Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“I’d love to.”

“Because I could tell from that very first night that Walker needed someone like you. Did I know he was gonna fall on his ass for you? No. But I was thinking, at a minimum, you and he could spend some time together and it would pull him out of the fucking fog he’s been in for years.”

“So maybe I’d sleep with him and he’d get over Tabby?” I ask, my brows shooting to the ceiling. “Gee, thanks.”

“That’s not at all what I mean,” he swears, plopping his hat back on. “He’s been over Tabby for years. He’s just been kind of stuck.”

My head slips from the door.

Peck dips his chin. “He’s a great guy. I just hoped maybe I’d see the Walker I knew before he married Tabby. And you know what? I did.”

“At my expense.”

“Was it?”

“Absolutely.”

“What does the fact he married a woman who ran off, one he didn’t even care enough about to chase down for a divorce—how does that hurt you? Did we know he was married? Yeah. I was there that day. I watched him almost drink himself to death an hour before the ceremony. The whole town saw him with her and the whole fucking place saw the aftermath. You think people are judging you because of this? Think again.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place.” He teeters on the edge of the step. “I don’t know why Walker didn’t. I know he hated falling for you knowing he still technically had a wife. It’s why he pushed back so hard against it. He was going to tell you after he got back this weekend with her signature on the divorce papers.”

All of this makes my head spin. The stress in my shoulders aches, the acid in my stomach almost eating it raw. I just want to be happy again, to smile, to want to go do something instead of sitting on the sofa and being miserable.

I want to see Walker. I want to kiss him and hold him and make him laugh. But the man lied to me, omitted something beyond significant, and I don’t know if I can ever trust him again.

“Go for a drive with me,” Peck says, offering me his hand. “Some fresh air will do you some good.”

“I don’t look fit to go anywhere.”

“My truck won’t care,” he says, shaking his proffered palm. “Come on. Trust me.”

“The last time you said that I ended up at Nana’s.”

“Not today. No Nana’s. No Crank. No Walker’s house. Promise. Just me and you and my ol’ truck.”

I consider going inside and sitting by myself. I think about pacing the floors, taking a bath, overthinking everything.

With a deep, uncertain breath, I take Peck’s hand. “Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

THE RAIN MISTS AGAINST the windshield of Peck’s truck. It’s not heavy or hard but consistent enough that I can’t see Dr. Burns’ building anymore.

My breath starts to steam the cab as I wait for Peck to come back. He disappeared inside Crave fifteen minutes ago, leaving me in the truck when I refused to go back to the scene of the crime—and I’m not even sure which crime, exactly, I was referring to.

Despite the warm temperatures, the rain works its way into my bones. A chill settles over me and I hold myself, rocking back and forth, wishing he’d hurry up. Like I used to do when I was a little girl, I make a deal with myself: if he’s not out by the time I count to one hundred and twenty, I’m going in to get him.

The counting starts in my head as I think I see Walker’s truck. But it’s not. It’s actually a midnight blue truck that’s a slightly different model than Daisy. As the numbers keep going up, I tick back through the night I hit her with the bat, the first day at Crave, the church service. I remember every stare, every kiss, every accidental and purposeful touch. I yearn for more. Need them, even, and wonder if I’ll ever feel normal without them.

Hitting the magic number, I groan and open the truck door. The warm water mists around me, almost like a thick, wet fog. The street is empty as I jog across and lug on the door to Crave. It opens easily.

There are a few lights on around the bar, mostly advertisements that glow in a variety of colors. My eyes dart to the back table, the one Walker frequents, and where the bomb that blasted me apart last night. It’s empty, the chairs neatly arranged around it, the pool balls in their pockets, everything in order.

“Peck?” I call, my voice echoing off the walls. “Where are you?”

When he doesn’t answer, I consider taking a spritzer out of the cooler and sitting down. It’s not my thing, but I’m not exactly me today. Instead, I walk over to the cork boards that line the wall beneath the television.