Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

Shut. Up.

“The bar?”

“The bar,” I confirm, giving up on myself. The chain of command from my brain to my mouth is clearly broken. “Walker took over Crank from our father.”

She taps her fingers against the console. “I grew up in Lancaster. When I got the job at the school, I rented the little house I’m in now.”’

“Lancaster’s not far. What? A twenty-minute drive?”

Her fingers stop moving. Her shoulders stiffen as she gazes out her window. I can barely hear her voice when she speaks. “You can make it in fifteen if you have to.”

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, working it back and forth. I want to reach over and pop it free. And then clamp it between my own teeth, but there’s no consent and I’m not sure she’ll give it to me. But that’s not the problem. The problem is, I’m fairly certain it was something I said that changed her spirits.

“This is why I don’t date,” I note as a car passes us without switching off its brights.

“Why is that?”

“I just said something wrong and I don’t even know what it was.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong, Lance. I just got to thinking about a phone call from my mother,” she frowns.

The street lamps get few and far between as we get farther away from town. She’s quiet for a long time.

“Want to talk about it?” I offer, needing her to come back around. When I’m the one who pisses her off, I’m okay with that. I don’t really know what to do when she’s mad at someone else.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she admits. “My mom just … let me ask you this. Does your mom have favorites? I know that sounds ridiculously juvenile, but does she prefer one of your siblings over the others?”

“Well,” I say carefully. “My mom passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her hand falls to my arm. Her palm is so small it barely covers half my bicep. We both look at the point of contact. I force a swallow down my parched throat, feeling the weight of her hand all the way down to my groin. My thighs ache, my balls burn, every piece of my body practically begging for more.

“I’ll be sorry if you move your hand,” I utter.

Naturally, she does.

“No,” I continue, clearing my throat, “she didn’t have a favorite. Not really. Blaire got better Christmas presents growing up because she was the only girl. Machlan had bigger birthday parties because his birthday was in December and Mom was worried it would get lost in the mix with Christmas and all that. They paid for my college and gave Crank to Walker. So, I guess I never really felt that way.” Glancing at her again, I decide to press. “Does yours?”

“It’s a fact my mom prefers my sister over me.”

“I need to meet your sister,” I mumble.

She smacks my arm. “Lance!”

Chuckling, I rub the spot she just marred. “I was kidding.”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” I insist, looking at her until she looks at me. “I know I’m just your friendly co-worker and ride home from bad dates, and that you get off to me every night—Ow!” I yelp as she smacks me again. “Truth hurts.”

“So do lies. Wanna see?” she asks, making a fist.

“I was going to finish that by saying I can’t imagine a mother being anything but proud of someone like you.”

She makes a face like she might cry. It’s not real, it’s totally put on, but I love it.

“Think about it,” I say. “You moved out on your own, got a real job, and I bet you pay your own bills.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“And,” I say, nudging her shoulder, “you’re pretty as hell, smart, and sweet when you want to be. Your mother must be an idiot.”

“Lance Gibson, that was nice. Thank you.”

“All truth, Ms. Malarkey. All truth. Even the parts you deny.” Listening to her giggle fill up my car is the best thing I’ve heard all day. “So your mom is a jerk. Do we like your sister?”

“No. Big. Fat. No.” She shakes her head adamantly. “We don’t like Chrissy.”

“Got it. Do we have a dad we like? Brother? Grandma? Aunt?”

Her head rests on the seat angled a little to the side. She looks perfectly content in the seat of my car. It’s hard not to pull over and, as weird as it is to acknowledge it, I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to hear what she has to say. And then fuck her. Hard.

It’s a thin, dangerous line and my toes are edging it.

“My parents are divorced and my dad has some trophy wife up in New Hampshire. I haven’t seen him in years. No aunts, no brothers. Grandma Betsy was amazing, though,” she whispers, more to herself than to me. Her chin drops to the side so she’s looking at me. “She’s who taught me to bake.”