Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

I could leave. I could leave a stack of cash on the desk that I took from the ATM this morning and skate, getting back to reality. Like I should. But that option, as logical as it is, seems so . . . plain. Boring. Predictable.

Is this what the start of an addiction feels like? A hankering for more, even when I know taking it in large doses might kill me? Being absolutely sure I shouldn’t be partaking, but not able to talk myself out of it either?

This place, this man, is a breath of oily-scented, testosterone-fueled air. It’s as foreign to me as outer space. It’s another planet, and while I was never the little girl who wanted to go to outer space, I’ll sign up for this ride just to see what it’s like.

The chimes ring and I spring around. An old man with a plaid golfer’s hat and worn blue jeans, a man I doubt has ever played golf a day in his life, stands in the doorway. “Seen Walker?” he asks, his voice gruff like there’s a pack of cigarettes in one of his pockets.

“He’s in the back,” I volunteer.

“I hope he doesn’t take long,” he murmurs, wincing as a hand goes to the small of his back.

He looks at the floor, the lines in his face so deeply etched that I wonder if he was born with some of them. Regardless, my heart breaks when he posts a hand on the wall and leans against it with a cringe, the hole in the toe of his shoe dark and unraveling.

“Let’s get you a chair,” I say, looking around. There’s none in the lobby, but I spy the one behind the counter. I bring it around and help him get settled.

He pats my hand. “You are a doll. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He seems unsure with his repeated head-to-toe scans of me, like he’s wondering if I’m an imposter taking over Crank without anyone’s knowledge. He’d be right, but for whatever strange reason, I don’t feel like I don’t belong here. I just feel like I haven’t figured it out yet.

“Is Peck around?” he asks.

“I’ve only seen Walker. Do you need something I can help with?”

“My truck. I need to meet my wife for breakfast. I should’ve been there an hour ago but my neighbor was late picking me up and all that jazz.”

“Where is your wife?” I ask.

“The nursing home.” He forces a swallow. “She’s been there two years now. I go by every morning for breakfast and I’m never late. She hates being late. That’s all I heard for the fifty-five years we’ve been married—if you aren’t early, you’re late.”

“Maybe she’ll cut you some slack,” I offer. “Especially if this is your first offense.”

His eyes drift from the window to me, a sadness written so heavy in his features that I feel it in my soul. “She won’t care. She doesn’t even know I’m there. Alzheimer’s is a son of a bitch.”

Nodding is all I can do because if I say a word, he’ll hear the lump in my throat.

“I walked into her daddy’s lumber yard when I was fifteen and she was up to her knees in mud. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He dabs at his eyes with a blue bandana, the tip of his nose turning red. “Fifty-five years is a long time to sleep next to someone and then they don’t remember who you are.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my own eyes watering. Placing my hand on his over his knee, I squat in front of him. “That has to be very hard.”

“It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder than going to war, harder than losing our baby at three months old. It’s like having my heart cut out of my chest.”

His other hand, wrinkly and cool, settles on top of mine. They shake, his knee vibrating with his valiant attempt at restraining his emotions.

“She loves you,” I tell him, my eyes burning. “Remember that as you go to see her and think she doesn’t remember you. She does. She just can’t tell you.”

His tears flow freely, dripping down his hollowed cheeks like a floodgate has been broken. “Thank you, hon. I needed to hear that today.” As his face falls, his eyes sliding closed to the exhaustion riddling his old body, I turn away.

Heading to the desk, sensing his need to change the subject, I clear my throat. Discreetly wiping my face with the tail end of my shirt, I take a deep breath. “What kind of car did you have?”

“Black Ranger. I had a tire bust on me yesterday and Walker had a used one out back.”

The desk is covered in receipts and notes, candy wrappers and invoices. There’s no way anyone knows what’s actually here. The further I try to dig, the deeper the mess becomes.