Crazy (The Gibson Boys 4)

“That was some show you put on up there tonight,” Navie says.

She slides a beer my way. Propping her elbows on the bar, she rests her chin in her hands. She’s getting comfortable. It’s her way of letting me know she’s not going anywhere until I humor her. I usually do, but tonight, I kind of don’t want to talk. It feels like it would spoil it somehow even though I don’t know what “it” is.

“What?” I tip the drink back. It spills down my throat. The cool liquid splashes into my stomach, soothing the riot in my overheated veins a bit.

“You know what,” Navie scoffs. “What the hell was that? I mean, I loved it. I think it’s epically great. But … you know … what’s it mean?”

I shrug.

She sighs. “Come on, Peck.”

The bottle hits the bar top with a thud. “I don’t know what it means. I was just fucking around. But …” I look for Dylan again. “I’m not mad about it.”

“It looked like you were pretty damn happy about it, if you ask me.”

The corner of the label is nicked. I pick at it instead of looking at her.

I suppose it’s obvious that I am pretty damn happy about it. How would anyone not be dancing with Dylan and having her enjoy it and not be pretty damn happy about it?

I probably need to reel that in a little bit.

“See?” I ask. “That’s the thing. I didn’t ask you.”

I tip the bottle back and forth. The rattle is a nice distraction from the pressure of Navie’s interrogation.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” she says, standing tall. “I think the two of you together are magic.”

Magic. A smile plays against my lips.

I don’t know what she means by that, exactly, but I know being around Dylan feels a little like magic. Special. Easy. Like something—anything—could happen at any given moment. And having her dance with me tonight—a stupid tradition I started years ago—was epically great, as she put it.

But magical? That’s not even a real thing.

“Hey, bartender! I need another drink,” someone shouts from the other end of the bar.

Navie’s face falls. “I’ll catch you later. But this conversation isn’t over, pal.” She starts to turn but pauses to give someone a penetrating glare over my shoulder before she walks away.

I don’t have to guess who she’s looking at.

A hand squeezes my arm. I turn around and see a pair of whiskey-colored eyes looking back at me.

“Having fun?” Molly asks. She bats her eyelashes my way to hide the irritation behind them. “It looked like you were too happy to make an ass out of yourself up there.”

I search Molly’s eyes for some thread of warmth, for some inkling that she’s in a good place tonight, but there’s nothing besides a vacant abyss that I’ve looked into time and time again over the years. The only emotion in the midst of the light brown orbs is a sadness that is as constant as the little mole beneath her right eye.

That’s what pulls me in, what weakens me, every time she pulls one of her stunts. And that’s what this is, make no mistake about it. She saw Dylan and me, and she’s not happy about it.

Good for her.

Because tonight, for the first time maybe ever, I like how I’m feeling a whole hell of a lot more than I care about her being pissed off.

“I didn’t see you come in,” I say.

She squeezes my arm one last time before letting her hand fall to her side. “Yeah, well, I just got here a few minutes ago. Long enough to see your little performance.”

The question she didn’t ask, the one about Dylan, hangs in the air. She doesn’t want to lower herself to ask who she is, but she’s not about to leave before finding out.

It’s her modus operandi, the way she operates. She strings me along just enough to think there might be a chance between us someday, and for the most part, I go with it. I tell people I love her—and I might. I care about her a whole hell of a lot, even if she isn’t the nicest person sometimes. But I see what Molly does and who she is. I know her better than anyone. And I know it’s driving her absolutely crazy to see me enjoy myself with someone else.

“Who are you here with?” I ask.

“My sister. She’s talking to some guy outside.” She blows a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I didn’t want to wait out there like a third wheel or something.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She flashes me a half-smile. “No. I’m fine.”

She is fine. She’s just pissed, but I’m on too much of a high to really worry about it too much.

I take a long drink. Molly stands beside me and watches like she expects me to swallow and then explain all the things she wants to know. I would if that would make her go away, but it won’t. Not a chance.