Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Because she’s not a fucking maid and that’s what we need,” Walker barks immediately, scowling at his cousin.

“Wait,” I say, looking between the two. Walker isn’t going to let me pay him back and I know he can’t afford to be out that much. I can’t live with costing him that much either. “That’s not a bad idea, really. I mean, I’m not your maid and I’m not cleaning that filthy bathroom.”

“That bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in years,” Peck sighs.

“I can believe that,” I say, scrunching my nose. “But I wouldn’t be averse to sweeping some of this mud up and maybe organizing that desk, because it’s driving me nuts.”

“It’s not necessary,” Walker says.

“It’s totally necessary,” Peck counters. “We were just talking about it before you got here. Well, the cleaning part. Not the you part. Although . . .”

Walker looks at me, the pools of chocolate dragging me in just like they did the other night. I’m not quite sure if he likes me or loathes me, but either way, I can’t look anywhere else.

“I’m technically on vacation for a couple of weeks and am probably going to leave town after that anyway. I’m going to have some time on my hands,” I point out. “I really don’t mind working off what I owe. Heck, it might even be good for me and I know it would be good for you.”

“I want it to be good for me,” Peck deadpans.

Walker rolls his eyes at Peck. “You sure?” he asks me.

“I mean, if you don’t want me . . .”

“We want you,” Peck jumps in, standing between me and Walker. “We. Want. You. I want you, anyway. If he doesn’t, I do. Let’s make that clear.”

Walker shoves Peck’s shoulder, making Peck laugh.

“If you want to, that’s fine,” Walker says, once Peck makes his way back into the shop bay. “But I’ll pay you. You aren’t helping out around here for free.”

“You aren’t paying me,” I toss back. “This is to work off the damage and today’s freebies. What time do we start?”

He twists his lips into a hesitant grin. “I have a feeling you’re going to show up whenever you want, so we open at eight. The rest is up to you.”

It would be so easy to stay, to linger beneath his lopsided smile. I could pull up a chair and fix us both plates of Nana’s fried chicken and listen to this gravelly voice tease me, grumble, whatever he likes, all day. Sometimes, though, the right option isn’t the easiest one. Sometimes, it’s the hardest.

“See you then,” I say.

Before he can get in the last word, I head to the door. Without looking back, I tug it open and make myself walk away from Walker Gibson.

PAPERS FLUTTER AGAINST THE cork board, held in place by various thumbtacks, nails, and an occasional toothpick with the foil at the end that Machlan uses in Crave’s famous cheeseburgers. There’s nothing particularly interesting tonight. A coon dog that went missing out by the lake and a carpenter from Merom looking for help. Otherwise, it’s just a bunch of jokes, shift schedules for the factory, and some pictures from when a couple of the Illinois Legends football players were in a while back.

Mach works behind the bar, wiping down the bottles that line the counter below the oversized mirror. He’s the youngest out of us all. He shares my dark hair and a little above average height, but he’s more like our sister in that he can be a hard nut to crack. Things are right or wrong with Machlan, and he’s not above doling out justice when it’s deserved. A time or two this has put him into spots with Kip since he took the position of Sheriff.

As if on cue, Mach leans against the bar across from me. “Blaire called this morning.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to make sure I got my bartender license renewed. Apparently it was on her calendar as a ‘to-do’ item,” he grins. “How does our sister even know when it renews? I mean, I wouldn’t have known if my accountant didn’t remind me last week, but I pay her for that shit.”

“You know Blaire,” I say, peeling at the label of the beer bottle I just finished. “She just likes holding it over our heads that we need her. It’s her way of feeling relevant.”

“I think that fancy corner office in Chicago should make her feel relevant.”

“But to us?” I ask. “If she wasn’t our older sister, would we even give a fuck that she’s a lawyer with some hotshot firm? What do we care about law degrees?”

“Lance cares. He’d love to find some chick who could moan eight-syllable words as she got off.”

Laughing, I lean back in my chair while Machlan heads down the bar to refill a customer. He pauses long enough to have a quick conversation, making the guy I haven’t seen before feel welcome, but doesn’t hover.