Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

I lunge forward, but he’s out the door before I get too far.

His truck starts, the engine rumbling from all the tinkering he’s done to it at Crank. The sound gets louder before I hear his tires squeal, and the roar drifts off into the night. The only sound breaking the silence now is the whirl of the ceiling fan in the living room.

My back hits the cool drywall, and I rest my head against it too. My brain feels like a bunch of liquor bottles have been delivered and set around everywhere, nothing in their place. I bet I could stay up all night and not organize this mess.

Hadley’s golden eyes flicker as soon as I close mine. Her pretty face smiles back at me. I fight to keep this vision of her and not let it denigrate to something more … realistic.

I bet I could stay up all night and imagine her sweet face. I bet I will too.

Six

Hadley

“Oh, Cross …”

I pull my pillow over my face, cupping the fabric against my ears, but it doesn’t block out Kallie’s moans. A quick peek from under the lavender lace trim shows me they’ve been at this for a good thirty-six minutes. The volume goes up and down, as does the thrashing of the headboard against the wall, while I hide my face again.

“Cross!” Kallie calls out from the other side of the wall.

I launch the pillow onto the floor. “I’m done.”

Ignoring the sounds of Cross trying to shush his girlfriend and Kallie’s incessant giggling, I slide on a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. The headboard orchestra begins again as I reach for my bag and purse. I’m out the door as Cross takes over, repeating Kallie’s name.

The late-night air rustles against my skin. Fishing my keys out of my purse, I unlock the car door and toss my things in the back.

The neighborhood is dark and quiet as I climb in the driver’s seat. Only the streets are partially lit from the lights dotting the sidewalks every few hundred feet. I glance at the clock and wonder where the heck I’m going to go.

Grabbing my phone out of my bra, I find my friend Emily’s number.

Me:Hey. You up?

Her:Yup. What’s happening?

Me:You home?

Her:No. Be home tomorrow. Can’t wait to see your face!

Me:Shit. I’m in town early and was going to come by.

Her:Sorry! I’ll be home by noon, and we can have lunch.

Me:Sounds good.

“Guess I’ll be sleeping in the car,” I mutter, dropping my phone into the cup holder.

I back down the driveway. Like a sane person, I wait until I’m aimed down the road before turning on the headlights so I don’t shine them in anyone’s bedroom window.

With nowhere to go, I pitter through the neighborhood. Little houses are tucked in perfect little rows. Minivans are parked in more than a handful of driveways as I make my way into town.

I haven’t been out and about alone at this time of night in Linton in a long time. It’s calmer than I remember. No one is out driving the loop around town or tapping their brake lights as they pass each other as a small-town “hello” like we used to do. All the businesses are closed. I can’t even stop at Goodman’s for a tea because their lights are off too.

I drive along in silence, pondering how long Cross and Kallie might be able to maintain that kind of pace and if it’s safe to go back, when I make a turn onto Beecher Street. I ease up on the accelerator.

Like everywhere else in Linton, Crave is quiet. There isn’t a car on the street. No lights are on. There’s not even a person loitering by the back like they do sometimes after closing.

“Keep going,” I whisper. And I do … right to Doc Burns’s parking lot. My car pulls beneath a large pine tree at an angle perfect for checking out the back side of Crave.

My heartbeat quickens as I take in the stainless-steel door and large pot for plants that I suspect is filled with cigarette butts. Just to the right of that is an old wooden staircase with chipped white paint. A security light hangs haphazardly atop a tall pole and gives the area a muted yellow glow.

I pick up my phone and open the door.

“You’re an idiot,” I tell myself. Still, I keep moving forward.

My flip-flops smack against the pavement as I cross Beecher. A truck rumbles somewhere in the distance, but other than that, everything is perfectly still. Everything but the thrumming in my ears from my heart going wild.

I follow the train track that runs through town, over a side street, until I’m at the back of the bar. My breath billows in front of me in the cool night air.

Wishing I had a hoodie over the T-shirt, I gaze in the planter as I walk by. Sure enough, a million pounds of cigarette ash and ends float in dirty rainwater.