Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Fuck off,” I tell him, struggling to get to my feet. “You can drive me home in Daisy.”

“Oh, lucky me,” he laughs.

“Damn right lucky you.”

We slip through the throngs of people, Lance’s arm around my waist, giving Machlan a wave as we pass. Lance is deep in conversation with me, meaning himself, as I tune out and enjoy the blur I’ve been searching for all night.

WINDOWS DOWN, RADIO UP, wind billowing through my hair, I zoom down the country road towards Merom. There’s hardly any traffic as I make my way back to town after having dropped off a bunch of Delaney’s things at her parents’ house. Her mom and dad took us to lunch, her dad going on and on about the dairy industry and almost boring us to death. Still, being bored to death was a nice reprieve from everything else.

There’s no one to blame this thing with Walker on but myself. I should’ve taken his hints and left well enough be. Maybe I pushed him. Maybe I overstepped my bounds coming in after hours, regardless of my intentions. I was a willing participant and he’s entitled to his behavior afterwards. Just as I am mine.

“I don’t get it,” I mutter to myself, turning down the volume. The sappy song about true love and second chances is not doing me any favors.

I pilot the car around a big box lying in the middle of the road, wondering if it is some kind of analogy from the universe. Sometimes you have to go around stuff to keep going.

“I’ll go around him all right.”

Cornfields zip by as I step on the accelerator, my mind going just as fast around last night. The terseness of his tone. His initial refusal to look at me. The look in his eye when he did.

“Shit,” I groan, hearing a loud pop. The car lurches to the side as a thump-thump smacks against the pavement. Slowing the car as quickly as I can, I bring it to the shoulder. It sinks to the right.

Resting my head against the steering wheel, I try not to cry. “Lord, please help me.”

Turning off the engine, I get out into the warm afternoon sun. There’s nothing around but tall stalks of corn and high, puffy clouds as far as the eye can see. It takes all of five seconds to confirm a flat tire and to spot the nail sticking out of the rubber. Air gushes around the gouge making it impossible to limp it to the nearest gas station which is, if I remember correctly, miles away.

Leaning against the trunk, I slip out my phone and call Delaney. It goes immediately to voicemail.

“This mailbox is full and not accepting messages. Please try again later. Goodbye.”

“No,” I groan, stomping my foot against the dirt. A rock rolls down the shallow embankment and into a ditch.

Pulling up the text app, I shoot a message her way and hold my breath. The “delivered” tag doesn’t show and I wonder if she turned it off to take a nap to ward off the migraine she was getting like she said she was going to.

Another rock meets the toe of my shoe and joins the other at the bottom of the ditch. It’s littered with trash and weeds and another bunch of rocks I kick in too.

“Damn it,” I say to the corn. “Why can’t I just go freaking home?”

Looking both ways down the road, there’s no one in sight. I didn’t even pass anyone when I was heading out here.

“I’m going to die a horror show death.”

Tossing my phone from one hand to the other, I weigh my options. I can wait for someone to find me and hope they aren’t a serial killer and come before nightfall. I could hold my breath that Delaney wakes up and checks her messages. Nine-one-one is an option, although this isn’t an emergency and I would feel like a dick. Or I could call Walker.

“Ha,” I sigh, thinking about calling him. “I’d rather feel like a dick.”

Scrolling through my contacts, I see Peck’s name. Swiping on, I make it to the R’s before I go back. My finger hovers over his name. I gulp before I click on it. My breath holds while I wait for it to connect.

“Hey, Slugger,” he says after the first ring.

“Hey, Peck. I, um . . .” Looking around at the corn, my spirits cave. “I need some help.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’m stuck out here on Route 9 somewhere between Merom and Honnerton and just got a flat tire. I don’t know who else to call,” I sigh.

“Did you call Walker?”

“Nope. I’d rather walk home.”

There’s a small chuckle through the phone. “So I shouldn’t tell him you have a flat tire and need me to come get you?”

“Absolutely not,” I insist. “Look, you said to call you if I needed anything and I—”