Home > Crank (The Gibson Boys #1)(4)

Crank (The Gibson Boys #1)(4)
Author: Adriana Locke

Gazing out the window, my heartbeat picks up at the thought of seeing Walker tomorrow. He was playful with his teasing, but there was a glimmer of seriousness buried in those deliciously dark eyes. Just pretending to feel them watching me has a rash of goose bumps flittering across my skin.

It may not be a bad way to spend a few nights while I’m still in town. Then again, something tells me spending even one night with Walker might be the worst thing to ever happen to me.

“IT WAS THE ALTERNATOR after all,” Peck sighs, wiping his greasy hands off on a blue towel.

“I’ll get a new one ordered. What about the tire for the Ranger? Did you get it on? David should be in this afternoon to pick it up.”

“Done, boss.”

Rolling my eyes, I push open the door to the office of Crank, holding it open for my one employee. “Why don’t you go ahead and get lunch?”

“Okay.” Peck tosses the dirty rag towards the hamper along the back wall. It hits the rounded top of the pile and spills onto the floor with an assortment of others. “That’s getting a little out of control, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Maybe I’ll take them to the laundromat tonight.”

Glancing around the shop, I take in everything that needs to be done. Shit I don’t have time for. Shit I never thought about needing to do when I took this place over after my parents passed away a few years ago. I just saw the business that I’d wanted to have as my own since I was twelve and decided that being a bull rider might not be for me. Despite helping out here since I could walk, I never realized all of the little things that had to be done. I hate them.

Besides the shop rags, there’s a coffee pot that hasn’t been washed maybe ever. A bathroom with more discarded toilet paper tubes than actual toilet paper. Mud that was tracked in last week in the rain still dots the floor, and piles upon piles of receipts, work notes, orders, and shipping logs are scattered across the desk. And I have no time or energy to sort any of it.

“I’m going to head home and grab a bite to eat,” Peck says. “Nana made fried chicken yesterday and sent leftovers home with me.”

“The one Sunday dinner I miss and she makes fried chicken. Are you kidding me?”

“I think she was going to make meatloaf and then you skipped church. This was your punishment” he cackles. “Miss next week, will ya? Maybe we’ll get dumplings.”

“Get out of here while you still have a job. And bring me back some.”

“That’s the thing,” he says, calling out over his shoulder. “She only sent enough for me. Seems like she knew you’d ask that.”

His laughter trails through the room as the door snaps shut behind him.

Taking a quick look at everything I need to do, I do what I did all weekend and don’t do any of it. I can’t think of the last time I let things go like this. Normally when I’m stressed, I throw myself into my work and forget the world. Not this time.

A fog presses against my shoulders that hit me after the whole incident with my truck. It wasn’t the truck that bothered me so much. It was her.

Something about Sienna flipped me sideways and I haven’t been able to get upright. It, meaning she, has not been far from my mind since they pulled away from Crave. I can’t shake it, can’t escape this ripple in my stomach that keeps pulling me back to the memory of her.

Regardless, it’s made me sleep-deprived, blue-balled, and as confused as I am after a fifth of Hennessy. I have no time or business dealing with this. I just need to shake it and move on.

Glancing at the clock, it’s clear she’s not coming by. As much as I hate admitting it, I was hoping she’d actually show. Best case scenario would include her saying or doing something completely horrible that would put an end to the fascination that had me up so late Saturday night I missed church and Nana’s dinner. Something has to give because I can’t hack many more nights like that. Or mornings in the shower, squeezing one off in my hand while I imagine what the curve of her hip feels like beneath me.

Sorting through invoices, I force myself to be somewhat productive until the door chimes ring. Expecting to see Peck, I look up with a line on my tongue. Instead, invoices spill from my hands, scattering in a mess on the desk in front of me as I take her in.

A bright pink tank top showcases Sienna’s perfectly round breasts, drooping not quite low enough for her cleavage to be visible. Long gold earrings hang from her ears and her hair is a wild mess, held back only by a pair of oversized sunglasses. On her legs is another pair of cutoff jeans. Thankful I’m sitting so my cock won’t be visible, I try to keep my face passive. Hot or not, this is the girl who banged up my truck and ruined my weekend. “You’re late.”

She assesses me for a half a second. “That depends on who you ask.”

“I said this morning. It’s noon.”

“And I said I’d be here today. It’s still today.”

She saunters towards the desk with the confidence of a woman that usually gets what she wants. With every step she takes, I can almost taste the sweetness of her perfume, feel the silkiness of her hair wrapped around my fist.

Still, she knows she’s messing with me, and while it’s a turn-on to watch her almost stalk her way across the lobby, it’s also proving she thinks she can just flirt her way around this, the one thing I hoped she wouldn’t do. Maybe I hoped she’d be different and take this seriously.

“Why did you even bother to come by?” I ask, my tone even harsher than I intended.

“I came to tell you I’m sorry.”

The pen in my hand stops scrawling across the notepad in front of me, but I don’t look up.

“I mean it,” she adds. “I’ve thought about this all weekend, and I don’t think I even apologized to you.”

She waits for me to utter an acceptance of her apology, one I don’t quite believe because believing gets you disappointed. But when I lift my gaze, the complete somberness in her features has me giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Sitting back in my chair, I press my lips together. “You’re right. You didn’t apologize.”

“I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what happened to me . . .” Her eyes drop to the floor, a tiny smile gracing her shiny lips. “Please accept my apology.” She waits for my response, one I don’t give her. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she looks up at me. “So . . . you’re still really pissed?”

“You took a bat to my truck, Slugger.”

“Stop calling me ‘Slugger.’”

I can’t help but return her lopsided grin, despite my best efforts. I hate the way my anger is dissipating, the way my shoulders feel lighter than they have since Saturday night.

“You have one hell of a swing,” I note, remembering more about what her body looked like moving the bat through the air than the actual mechanics of the swing. “I bet your daddy is proud. Were you a college softball standout or something?”

“No. Just a good learner.”

I try not to frown. “Ex-boyfriend play?”

“Nah, just my brother,” she says with a shrug. “I spent half my life at a baseball stadium or practice field watching him do his thing.”

“Was he any good?”

“Decent,” she says. “I take credit for any success he ever had. I threw him so many pop flies growing up he owes me.”

“I’m sure he owes it all to you,” I chuckle.

She grins, the damn thing lighting up the room. Leaning against the desk, she bites her bottom lip. “So, about Daisy . . .”

Before I can respond, the chimes ring behind her. We jump like we’ve been caught doing something we weren’t supposed to be.

“Peck was right,” Kip says, taking off his brown Sheriff’s hat and purposefully not looking at Sienna. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

“You called the Sheriff?” Sienna whips around, her eyes wide. “Damn it, Walker. I said I’ll pay for it. Don’t you believe me?”

“Sienna—”

“Let me introduce myself,” Kip says, extending a hand. “I’m Sheriff Kooch, the man in charge of this county. And who might you be?”

“Sienna.” She squares her shoulders and bats her eyes once for good measure. “I told him I’d pay for the damage. There’s really no reason for you to be involved. Don’t you have a lot of other things to take care of today? Things that matter?”

Kip doesn’t say anything, just turns to me with a slightly raised brow. He’s putty in her hands. If I don’t watch it, he’ll be writing me the ticket.

“Daisy matters,” I say, ignoring the rest for now.

“My legal footprint matters,” she shoots back.

“Yeah, Walker,” Kip adds in. “Peck told me what happened. Pretty silly to get the law involved in an accident.”

“No, the fact that a grown man named his truck after a flower is silly.” Sienna has a hand on her narrow hip and waits for my response.

“It’s not named after a flower, smartass. Ever heard of ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’?”

“I’m from Savannah. Of course I have. I didn’t know Yankees were allowed to watch it.”

Our gazes tangle together, heating the longer they hold. Her chest rises and falls, her bottom lip dropping just enough that I can see it. Instead of hurdling this desk and pressing her back against the wall in front of Kip, God, and anyone else who happens to walk in with not so much as a fuck given, I choose to break the spell in a different way.

“What do you say, Sheriff?” I ask, forcing a hot swallow down my throat.

Kip looks at me, then Sienna, and back at me. A smile slides over his face. “I say I just came in to tell you Nana is on her way over and she’s fit to be tied. Seems as if her favorite grandson didn’t show up to church yesterday.”

Sienna’s jaw drops. “You didn’t call him, did you?”

   
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