Crank (The Gibson Boys 1)

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mumbles under his breath.

Not sure I was supposed to have heard that, I did, and I’m not about to let him get away with it. I practice the art of the fake smile as I rein in my annoyance. “Fooling anyone isn’t in my plans. A big ‘screw you’ for even insinuating that.”

“Sienna.” The way he says my name, like he’s wrapped everything he has around the three syllables, makes my knees weak despite my anger. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it, Walker? Because I’ll be honest—I’m exhausted from trying to figure you out. I’m sick of doing this with you.”

A storm crosses his face, a steeliness settling on the hard lines of his jaw.

“That. Right there,” I say, pointing a finger at him. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“What?” There’s a sharpness to his tone, a bite that seems to warn me off of prodding. Most days this would work. I’d stop and just let him go on about his day. Today is not most days. Today I’m tired of it.

I’m not sure it even matters and I’d put my money on the fact that it doesn’t. Even so, there’s an exhaustion in my shoulders from carrying around all of the guesses I put together about why he acts the way he does and an acute sense of curiosity as to what’s real—his verbal spars or the zing of his touch that says otherwise.

“One minute, you and I are having a conversation and teasing each other and laughing—well, I’m laughing. I’m not sure you’d do such a thing,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And the next minute you’re dismissing me like some woman you can’t shake. Like a bad habit. Like a quick fuck,” I eke out. “Yet you give me just enough rope to hang myself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I give his words back to him, a little salt dashed on top as I throw them back his way. “I’ve never met a man who twists me up like you do. Like you get some thrill out of keeping me flailing around, unsure if you like me or hate me.”

“Stop it,” he growls.

“I’m not going to stop it,” I shoot back. “I’m done with this shit. If you want to string some woman along, fine. Go ahead. But it won’t be me.”

“I don’t want it to be you. I mean,” he roughs a hand against his head, looking anywhere but at me with a scowl. “Damn it. What I mean is, that’s not true.”

“Oh, it’s true and you know it.”

Refusing to back down, I meet him glare for glare. He stands taller; so do I. He angles his head and I do the exact same thing. I won’t budge an inch.

“You wanna know what’s fucking true?” He takes a step towards me, his hands coming out of his pockets in a quick rush. “Here’s what’s true—you’re making my life so goddamn miserable I can’t see straight. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I say shit I don’t mean on purpose because pushing you away feels like saving you from myself. I can’t work on an engine without smashing my knuckles off the side like some rookie.”

He flashes the back of his hand my way. It’s cut across the top, the skin sliced and rough.

“All because of you.” His boot sinks into the grass as he gets closer, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you since I saw you on the sidewalk trying to hide that bat behind you.”

His gaze peers into me like there’s nothing else in the world to look at. Like the entire world has stopped—the axis stopped turning, governments paused work, people suspended mid-whatever, just so Walker can concentrate on me.

“I’m sorry, Sienna.”

“What are you sorry for?”

Shifting my weight, my feet feeling the coolness of the ground, I try to find my center in the midst of the chaos playing through every cell of my body.

“I thought you’d be out of here by now,” he says, his voice having lost the grit from earlier. “I figured I could push you away and you’d just go.”

“Just maybe I am hardheaded.”

“Um, no doubt,” he chuckles. “But I am sorry for a lot of things, but mostly for what I said to you Friday night. And the way I made you feel. For the record, I wanted to pick you up and carry you to my truck and take you home with me.”

My heart zips in my chest as I struggle to process that. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t expect you to still be here.” He takes a deep breath. “I thought we could kind of fuck it out and you’d be over it. But here you are.”

“Is that okay?” I whisper. “That I’m here?”