Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

Dropping the rag, I circle the desk and plop on top of it. Invoices and papers scatter, a pen rolls off the desk and hits the floor.

“A little respect for the workplace, why don’t you?” he asks, wrapping his arms around me and locking them behind my waist. He sits in front of me, nestled between my knees, and lets me take off his hat.

My fingers run through the silky strands of his hair as I breathe him in. “Don’t pretend you know what was where on here anyway.”

“Maybe I did.”

“Whatever,” I say.

“I sure as fuck know what’s on here now.”

He tilts his head back, asking without asking for me to kiss him. So I do. He cups my ass cheeks in his hands, scooting me closer towards him as he takes over the kiss.

Despite my insistence, he moves us slowly against one another, the kiss long and leisurely. He takes his time, his tongue parting my lips in the slowest, most delicious way. He nibbles my lip, refusing to let me do anything back but lap up his attention and bask in the glow of being at the receiving end of his attention.

“Walker,” I breathe, resting my forehead against his.

His breathing matches mine breath-for-breath as he pulls me into a straight-up hug. My head falls onto his shoulder, his heartbeat strumming steadily if not maybe a touch elevated. He’s warm and strong and I close my eyes, wishing for the first time ever that the world would stop spinning and end with me right here, right now.

But it doesn’t.

FLIPPING OFF THE LIGHT in the bathroom, I make my way down the hall, my bare feet slapping against the old hardwood. I suspect its original to the house that has to have been built around the turn of the century. The thick trim, small, oddly-shaped rooms, are nothing like the houses I’ve lived in before.

Running my hand down the wall that was outfitted with a disastrously awful deep green and burgundy wallpaper, I see the holes and marks from the things that hung there previously. Some of them Delaney’s.

I glance in her room as I pass, a heap of newspapers and leftover boxes in the middle of the floor. I asked her to leave them since I’ll be moving soon. Still, the sight of them sitting where her bed used to sit, where we used to hang out with our laptops and build designs and dreams, makes my loneliness grow.

“This is good for me,” I tell myself, shutting Delaney’s door. “You’ve never lived alone. This will build character.” Pivoting to my right, I see the half-emptied living room and frown. “Ugh. I have enough character.”

My stomach rumbles, but most of the kitchen stuff was Delaney’s and I don’t have the energy to go figure out something to make with the little I have on hand. The idea of eating alone depresses me, a side effect of being a twin and from a large family, always having someone around in my formative years.

I flop onto the sofa, the one piece of furniture besides my bed that remains. Flip-flopping between going to sleep and going for takeout, I’m undecided when the doorbell rings.

My phone in one hand, a baseball bat in the other, I lament the fact that the door doesn’t have a peephole. “Who is it?” I call.

“It’s me.”

“Walker?”

“Do you have other men swinging by at night?”

Grinning ear-to-ear, I set the phone and bat down and fiddle with both locks. It seems to take forever before I’m able to pull the door open and let my eyes rest on him.

He’s dressed in a pair of jeans, a black shirt with blue writing, and a black hat. In his hand is a brown plastic bag.

“Hey,” I say, rocking to my heels. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, Nana called and had me come over to check her oil. The warning light went on which means she could’ve waited until tomorrow, but . . .”

“But Nana’s not waiting.”

He grins. “Exactly. And she really shouldn’t have to. It took fifteen minutes.” Raising the bag, he shrugs. “And she made dinner.”

“Of course she did,” I say, stepping to the side and letting him in. “Don’t mind the mess. Or lack of furniture. I’m kind of using this as a bachelor pad, I guess.”

He doesn’t blink at the reference, just looks around. “I think I’d know this was your place.”

“Oh, God, I hope not,” I laugh. “It’s awful. There’s so much I’d do to it if I were staying here.”

“So you’re not?” He looks at me, the bag crunching in his fingers.

“I mean if I were staying in this house permanently. No, I can’t see having a family here someday.”

“I see what you mean.”

“What would make you think this was mine?”

He walks to the mantle, glancing over the pictures and figurines that are set off-kilter from having been moved when Delaney was taking her stuff. “It feels like you.”