Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Have you met all my handsome grandsons?” Nana asks. “That’s Machlan, of course you know Walker. That’s Lance and Peck. They’re all good boys,” she says, patting my leg. “And so is their sister, but she’s outgrown us by now.”

Walker’s gaze follows her hand to my thigh, letting it linger, before he blazes a trail back to my eyes. “Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” I say, shifting in my seat. My heart thumps so loud I think Nana can hear it as she rambles to Patrick about her morning glories.

Squirming in my seat, I situate my purse on my lap. Peck nudges me with his shoulder and I nudge him back, a playfulness between the two of us that takes the edge off my nerves.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.” The man I know now as Lance settles against the back of the pew, a smirk playing across his features. He resembles his brothers handily, his face clean-shaven though, instead of the scruff Walker and Machlan sport. There’s an air of refinement about him that’s a stark dichotomy to the almost barbarianism that swims just below the surface of his striking hazel eyes. “I’m Lance.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say politely, noting the scowl on Walker’s face out of the corner of my eye that might include a twinge of jealousy. “Walker and Peck have Crank, Machlan, Crave. What do you do?”

“I teach history at the high school in Carlisle.”

“He’s the resident nerd,” Peck jokes.

“I love history, actually,” I tell them. “American history, mostly, but I had classes on European history and Russian culture in college.”

He seems impressed. “Meeting a woman who likes history doesn’t happen often.”

Walker fidgets in his seat, catching Lance’s attention. He glances at Walker, his smirk deepening. “What’s your story, Sienna?”

“She doesn’t have one,” Walker almost growls. I look at him, his gaze capturing it immediately and holding it hostage. It freezes me to my seat, causes a bead of sweat to line the back of my neck. I could easily sit quietly and just have this silent conversation, the one that makes me feel like no one else is in the room, but I don’t. Because that’s what he wants.

Clearing my throat, I tear my gaze away from Walker and settle it on Lance. I think, if not seated by his brother’s side, Lance would be hard to look away from.

“How sweet of Walker to speak for me,” I say sweetly. “Actually, I don’t have much to share that wouldn’t bore you to death.”

“I doubt that,” Lance mutters. “I seriously fucking doubt that.”

Nana leans forward, swatting Lance in the side of the head. “Don’t you think about using that language in here, Lance Miller Gibson.”

“Sorry, Nana. Won’t let it happen again.”

“Better not let it happen again,” Walker warns him, his tone so low that I find myself gulping. Lance doesn’t seem fazed, just laughs. But he does turn back around towards the front.

The pastor taps the mic attached to the podium. Walker’s eyes drag over me, leaving a scorched trail in their wake, before he, too, faces forward.

Shuddering in my seat, trying to remain unaffected, I feel a nudge at my rib. Looking at Peck, I’m met with a set of twinkling blue eyes. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers. “He was an ass all night.”

“Walker?” I whisper back as the pastor begins to speak.

“Who else? Did you see his eyes? Drinkin’ like a fool since you drove off.”

Staring at the back of his head, I wonder if he’s trying to forget what happened. Trying to forget me. The idea causes my heart to ruffle in my chest. Turning back to Peck, I whisper, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Hell yeah, you should. Listen,” he says, leaning his head so he’s almost whispering straight into my ear, “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but he needs this.”

“Needs what?”

“Please stand and join us in the singing of Amazing Grace,” the pastor says. A piano strikes the first notes of the beloved tune. I join the others in singing from memory.

Nana’s voice is soothing and I find myself relaxing into the lyrics. I make a concerted effort not to watch Walker, to block out the whiffs of his cologne and the way my body feels a tingle every time I hear his voice cut through the others.

“Do you trust me?” Peck interjects as we take a breath before going into the second stanza.

“No, I don’t trust you,” I hiss. “I don’t know you.”

“That’s your second mistake,” he chuckles.

“What’s the first?”

“This is a house of God, Sienna . . .”

I can’t help but giggle at the look on his face, a move that gains me a glance over the shoulder from Walker as we take our seats. I flash him a forced smile, a move that seems to confuse him more than anything. Machlan bends and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is causes Walker’s scowl to come parading back and Nana to swat at Machlan.