Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

Seven

Machlan

You’d think I have a hangover.

My head hurts the way it does after the couple of times a year I kick back with my brothers and get a little heavy-handed with the Jim Beam. A sharp pain rips along the side of my head and shoots across my forehead, threatening to take my sanity right along with it.

What little there is left of it, anyway.

The bright, early morning light doesn’t help my cause. As I turn onto Beecher Street and wave at Ruby as she heads to the library, I think my head might explode. The light almost blinds me as I grimace under my breath and pull onto the side street and then into the lot behind Crave.

I rub my temples in a futile attempt to lessen the ache between my eyes. Curiously, Beam headaches are generally less agonizing than this one. This is one I haven’t felt in a long time. This is a Hadley headache.

I have all the usual symptoms of this particular affliction. Piercing pain in my skull, extraordinarily high blood pressure, shortness of breath, a quickened pulse. Rock hard cock. Intense chest pains. Feeling of hopelessness and erratic behavior.

That’s what she does to me. She makes me a fucking lunatic.

Taking a deep breath, I try to focus on something other than her. The binder for my meeting with Spencer this afternoon lies on the passenger’s seat. I have no idea what I’m going to say to the guy to convince him to loan me the rest of the money for the building, and I should know that by now. I sat up with those damn papers all night, trying to come up with a plan. Instead, I just planned all the ways to interrogate Cross later about what Hadley might’ve said or done.

“Stop it.” I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “You’re a grown ass man who has business to take care of. Stop acting like a juvenile with a hard-on.”

My cheeks heat, partly from annoyance that this reminder needed to be said and partly because I’m embarrassed for the same reason. I tuck a phone number Lance gave me into the binder and look up.

My hand stills. I drop the binder.

The window to the apartment I use as a makeshift office slash crash pad is opened a sliver. I rack my brain, searching for the last time I opened it, and come up empty-handed. Peck helped me install a lock on the inside of the window, and it’s a bitch to undo.

My teeth grinding together, I step out of the car. Grabbing the bamboo rod I keep hidden against the dumpster, I make my way up the steps.

The clouds clear above me. The sun’s rays pelt my back, only adding to the sweat trickling down my spine as I anticipate what I’m about to find.

Nothing up there is worth a damn, but it’s the idea of being defiled, the inherent disrespect, that has me itching to teach someone a lesson. I almost feel sorry for the motherfucker who did this. He’ll be on the receiving end of a lot of pent-up aggression.

With my back against the wall, I make an effort not to give myself away with my heavy breathing as I lean to the side. Peering into the open slot at the bottom, I can only see a part of the kitchen area.

It looks like it always does.

Nothing’s out of place. No mess to indicate a break-in. Nothing but an open window.

My palm rests on the knob, and I attempt to rotate it, but it doesn’t budge. Locked tight.

“What the hell?” I whisper. Digging into my pockets, bamboo rod still in my right hand, I find the keys. They slip into the lock, and the door breaks free.

Sunlight trickles through the doorway, illuminating most of the apartment. Confusion replaces anger as I realize nothing’s been bothered.

I set the rod on the kitchen counter and walk slowly inside, leaving the door open. I walk around the table and next to the sofa. My eyes adjust to the differences in light as I peer toward the futon and desk. As they settle on the bump on the middle of the mattress, I stop.

Sucking in a breath, my chest burning, I think I must be seeing things. I can’t see the person’s face. All I can see is a little foot with a scar across the ankle and a wrist with a tiny tattoo of a wing on the inside. Although I haven’t seen the tattoo before and that bothers me, I know who is in my bed.

Every cell in my body lunges her way. The draw to her, the fight to not jump in bed and pull her up against me, knocks me off balance. I catch myself on the arm of the couch.