Gibson Boys Box Set Page 14

  “Coming to fix your tire.” He leans into the back of his truck and yanks out a toolbox. “Which one is it?”

  “Did you not hear me when I said I don’t want Walker here?” I hiss. “I’d rather have walked back, Peck. I meant that.”

  Popping one arm on the rail of the truck bed, he looks at me. “He was standing next to me. Did you think I was getting out of there without him when he found out it was you?”

  “Yes, I did. Because you’re a grown man who can tell him no.”

  “Sure,” he laughs, carrying the toolbox towards my car. He passes Walker at the front of his truck, muttering something to him that I can’t hear.

  When I finally look that way, I ignore the wariness in his gaze and shoot him the dirtiest look I can manage. He starts to speak, but I turn away.

  “Sienna …” he says, his voice fading.

  Taking in the expanse of the cornfields, I calculate how long it would take me to just walk back to town. The rows are straight, which would kind of be like a path, and it would be relatively safe because no large animals could fit in there so I ultimately shouldn’t die a gory death.

  His hand rests on my shoulder. I pull away.

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he gruffs out, standing way too close for comfort.

  “Really?” I ask, pivoting in a half-circle to face him. “Why in the world would I call you?”

  His jaw clenches as he works it back and forth. “Oh, I don’t know. Because that’s the logical solution.”

  “Logic? You want to talk logic? This should be fun,” I glare, crossing my arms over my chest. “Can you just go help Peck or something?”

  “Peck doesn’t need my help, Sienna.”

  “Then why the hell did you come?”

  “You know why I fucking came,” he says, his eyes darkening. “I came to talk to you.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  He takes a step towards me, his hand flexing in the air like he wants to reach for me but wisely refrains. “Maybe I have a lot to say to you.”

  “You know what? Maybe you’ve said enough.”

  We have a mini-standoff on the shoulder of the road, a flock of birds flying overhead. The music Peck is streaming into his earbuds a few feet away as he crouches at my tire floats through the air right alongside the irritation passing between his cousin and I.

  “Damn it, Sienna.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me,” I bite, jabbing a finger in his direction.

  “Will you just stop it for a second and let me talk?”

  “No, I won’t. You’ve said everything I need to hear already.”

  He growls, running a hand through his hair. “You are so damn hardheaded.”

  “Me?” I ask, dropping my hand. “I’m hardheaded? What the hell does that make you?”

  “At least I’ll listen to you.”

  “Well, listen to my steps walk away.” I get a few steps towards Peck when Walker spins me in a circle. “Hey!”

  “I just want to talk to you. Hear me out.”

  “Why? It doesn’t matter what you say because whatever comes out of your mouth right now, you’ll contradict later. Look at last night …”

  I fight the tears hitting the corners of my eyes like a prize fighter, imploring them to reabsorb into my eyes. I’d rather do anything instead of letting him see me cry.

  His gaze settles on the lone tear slipping down my cheek, sliding down my cheekbone, near the crease of my nose, and over my lips. He watches it fall all the way to my shirt.

  “I’m crying because I’m pissed,” I tell him, omitting the part about my feelings and how they hurt more at the hands of him than they ever have over a man.

  “I hate seeing you cry.”

  His eyes rise to mine. My cheeks are hot, warmth exuding from them as I stand in front of him. Even now, I can see something in his eyes that pings at my heart and I have to force it away.

  “I kept thinking I saw something in you that proved you weren’t really an asshole. And, you know what,” I say, biting back a sob, “that’s what hurts.”

  He grimaces, walks in a circle, but refuses to dispute anything.

  “I’ll be honest,” I say, my voice dropping a couple of notches, “I liked you. I enjoyed spending time with you. And I thought you did too. Maybe it’s what I hoped would happen, maybe I wanted you to like me.”

  “You know I like you, Sienna,” he says, standing still. “That’s not the problem.”

  “So this is what you do to people you like?”

  “No,” he groans, looking at the sky.

  “You do this on purpose. You’re hot and cold intentionally, making me wonder where I stand and what you’re thinking.”

  “You know what I’m thinking,” he says, his body almost shaking. “You know how I feel.”

  “Do I? Because the last interaction we had made it perfectly clear how you feel, if that’s the case.”

  My words stop him in his tracks. He takes a deep, measured breath as he sticks his hands into his pockets.

  “Do you want me to hate you? Fine. Done. You win,” I say, holding his gaze for half a second and then turning to Peck. “You done?”

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk,” Walker says from behind me.

  “Peck?” I say, ignoring Walker.

  “Yeah, I’m done. You sliced it pretty good.” Peck brushes off his hands, leaning the old tire next to his leg. “That one will get you around for a while, but you’ll need a new one. It’s the only one we had in the shop.”

  “I’ll order a new one,” Walker says.

  I look at him over my shoulder. “I’ll go to the dealership. Don’t worry about it.” Turning back to Peck, I hold up a finger. “Hold on a second.” My hand shaking, I get into the car and sift through my wallet. Pulling out a fifty-dollar bill, I get back out and hand it to Peck. “Here. It’s all the cash I have—”

  “Stop,” Walker cuts me off.

  “Take it, Peck,” I demand.

  “I’m not taking your money,” he laughs.

  I shove the money in Peck’s hand. “Then give it to him. But I won’t owe either of you.”

  Peck studies me for a long second before nodding. “Fine. You still coming to church tomorrow?”

  “Doubt it,” I say, my heart softening as I think of Nana. “Tell Nana I’ll mail her my blueberry muffin recipe.”

  “She’ll be pissed,” Peck grins. “You really want to risk that?”

  “Thanks for coming.” I send him a small smile before walking around the back of my car. “I appreciate it.”

  “Any time. I told you that.”

  With a final look Walker’s way, I ignore the look in his eye that would typically make me stop and ask him what’s wrong. Today I don’t give a damn.

  Jumping into the car, I flip on the ignition and take off down the road, leaving Walker behind.

  Seventeen

  Sienna

  The sun is bright, birds chirping, grass still dewy as I make my way from the parking lot of Holy Hills Church to the front steps. Scanning the gatherings of people scattered in front of the brick building, I don’t see anyone I recognize. That’s both good and bad.

  I wasn’t going to show up here this morning. I made plans to meet Delaney for brunch just so I wouldn’t. But when I woke up at six, I changed my mind.

  I try to settle my nerves by reminding myself this is a means to an end. I’ll sit through a short service, probably one my soul needs more than I care to admit, give the money I owe Walker to Peck, and then go back home and plot my escape from Illinois. Easy as pie. Except part of me wants to hear what Walker has to say.

  Lying in bed last night, tossing and turning, I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. My feelings are wounded, my pride is injured, so what do I care what he wanted to say?

  Because what will it hurt?

  The pastor stands by the front door step, shaking hands with each person as they enter. The air has a melody about it as
the light breeze dusts across the steps. Laughs, stories about grandchildren, and talks about potluck dinners drift about, soothing my nerves like a warm balm.

  My heels click against the steps, my hand guiding up the shiny black rail as I near the top. The pastor extends a hand, a warm, welcoming smile on his aged face.

  “Welcome,” he says, his voice passive and kind. “Are you new here?”

  “I’m visiting for the day. A guest of … Nana? I’m sorry. I’m not even sure what her name is. How awful is that?”

  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

  “How do you figure?” I take his hand and give it a shake.

  “Well, you know her as Nana, a very important title. That tells me you met her through a memorable experience that left an impression on both of you.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  He pats the top of my hand before steering me inside. “We’re glad to have you today. Please, make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stepping inside the sanctuary, most of the patrons are sitting in wooden pews. They form two rows with a walkway in the center that leads to an altar and an elevated platform behind it with a plain podium. A vintage piano sits in the corner and a lady with silver hair sits at the keys, playing an old hymn I remember as one of my grandfather’s favorites.

  Tucking my clutch under my arm, I scan the pews. My mouth is dry and I sidestep people, feeling like I’m just in the way of their normal weekly routine. Like I don’t belong. Like I should just go home.

  Left to right, I glaze over old folks, babies, toddlers, and middle-aged men and women all chatting softly until I get close to the front on the right.

  Walker sits between Machlan and another guy, the one I saw with them the night of the bat-to-truck fiasco. A navy and brown plaid shirt stretches across Walker’s wide shoulders, his dark hair combed to the side and shining in the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Machlan and the other guy chat around him, leaning behind so that Peck, who’s sitting in the pew behind them next to Nana, can join in.

  My feet want to march their way to Walker, to stand in front of him and try to gauge how he’s feeling. Not that I should care. I shouldn’t even give a crap but there’s something about the man that I want to break open, to hold, to fix whatever it is that’s so tarnished in him that he can’t even smile a true smile without feeling guilty. That has to always keep everyone at arm’s length. That he has to be so miserable.

  Sucking in a breath, I head towards them, pausing every now and then to thank different parishioners as they welcome me to the service. With each step, I second guess why I’m here and wonder if I could just slip the money to Peck and bolt.

  The journey to their position in the church takes exorbitantly longer than it should. Everyone wants to introduce themselves, say hello, ask me if I want a coffee or donut from the lobby. As considerate as they all are, as grateful as I am for the warm reception, each second that goes by is another opportunity for my nerves to warp into a tighter, more confounding knot.

  “Good morning,” I say, gripping the edge of the pew to keep from falling over as Walker’s cologne whips me in the face. It’s not that it’s strong or that he’s the only one fresh out of the shower. It’s that his is the only one that I pick up out of all the body washes and aftershaves on this Sunday morning.

  At the sound of my voice, all heads in the Gibson clan turn to me. Walker’s eyes are wide and a little bloodshot and I wrangle mine away before he can see inside them. Plus, I’m not sure now I’m here that I want to see inside his.

  Machlan smirks, exchanging a glance with the man on the other side of Walker. He’s a lighter, thinner version of Walker but with a self-assuredness I can recognize as something I usually see in myself. Not today.

  Peck stands from his seat behind them, effectively blocking me from Walker’s line of sight. “Good morning,” he says. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have,” I say, feeling a little relief in his simple smile.

  There’s something about the way he’s looking at me—head cocked to the side, playful grin painted on his lips—that has me curious. As if to drive the point home, whatever point he’s trying to make, he lobs me a wink before turning to Nana. “Look what we have here.”

  “Well, good morning, Sienna,” she says, nudging the man next to her to move down a bit. “Here. Grab a seat by me.”

  “Peck’s sitting there,” I say, the collar of my dress feeling tight, as I avoid Walker’s stare. “I can just sit in the back. It’s not a problem.”

  “Nonsense. There’s room for all of us. Patrick will move down, won’t you, hon?” She glances beside her as the old man wearing a ruby-colored tie makes room. “Here. Sit right here.”

  Peck moves so I can pass him and take the spot between him and Nana. Walker is turned in his seat, his cuffs rolled to his elbows, and watches me like he might blink and I’ll be gone.

  “Have you met all my handsome grandsons?” Nana asks. “That’s Machlan, of course you know Walker. That’s Lance and Peck. They’re all good boys,” she says, patting my leg. “And so is their sister, but she’s outgrown us by now.”

  Walker’s gaze follows her hand to my thigh, letting it linger, before he blazes a trail back to my eyes. “Mornin’.”

  “Good morning,” I say, shifting in my seat. My heart thumps so loud I think Nana can hear it as she rambles to Patrick about her morning glories.

  Squirming in my seat, I situate my purse on my lap. Peck nudges me with his shoulder and I nudge him back, a playfulness between the two of us that takes the edge off my nerves.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.” The man I know now as Lance settles against the back of the pew, a smirk playing across his features. He resembles his brothers handily, his face clean-shaven though, instead of the scruff Walker and Machlan sport. There’s an air of refinement about him that’s a stark dichotomy to the almost barbarianism that swims just below the surface of his striking hazel eyes. “I’m Lance.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say politely, noting the scowl on Walker’s face out of the corner of my eye that might include a twinge of jealousy. “Walker and Peck have Crank, Machlan, Crave. What do you do?”

  “I teach history at the high school in Carlisle.”

  “He’s the resident nerd,” Peck jokes.

  “I love history, actually,” I tell them. “American history, mostly, but I had classes on European history and Russian culture in college.”

  He seems impressed. “Meeting a woman who likes history doesn’t happen often.”

  Walker fidgets in his seat, catching Lance’s attention. He glances at Walker, his smirk deepening. “What’s your story, Sienna?”

  “She doesn’t have one,” Walker almost growls. I look at him, his gaze capturing it immediately and holding it hostage. It freezes me to my seat, causes a bead of sweat to line the back of my neck. I could easily sit quietly and just have this silent conversation, the one that makes me feel like no one else is in the room, but I don’t. Because that’s what he wants.

  Clearing my throat, I tear my gaze away from Walker and settle it on Lance. I think, if not seated by his brother’s side, Lance would be hard to look away from.

  “How sweet of Walker to speak for me,” I say sweetly. “Actually, I don’t have much to share that wouldn’t bore you to death.”

  “I doubt that,” Lance mutters. “I seriously fucking doubt that.”

  Nana leans forward, swatting Lance in the side of the head. “Don’t you think about using that language in here, Lance Miller Gibson.”

  “Sorry, Nana. Won’t let it happen again.”

  “Better not let it happen again,” Walker warns him, his tone so low that I find myself gulping. Lance doesn’t seem fazed, just laughs. But he does turn back around towards the front.

  The pastor taps the mic attached to the podium. Walker’s eyes drag over me, leaving a scorched
trail in their wake, before he, too, faces forward.

  Shuddering in my seat, trying to remain unaffected, I feel a nudge at my rib. Looking at Peck, I’m met with a set of twinkling blue eyes. “Thanks for coming,” he whispers. “He was an ass all night.”

  “Walker?” I whisper back as the pastor begins to speak.

  “Who else? Did you see his eyes? Drinkin’ like a fool since you drove off.”

  Staring at the back of his head, I wonder if he’s trying to forget what happened. Trying to forget me. The idea causes my heart to ruffle in my chest. Turning back to Peck, I whisper, “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Hell yeah, you should. Listen,” he says, leaning his head so he’s almost whispering straight into my ear, “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but he needs this.”

  “Needs what?”

  “Please stand and join us in the singing of Amazing Grace,” the pastor says. A piano strikes the first notes of the beloved tune. I join the others in singing from memory.

  Nana’s voice is soothing and I find myself relaxing into the lyrics. I make a concerted effort not to watch Walker, to block out the whiffs of his cologne and the way my body feels a tingle every time I hear his voice cut through the others.

  “Do you trust me?” Peck interjects as we take a breath before going into the second stanza.

  “No, I don’t trust you,” I hiss. “I don’t know you.”

  “That’s your second mistake,” he chuckles.

  “What’s the first?”

  “This is a house of God, Sienna …”

  I can’t help but giggle at the look on his face, a move that gains me a glance over the shoulder from Walker as we take our seats. I flash him a forced smile, a move that seems to confuse him more than anything. Machlan bends and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is causes Walker’s scowl to come parading back and Nana to swat at Machlan.

  He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the service. I just stare at the back of his head and feel my anxiety creep up with every tick of the clock. I replay things in my mind that should require some sort of Confession, but all done in the spirit of trying to figure out what happened with Walker.