Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)
“I’m already in my truck,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ll be there in a few. Just down Route 9?”
“Go to Merom and take it towards the bluff. I’m like sixty-eight million miles into the corn.”
“Be there in a bit.”
Tossing my phone into the car, I cross the ditch and sit on the other side. No cars pass as I sit there and lace little flowers together like we used to do at recess in elementary school. It’s methodical and intricate and takes all my attention which is a godsend.
The first car I hear comes at me like a bat out of hell. Hopping to my feet, I see Peck’s hand out the driver’s window. Taking a step towards the ditch as he slides in facing me, I stop. His smile does nothing to smooth this over.
Walker climbs out of the truck. His expression is unreadable, even for him, and I grind my teeth together as I turn to Peck.
“Hey,” Peck says, his tone way too cheery.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask him, marching across the ditch next to the driver’s side door as he gets out.
“Coming to fix your tire.” He leans into the back of his truck and yanks out a toolbox. “Which one is it?”
“Did you not hear me when I said I don’t want Walker here?” I hiss. “I’d rather have walked back, Peck. I meant that.”
Popping one arm on the rail of the truck bed, he looks at me. “He was standing next to me. Did you think I was getting out of there without him when he found out it was you?”
“Yes, I did. Because you’re a grown man who can tell him no.”
“Sure,” he laughs, carrying the toolbox towards my car. He passes Walker at the front of his truck, muttering something to him that I can’t hear.
When I finally look that way, I ignore the wariness in his gaze and shoot him the dirtiest look I can manage. He starts to speak, but I turn away.
“Sienna . . .” he says, his voice fading.
Taking in the expanse of the cornfields, I calculate how long it would take me to just walk back to town. The rows are straight, which would kind of be like a path, and it would be relatively safe because no large animals could fit in there so I ultimately shouldn’t die a gory death.
His hand rests on my shoulder. I pull away.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he gruffs out, standing way too close for comfort.
“Really?” I ask, pivoting in a half-circle to face him. “Why in the world would I call you?”
His jaw clenches as he works it back and forth. “Oh, I don’t know. Because that’s the logical solution.”
“Logic? You want to talk logic? This should be fun,” I glare, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can you just go help Peck or something?”
“Peck doesn’t need my help, Sienna.”
“Then why the hell did you come?”
“You know why I fucking came,” he says, his eyes darkening. “I came to talk to you.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
He takes a step towards me, his hand flexing in the air like he wants to reach for me but wisely refrains. “Maybe I have a lot to say to you.”
“You know what? Maybe you’ve said enough.”
We have a mini-standoff on the shoulder of the road, a flock of birds flying overhead. The music Peck is streaming into his earbuds a few feet away as he crouches at my tire floats through the air right alongside the irritation passing between his cousin and I.
“Damn it, Sienna.”
“Don’t use that tone with me,” I bite, jabbing a finger in his direction.
“Will you just stop it for a second and let me talk?”
“No, I won’t. You’ve said everything I need to hear already.”
He growls, running a hand through his hair. “You are so damn hardheaded.”
“Me?” I ask, dropping my hand. “I’m hardheaded? What the hell does that make you?”
“At least I’ll listen to you.”
“Well, listen to my steps walk away.” I get a few steps towards Peck when Walker spins me in a circle. “Hey!”
“I just want to talk to you. Hear me out.”
“Why? It doesn’t matter what you say because whatever comes out of your mouth right now, you’ll contradict later. Look at last night . . .”
I fight the tears hitting the corners of my eyes like a prize fighter, imploring them to reabsorb into my eyes. I’d rather do anything instead of letting him see me cry.
His gaze settles on the lone tear slipping down my cheek, sliding down my cheekbone, near the crease of my nose, and over my lips. He watches it fall all the way to my shirt.
“I’m crying because I’m pissed,” I tell him, omitting the part about my feelings and how they hurt more at the hands of him than they ever have over a man.