Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Thank you, Ms. Gibson.”

She starts to correct me, but thinks better of it. “See you soon. Boys, get back to your dinner before it gets cold.”

Scooting my chair back, I give Peck a squeeze on the shoulder.

“Go get him, Slugger,” he whispers loud enough for only me to hear.

Heading to the doorway, Walker steps to the side to let me through. Not sure what to do or what to say, I keep walking until I’m out the door.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I ask as he passes me. The gravel crunches beneath his feet as he passes the front of Peck’s truck. “Walker?”

He draws a line across the top of the Charger with the tip of his finger as he all but storms past, my legs struggling to keep up in the low heels I stupidly decided to wear for church. Stopping and leaning against the car, I take them off and carry them as I feel the gravel turn to soft earth beneath my bare feet.

He’s halfway to a tree line, still not looking back.

“Damn it, Walker,” I yell after him. “Answer me.”

I want to take a shoe and throw it at his head, both as a way to get his attention and to ease some of the frustration that’s causing my teeth to grind together.

There’s nothing worse than being ignored, except when that person asks for your attention and then flips it back around like you’re begging them.

To hell with that.

“Screw it. I’m going back.”

His feet plant just inches from the trees. The shirt, the first time I think I’ve ever seen him in anything but black, stretches across his wide shoulders, the pockets of his jeans hugging his ass. Strands of hair hit the top of his collar and I want to run my fingers through them and ask him why he’s hell-bent on driving me nuts, but I don’t because he’s still not looking at me.

Flying him the bird, an un-ladylike gesture that feels like a huge moment of rebellion, I take a step back towards the house when I hear him speak.

“I didn’t say I regretted anything.”

Our positions now flip-flopped—him looking at my back, me refusing to look his way—I focus on the back of the old barn bearing a few streaks of paint leftover from an old tobacco ad.

“Sometimes you don’t have to say things to have them understood.” My voice is clear over the bright green grass, floating across the bunny that’s standing on its hind legs watching us, and through the band of evergreens. “I think you’re the master at not having to say what you mean to get your point across.”

The sun hits my face and I feel all the mixed emotions of the last few days just kind of lump together and fall, sinking in the warm afternoon. I’m almost numb, not really feeling any certain way. I stand at the back of the yard, my face to the sky, and wonder what I should do. Then again, I wonder if it’s even worth my energy.

I have a phone full of numbers, social media accounts brimming with contacts, of men I could call up and go out with. Handsome men, charming ones, guys who would wine and dine me senseless. Some of them have names every household in America would recognize, some have faces every female in the country could name.

Yet, none of them have the appeal of Walker Gibson. That’s something I don’t understand.

I’ve always known I wasn’t cut out to be arm candy for some trust fund baby. I’ve dated my fair share and being expected to not have an opinion, to look the other way, to have my hair, nails, and eyebrows ready to go at all times is not my idea of a good time. It actually makes me want to punch people in the face. But that doesn’t mean I have to go polar opposite with work boots and grease, does it?

His shadow creeps up beside me, stretching much longer than mine. Even it keeps a distance.

“I mean it.” His voice rushes across my skin, the genuineness in his tone a balm to some of my aches. “I don’t regret it. I never said I did. That was you putting words in my mouth.”

“That was me drawing lines between what you were saying and doing.”

“Fair enough.”

Surprised that he’s giving in that easily, I ease up on the clench of my fingers around the straps of my heels. Blood rushes back into my digits, divots dug into my palms.

“I’m glad you came today,” he says. “I mean, I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but . . .”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” I say, my voice struggling against the tightness in my throat. “It seems like you think I’m out to make your life miserable. I assure you I’m not.”