Hi, Mom. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, honey. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say, biting a nail. “You usually just call when something is the matter.”

Sighing too hard and too long, I feel the dread build across the back of my neck. I should’ve sent her to voicemail.

The mattress bends as I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to her go on and on about how she calls and I don’t answer and how disrespectful it is to ignore your mother’s calls. Every other sentence has me biting my tongue with a comeback that, while true, would incense her. As entertaining as it would be to listen to her gasp—I always get a little thrill out of it—I don’t have the energy to see it through.

“Mom?” I ask, cutting her off. “Did you need something?”

The shock that someone has the audacity not to just sit and listen to her ramble has her tongue-tied. “I … Well … Excuse me?”

“Did you need something?” I ask it slowly. Looking around my room, a cozy nest of light greys and pinks, I wonder if I should change my sheets. I just bought a brand-new set of flannel ones that I wanted to try and the temperature at night must just be on the cusp of making it acceptable. “I’m in the middle of something, so if you could just spit it out, that’d be great.”

As soon as I say it, I wince and prepare for her retort.

“Spit?” she balks. “Oh, Mariah. When are you going to start acting like a lady? I didn’t raise you like this.”

“Can we just … cut around all this and get to the chase?”

I despise the pleading tone in my voice, but I hate even more the pause that stretches between us. It’s filled with the unspoken disappointment she feels at being my mother. The silence is pregnant with how misfortunate she feels she is and an awkwardness that’s made even worse by how our relationship dictates how we should interact with one another.

   
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