Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Peck needs to stop talking about her.” I say it too fast, with too much force. Keeping my gaze on the road, I don’t look at my brother because I don’t want to see the victory in his eyes that I know is there. “You, too, for that matter.”

“That’s hard, in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.”

He’s saying it to piss me off. It works. My knuckles turn white as they wrap around the steering wheel, imagining it’s Machlan’s neck.

“You can keep your thoughts about Sienna to yourself,” I say through clenched teeth. Just thinking about him thinking about jacking off to her makes me want to come undone. I hate this feeling of not being able to control my reaction to Sienna and having to listen to these assholes poke me about it.

“Well, if it’s nothing to you, I don’t see why it can’t be something to someone else. If she finds her way into Crave this weekend, you know what’ll happen. Every cocksucker in there will have his number in her hands.”

I don’t have to look at my brother out of the corner of my eye to know he’s pulling my chain, but I do anyway. When I take in his cheesy smile and arched brow, I cut the steering wheel hard to bounce him around in his seat.

Laughing, Machlan adjusts his shoulder strap. “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time, brother.”

“Let’s not go there.”

“I’m not going there,” he promises. “I’m just saying, it’s fun to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“She’s gotten under your skin.”

It’s a simple phrase, one I’ve heard used to describe people in songs and even, sometimes, in real life. But never have I truly understood what it meant until this very moment.

He’s right. She’s burrowed her way into my mind, maybe without even trying. Something about her just sparks a match deep inside me, one I can’t put out no matter how hard I try. In a perfect world, I’d ask her to dinner. I’d ask her about the little drawl to her voice and what the ring on her finger means. I’d ask her why she chose purple to streak her hair and why she always hums the same catchy ditty to herself.

But I don’t. Because that would be stupid. Because scratching this particular itch would only spread it. This isn’t a bug bite. This is poison ivy.

I take the final turn to Machlan’s house and pull up in front of the two-story brick home that was our parents’. The house where we all grew up.

Flicking the transmission into park, I look at him. “Thanks for helping me tonight.”

“Yeah. No problem. I’m gonna grab a shower and then head into Crave. Our orders for the week go in tomorrow and I don’t know what we have and what we don’t.” He grabs the handle, but stops. “Walker, look, I know I was giving you hell, but really . . . I think it’s good you’re finally starting to come around. You’ve done everything right, brother. But fuck it. You deserve a life too.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Let it—”

“Mach,” I warn, cutting him off. “Don’t. All right? Just don’t.”

Fists clenched at my sides, I look at the house and not at him.

“How long you gonna do this?” he asks. “Up until now, I get it. There hasn’t been anyone who’s worth a damn. But Sienna is different, Walk.”

“You getting out or what?” I ask.

Heaving a breath, he climbs out of my truck. “See ya on Sunday.”

“Later.”

As soon as the door closes, I peel out of the driveway. I should turn left to go home, but that would only make things worse. Instead, I take a right and drive aimlessly into the darkening night.

A ROCK SONG BLARES on the overhead speakers as I fish under a table for a dropped bolt. The tune is one of my favorites, one that I play when I need to zone out and focus on a job. After getting here two hours early and getting nothing accomplished, I tried my luck with music. Turns out, my luck is out.

My hand rolls along the cool concrete floor, grasping wildly for the errant piece. My mind is just as desperate for a resolution of its own.

The lyrics, lines I’ve heard dozens of times over my life, sound brand new this morning. I’ve never picked up on the innuendo or the suggestive undertones before. As the words thump through the room, my mind is drawn further and further away from the broken axel on the pickup in front of me and closer to the blonde who should be walking in the door at any minute.

The truck has been a headache, but Sienna is a fucking migraine. At least with the truck, there are procedures and handbooks and common knowledge that can be applied to solve the riddle. With her? It’s madness. There’s not a handbook besides the back of a whiskey label to fix this.