Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

Cross nods. “And you told him you hoped he got asbestos.”

“Not one of my finer moments,” I mumble. “Anyway, the ceiling looks nice. I love the swirls.”

As Cross gets up and refills his water glass, probably giving me a minute to bring up seeing Machlan, I wonder if it would be possible to get up and leave. To not answer his questions. To avoid the full reason I came home—to get advice from my brother and deal with Machlan once and for all—and go.

Before I can get to my feet, Cross is sitting in front of me.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

“Um, let’s do what?”

“Someone said you went to Crave tonight.”

My forehead rests on the edge of the table. The wood is smooth from years of wear, and I wish I could somehow melt into it and become invisible.

“That someone is named Peck, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Fucker.”

He laughs, leaning back in his chair and stretching his jeans-clad legs along the side of the table. “Do we want to jump right into why you went to see Mach?” When I don’t raise my head, he continues. “Or do you want to tell me why you did it at Crave? I don’t have a preference, if that’s what you’re waiting on. I can’t wait to hear the answer to all of it.”

“You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat.”

“Did your curiosity get the better of you tonight?”

“Uh, no.” I lift my head. “I know all about Machlan Freaking Gibson and the hellhole that is Crave. There’s no curiosity there, bud.”

I think of all the things I wish I didn’t know. Like the smell of Machlan’s skin first thing in the morning and the way he donates money anonymously every year to the local school to buy winter coats for kids. I wish I didn’t know how his voice sounds when he’s whispering things in my ear as I drift to sleep and how he pretends not to hear when someone says his parents would’ve been proud of him.

Mostly, though, I wish I didn’t know the way his arms feel like the safest place in the world when I’m scared and how the pad of his thumb catches my tears with such gentleness when I’m falling apart. I wish more than anything that I didn’t know how graceful he is under duress. How I can’t imagine going through some of the things I have with anyone but him.

I wish I didn’t know any of that.

“How are things in Vigo?” Cross asks, changing tactics.

“Fine.”

He runs a hand through dark hair the same color as our mother’s. Seeing Cross reminds me so much of her that it’s hard to even be around him sometimes.

“Should I be worried about you?” He fiddles with his glass. “You’re acting weird. Even for you.”

“Gee, thanks.” I toss him my best smile despite the hollowness in my chest. “I’m fine. Really. Vigo is great. I’m stoked about my new job. The staff seems awesome, and I can’t wait to get started. Everything is good.”

Cross’s grin is smug. “What about Samuel?”

“What about him?” I yawn.

“The last time I saw you, I was pretty sure you guys were serious.”

“Yeah, we were. I guess.” I shrug. “That’s how apathetic I am about him. The only words I have for Samuel is a shrug. How bad is that?”

“Bad is a subjective term. And were is past tense.”

“You’re so smart, big brother.”

He shakes his head. “Are you deliberately trying not to give me any information? Or is this one of those times I’m supposed to push? I’m not sure.”

The chair creaks as I settle back. As if he knows we’re talking about him, Samuel’s name glows from my phone a few inches in front of me. I stare at his name and imagine the sound of his voice.

He’s a pretty nice guy. A good guy, for all intents and purposes. He’s smart, works hard, and balances his checkbook to the penny.

Once the glow fades and the voicemail alert chimes, I look back at my brother.

“We’re on a break,” I say simply.

“And how do you feel about that?”

I ponder that for a moment. “Relieved.” Tucking my foot under my bottom, I ease into this conversation. “Samuel is a great guy.”

“Great might be a little strong of an adjective, but I’ve seen worse.”

“He’s nice, Cross,” I say.

“He’s kind of a pudfuck.”

“He is not!” I shake my head, trying not to laugh. “And don’t use that word ever again.”

“It fits.”

“It does not. Samuel is not a pudfuck, whatever that even is.”

“Then why are you relieved you’re not together?”

I wait for my belly to flutter, for that pang of guilt to swell in my stomach for not answering his call, but neither happen. I feel like someone hit a mute button on my emotions and that gives me guilt.

“Maybe relieved isn’t the right word,” I groan. “Not dealing with him feels kind of nice for a change.”