Crave (The Gibson Boys 3)

Her face falls. “You ready, Logan?”

He grins at me. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

I step toward him but keep my attention on Hadley.

I never see the punch coming.

His fist connects with the side of my face flush, the bones cracking upon contact. I’m knocked to the side and into Peck before I even realize what happened.

“You son of a bitch.” I fire a right, then a left, then a right hook into his kidney before he gets his hands up. Each punch lands, punishing his flesh. The sound of cartilage popping rings through the bar.

Logan wobbles on his feet. “What the fuck?”

Peck stands in front of me and waves his hand once through the air. “Point made. Enough.”

Slowly, as the haze of the adrenaline begins to lift, do I realize the spectators. And only after that realization hits do I see Hadley.

A single tear slides down her cheek as she watches with her mouth agape. “You are a fucking idiot.”

“Logan threw the first punch,” Emily says. “What was Mach supposed to do?”

I can’t even thank her for the defense. My heart is too busy breaking under Hadley’s gaze.

“I’ll get him out of here.” Peck sighs.

“Here.” Navie thrusts a towel toward Logan. “Get this on his nose. I don’t do blood.”

“You can have her. That better be some good pussy,” Logan says, his voice muffled from the towel.

Peck shoves him toward the door. “My God, man. Shut the hell up.”

The crowd slowly dissipates. It’s encouraged by Navie who offers a sale on vodka. I don’t even care.

“I’m sorry,” I say. So many things roll through my mind that I can’t sort them. I can’t do anything but look at her and hope to God this makes sense to her. That she gets it.

“You know what? I don’t even care anymore.” She shakes her head, a lump visible in her throat. “You’re only sorry now because you got your way.”

“That’s not true.”

“No, it is true. You don’t want me, but you sure as hell don’t want anyone else to have me either.”

“Had …” I drag in a lungful of air in hopes it steadies the panic taking over my insides.

“Don’t. I’m done. This is not how this works anymore.”

My stomach lurches. Bile rises into my mouth, but I swallow it back. “Don’t do this.”

“Me? Don’t do this? Machlan, I would’ve followed you to the ends of the Earth if you would’ve just asked. But you’re either too chickenshit or don’t care enough to even ask.”

The break in her voice breaks me. My heart shatters as my worst nightmare plays out right in front of me. She’s right, though. I’m too chickenshit to ask her for anything.

“I came here in hopes of figuring things out with you so I could go on with my life. I didn’t think you’d make it this easy.” Her eyes fill with tears as she turns away. “Don’t follow me.”

She passes Peck at the door as I watch her leave.

Thirty-Two

Hadley

“Good morning,” I croak.

Squinting, I take in the mess in my living room. The ride to Vigo took forever with Emily driving last night, and by the time we got to my house, I didn’t care about anything but lying down and making the heartache stop.

My bag sits on a chair; the contents spewed across the room from where I dug through them last night. Emily is lying half on and half off the sofa. On the coffee table are an empty pizza box and two bottles that held wine a few hours ago.

“Is this what a hangover feels like?” I ask, squeezing my temples.

“Yup,” she says, with a pop on the p. “Who let us drink that much?”

“You. You were in charge.”

“That was your first mistake,” she groans, struggling to sit up. “What time is it?”

“Nine.” I head into the kitchen. “I’m going to find my phone and call Cross and go back to bed. What do you take for a hangover?”

“Hangovers and heartbreak are the same. Both take time.”

My feet hit the cold linoleum as I enter the kitchen. I shiver, spying my phone next to the coffeepot. The idea of coffee makes me nauseous. The prospect of looking at potential missed calls makes me sicker.

If Machlan called, I’d fight myself from calling him back.

If he didn’t …

I look at the screen.

He didn’t.

My eyes close again as another shiver rips through me that has nothing to do with the temperature of the floor.

“Try some crackers,” Emily says from the living room. “And bring me some, please.”

Fishing a box of saltines out of the cabinet and a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, I make my way back through the living room. I toss her a drink and the crackers. “Here,” I say. “I’m going back to bed. And if you ever let me drink again, ever, we’re not friends.”