Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Looks like I need to call Kip,” Walker notes.

“Why?”

“Someone stole Dave Cooper’s truck. A Ranger,” he adds, watching me carefully.

Gulping, I take a step away. “I have another question. What would it cost to repair a car that hit a deer?”

He’s not amused. Storming across the room, he swings open the door. “Where is MaryAnn Maylor’s van?”

“Well, she was here,” I say, taking a couple of steps to the corner. “And so was Dave . . .”

His face doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even make an attempt to speak, just stares at me in a mixture of disbelief and disdain.

“Can you add their bills onto my tab?” I cringe, waiting for his eruption.

“You let them take their cars without paying?” he booms.

“No, I didn’t. I mean, I did,” I correct. “But it’s okay. I’ll pay for them.”

He walks in a circle, shaking his head. “Dave’s tire is about thirty-five bucks. But MaryAnn’s van was about fifteen hundred.” He stops and looks at me. “You have that in your pocket?”

“No, but I’ll get it.”

He flashes me a glare before heading back to the desk. One look at it and he’s back to me. “And I suppose you just messed this up too?”

“Oh, no. That was a mess before,” I shoot back. “I looked for the invoices, trying to do you a favor—”

“I didn’t ask you for a favor. I asked you to come by and apologize for fucking up my truck, not waltz in here like you own the damn place and cost me another two grand.”

“Fifteen thirty-five,” I correct, hoping for the best.

I think he’s going to explode. He turns away, his back heaving as he fills his lungs with air. The sound of it whooshing out of his body gushes through the room.

“What was I supposed to do?” I ask when he turns to face me.

There’s a weakness in his glare, one that tells me I can make him see the light. I see this in my brother Graham every so often when he’s trying to nix some idea I have. It’s an opening, a small window of opportunity to appeal to their humanity and get them to come around.

I stand in front of the desk, game face on. “I felt sorry for them. Dave needed to go have breakfast with his wife who has Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t even know he’s there every day. How sad is that? And MaryAnn walked all the way over here and it was like two miles with two babies.”

This seems to weaken his resolve.

“Why didn’t she call? Peck would’ve gone and picked her up,” he says, the irritation in his tone a little less prevalent.

“I don’t know,” I rush, trying not to lose momentum. “But she was stressed out, her husband’s working doubles, and they have a sick baby. So sue me for having a heart if you’re that much of a dick. But I’ll pay for all of it.”

He fiddles with the papers in front of him, the lines on his forehead melting away with each passing second. The room settles, the only sounds the beating of my heart and the papers he’s pretending to deal with.

“Don’t act like you know what any of that is,” I kid.

“It might look like a mess, but I actually do know where everything is. Most everything, anyway,” he grumbles. Retrieving two pieces of paper, one missing the bottom corner, he holds them in the air. “These are the invoices you were looking for.”

“I’ll take care of them.”

He sets them back down and leans on the desk. His brown eyes are filled with something I haven’t seen before, something that makes me feel like everything over the past few days comes down to this moment, like if I fall, I may never recover. Only it’s not a fall from a ledge or a fall from grace, it’s a fall into those chocolatey eyes. It’s a delicious and yet uncomfortable feeling and all I can do is shift my weight from one foot to the other and hold on tight.

“How am I supposed to take your money when you won’t take anyone else’s?” he asks.

“One is not dependent on the other.”

He looks over my shoulder and laughs. “Brace yourself.”

“Why?”

“My Nana is two seconds from walking through the door.”

The chime hits on demand and the entire feel of the room shifts.

“Walker Elder Gibson, what do you think you’re doing?” The door latches closed as she sees me. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Are you busy?”

“No, Nana,” he says, his chin dipping with a shy smile. “I’m never busy. I just come here to hang out all day every day.”

“Don’t give me that . . .”

She’s in her mid-sixties, if I were guessing, wearing a white dress with tiny blue flowers. Her hair is gunmetal silver and set in a way that makes me wonder if she still visits the beauty shop on Saturday morning like the little old ladies in Savannah do. Her belly is round and in her arms is a wooden picnic basket.