Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“I hate seeing you cry.”

His eyes rise to mine. My cheeks are hot, warmth exuding from them as I stand in front of him. Even now, I can see something in his eyes that pings at my heart and I have to force it away.

“I kept thinking I saw something in you that proved you weren’t really an asshole. And, you know what,” I say, biting back a sob, “that’s what hurts.”

He grimaces, walks in a circle, but refuses to dispute anything.

“I’ll be honest,” I say, my voice dropping a couple of notches, “I liked you. I enjoyed spending time with you. And I thought you did too. Maybe it’s what I hoped would happen, maybe I wanted you to like me.”

“You know I like you, Sienna,” he says, standing still. “That’s not the problem.”

“So this is what you do to people you like?”

“No,” he groans, looking at the sky.

“You do this on purpose. You’re hot and cold intentionally, making me wonder where I stand and what you’re thinking.”

“You know what I’m thinking,” he says, his body almost shaking. “You know how I feel.”

“Do I? Because the last interaction we had made it perfectly clear how you feel, if that’s the case.”

My words stop him in his tracks. He takes a deep, measured breath as he sticks his hands into his pockets.

“Do you want me to hate you? Fine. Done. You win,” I say, holding his gaze for half a second and then turning to Peck. “You done?”

“Let’s go somewhere and talk,” Walker says from behind me.

“Peck?” I say, ignoring Walker.

“Yeah, I’m done. You sliced it pretty good.” Peck brushes off his hands, leaning the old tire next to his leg. “That one will get you around for a while, but you’ll need a new one. It’s the only one we had in the shop.”

“I’ll order a new one,” Walker says.

I look at him over my shoulder. “I’ll go to the dealership. Don’t worry about it.” Turning back to Peck, I hold up a finger. “Hold on a second.” My hand shaking, I get into the car and sift through my wallet. Pulling out a fifty-dollar bill, I get back out and hand it to Peck. “Here. It’s all the cash I have—”

“Stop,” Walker cuts me off.

“Take it, Peck,” I demand.

“I’m not taking your money,” he laughs.

I shove the money in Peck’s hand. “Then give it to him. But I won’t owe either of you.”

Peck studies me for a long second before nodding. “Fine. You still coming to church tomorrow?”

“Doubt it,” I say, my heart softening as I think of Nana. “Tell Nana I’ll mail her my blueberry muffin recipe.”

“She’ll be pissed,” Peck grins. “You really want to risk that?”

“Thanks for coming.” I send him a small smile before walking around the back of my car. “I appreciate it.”

“Any time. I told you that.”

With a final look Walker’s way, I ignore the look in his eye that would typically make me stop and ask him what’s wrong. Today I don’t give a damn.

Jumping into the car, I flip on the ignition and take off down the road, leaving Walker behind.

THE SUN IS BRIGHT, birds chirping, grass still dewy as I make my way from the parking lot of Holy Hills Church to the front steps. Scanning the gatherings of people scattered in front of the brick building, I don’t see anyone I recognize. That’s both good and bad.

I wasn’t going to show up here this morning. I made plans to meet Delaney for brunch just so I wouldn’t. But when I woke up at six, I changed my mind.

I try to settle my nerves by reminding myself this is a means to an end. I’ll sit through a short service, probably one my soul needs more than I care to admit, give the money I owe Walker to Peck, and then go back home and plot my escape from Illinois. Easy as pie. Except part of me wants to hear what Walker has to say.

Lying in bed last night, tossing and turning, I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. My feelings are wounded, my pride is injured, so what do I care what he wanted to say?

Because what will it hurt?

The pastor stands by the front door step, shaking hands with each person as they enter. The air has a melody about it as the light breeze dusts across the steps. Laughs, stories about grandchildren, and talks about potluck dinners drift about, soothing my nerves like a warm balm.

My heels click against the steps, my hand guiding up the shiny black rail as I near the top. The pastor extends a hand, a warm, welcoming smile on his aged face.

“Welcome,” he says, his voice passive and kind. “Are you new here?”

“I’m visiting for the day. A guest of . . . Nana? I’m sorry. I’m not even sure what her name is. How awful is that?”