Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

I glance around for cameras because this has to be a joke. Surely, one of my cousins is setting me up. But the longer I look, the more it becomes apparent: she’s as serious as a heart attack.

“You’re exactly like she said you’d be,” she says.

I rub my forehead, wishing once again I’d have stayed home. I have a good twenty minutes left on this truck and then a fifteen-minute drive back to Crank to clock out. Then I need to check on Nana and make sure she got lunch before I can go home and get a shower and close my damn eyes. But before any of that can happen, I have to figure what the hell this girl is talking about.

Blowing out a breath, I focus.

“Let’s just restart this whole thing,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“We’re really doing this?”

“Doing what?” I hold my hands in front of me. “What are we really doing? I don’t get it.”

She flashes me a disapproving look. “You’re really asking my name?”

“That’s what ya do when you don’t know somebody. At least it is around here.”

“Fine. I’ll play along. I’m Dylan,” she says as if she’s talking to a baby. “And we talked last week about how much you love my best friend.”

The last part of that gets loud. Really, really loud. She takes my cringing as a sign of weakness.

She moves toward me, her eyes flashing her fury at me like bolts of lightning. Her finger jabs me in the chest.

“You better be scared of me,” she says. “Thinking you’re gonna ghost her like some careless asshole after she opens up to you about—”

“Whoa, wait—”

“No, I’m not gonna wait.” She jabs me again, harder this time. Her face twists when I don’t budge. “I shouldn’t have even shown up out here because that probably will make your ego explode.”

My brain scrambles with her accusation but gets even more fogged up with the look in her eyes. Worry is etched on her face.

“Listen, I’m sorry about your friend. Honest. But—”

“I highly doubt that.” She takes a deep breath, the passion starting to wane as she thinks her point has been delivered. “You better stay away from her. Do you hear me?”

I have no idea what we’re doing here, but I feel bad for Dylan. And her friend. And for the guy who ghosted her friend if Dylan ever catches up with him.

A part of me wants to maintain my innocence, but I’m not sure it matters.

“I get it,” I tell her. “Your friend is hurting, and you’re ready to go to battle. I respect that. Lord knows the battles my family has gotten me in. But I …”

This placates her a little. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Another deep breath is taken, causing the tiny chip of diamond in her nose to shine.

She’s pretty. This girl with her golden-brown skin and long eyelashes and personality for days would have me chasing after her if I didn’t want to run out of fear for my life.

The venom in her eyes subsides. She reaches up and brushes back a strand of hair that came out as she railed me, and I see a tattoo on her wrist. It’s the word family written in a delicate script. I think about my brother, Vincent, and how many times I’ve gone to war for him or my cousins.

I consider telling her I’m not who she thinks I am. But if I do that, she’s going to start shouting again, which means I’ll just be here longer fixing this damn truck. Besides, I did nothing wrong, so maybe I’ll let it go. Let Dylan get it off her chest and move on. I have broad shoulders. Besides, the guy, whomever he is, probably wouldn’t give a shit anyway from how it sounds. It’ll probably make her feel better to think the guy feels bad—at least a little.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to make this better?”

“Stay away from her.”

“I will. Promise. Cross my heart,” I say, acting out the gesture in front of her. “Anything else?”

She nods, looking around Dave’s front yard. “Well, you could bring her pots and pans back. They were the first nice thing she ever bought for herself, and it makes it easier to save money if you can cook at home. I’m sure she’d like to have them returned.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering why some dude would take a woman’s kitchen equipment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I bite my bottom lip, trying to figure out how to get a set of pans back from a guy I don’t even know. Dylan scrutinizes every move I make. Finally, she shakes her head.

“You pawned them, didn’t you?”

“No,” I insist, slightly offended. “I wouldn’t pawn someone’s pots and pans. Who do you think I am?”