Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  He leans against the door and takes me in. “What are ya thinking?”

  “I mentioned it to Walker earlier and now the light is off. Does that mean he changed it?”

  “Someone did,” Peck grins, “and it wasn’t me. Walker is a good guy. And I’m fairly certain he thinks a lot of you.”

  “You think?” I ask, my hopes whizzing upwards.

  “I do.” He taps the hood as he stands up again. “I got to get back to the job. Just came by for a drink. Be careful going wherever you’re going.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Peck.”

  “Later.”

  I don’t pull out quite yet. Instead, I sit there with a huge smile on my face.

  As much of a jerk as he can be, he can also make me feel like this. Between protecting me with Tommy to changing my oil, it feels really, really good.

  Eleven

  Walker

  “Ah, fuck.” The tool slips out of my hand and clamors onto the floor two inches from my head. I’d jump—that’s my immediate reaction—but the steel hanging right above me as I lie beneath the tractor keeps me from it.

  Blowing out a hiss, my eyes fall closed as the aches in my back from lying in this position for the last few hours start to compound. My shoulders throb from holding objects over my head, my eyes burn from the oil and gas fumes. It’s been a hell of a day.

  Twisting just enough to get a glimpse of the clock on the far wall, I realize Peck isn’t coming back. The welding job took all day, and by now, he’s with the community center people helping the summer sports program. Annoyance that I’m still here, alone, now doing a job that would be so much faster with two people, would come easy except I know how much it means to Peck to give back to the program he credits for saving his life.

  The massive piece of equipment straddling me is going to take all night, but I expected as much. Farm equipment is never a quick fix. But for all the headaches it gives, it also provides two things: a lot of money and an inability to think about anything else. Stuart coming in this morning with this giant pain in the ass was a godsend.

  Cringing, my hand falls to my stomach as its rumbling sounds over the garage. Sienna left a couple of muffins on the desk when she left a few hours ago and I devoured them. That’s all I’ve eaten today, another by-product of this project.

  Lifting the tool I dropped, I start to attack the problem again when I hear a sound across the room. A set of tanned legs stop just in front of the tractor.

  The tool drops slowly to my chest. There’s no reason for her to be here now, just as the sun is starting to set. As my heart races so quickly I feel it pulse in my throat, I wait for her to speak. To explain. To leave again so I can breathe.

  “Walker?”

  “Yeah?” I croak, watching one of her legs bend at the knee. The light reflects off her skin, drawing me in like a fucking Siren.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “Working. Why are you here?”

  She shifts her weight, a hand going to her hip. I wonder if she’s rolling her eyes and shaking her head like she usually does when I don’t just answer her questions, and if she is, I hate that I’m missing it.

  “I drove by a few minutes ago and saw your truck and the lights on. I figured … I don’t know,” she says, clearing her throat. “Maybe you need some help?”

  Chuckling, I slide myself out from under the tractor. Lying on the creeper, the heels of my work boots pressed into the concrete to stop me from sliding, I look up. She’s looking down with a soft, inquisitive stare that makes me feel more vulnerable than I care to admit.

  Resting my hands on my stomach, I force everything out of my mind except the fact that she shouldn’t be here.

  “Did you bring someone with you?” I ask.

  “For what?”

  “To help.”

  The glare I fully expect doesn’t take long to come my way. “No. I meant I was coming to help you.”

  She’s changed clothes from earlier today. I would guess these to be the clothes she doesn’t care if she messes up. A pair of black cutoff sweat pants that hit only a few inches down her thighs, a tight grey t-shirt with spatters of pink and white paint, and lime green flip-flops. I can imagine her stretched out on the couch reading a book or curled up in a chair watching a fire, two thoughts I have to force away.

  “Slugger, you can’t work in a garage in flip-flops.”

  “Why not?”

  I lift a brow.

  “Fine,” she sighs, turning to the table by the door. Motioning towards a plastic bag, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I brought you something to eat. Maybe you aren’t hungry, I don’t know, but I know you didn’t break for lunch and—”

  “I am. Hungry, that is.”

  Her chest falls, her shoulders relaxing, a soft relief smoothing her forehead. “When I saw you still here, I figured as much. I ran by Crave and Machlan made you a sandwich. I didn’t know what you’d like.”

  “You’re on a first name basis with my brother?”

  “He’s so sweet,” she coos. “And he adores you, Walker.”

  “About as much as he adores syphilis.” I get just close enough to grab the bag. Peering inside, I count three burgers and fries. “Think I’m hungry or what?”

  “One of those is mine. Machlan just put it all in the same bag.”

  “Oh.”

  She kicks at an invisible rock on the floor, the toe of her flip-flop squeaking against the concrete. “I wanted to tell you thank you for changing my oil today. And for the new wipers.”

  Having forgotten all about that, I feel a weird sensation in my chest. It’s not guilt, but more like being caught. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You didn’t have to do that. I didn’t mean for you to do it, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “No,” I say in a rush, not wanting her to feel guilty for my deeds. “I figured I’d just check it really quick so you didn’t break down, and the oil was filthy. Almost like syrup. So I just changed it. We have all the shit here to do it, no sense in you taking it somewhere else.” She starts to speak, but I know what she’s going to say, so I cut her off before she can. “And you aren’t paying me back for it.”

  A shy smile covers her gorgeous lips as she looks at me, eyes shining. “And for the wipers. How did you even know they sucked?”

  “It’s what I look for. Again, no big deal.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The bag ruffles in my hand, the sound the only thing breaking the awkward silence between us. I’m not sure what to do or say. What I want and what I should do are at such opposite ends of the spectrum that I can’t see through the fuzz to think clearly. Then I make the mistake of looking up.

  Her hair is pulled on top of her head, the earrings and bracelets she usually wears are gone. If she’s wearing any makeup at all, I’d be surprised.

  As she looks at me with wide eyes and a hesitation I can’t deny, I fight a smile at the realization: she was coming to help me.

  The idea of this girl getting greasy and handling tools heavier than she is, is laughable. And the sexiest fucking thing I can think of.

  Letting the testosterone swooping through my veins call the shots, I’m talking before my brain can tell my mouth to shut up.

  “Want to eat with me?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  Her smile has me forgetting all about how empty my stomach was a few minutes ago. She holds up a finger, asking me to wait a minute, and then disappears into the lobby. Every second she’s gone is a second longer for me to remember exactly why this is a bad idea. Busying myself with the task of washing my hands, I half wonder if she’ll come back and half hope she doesn’t. When she comes back with two large drinks, that all goes to the wayside.

  “I brought the drinks,” she says shyly. “I couldn’t carry them in, so I left them in my car.”

  “You thought of everything,” I say, unwrapping a sandwich.

  �
��Not really. I was just going to drop yours by and take mine home.”

  “Why were you over here, anyway?”

  “Um,” she gulps, picking up a fry. “Well, to be honest …”

  “Yeah?”

  “I was worried about you.” She looks at the ground, popping the fry in her mouth. “I’m sure you’ve done this a million times, but you were in here all day. I hardly saw you at all. And I knew Peck didn’t come back …”

  Resting my sandwich on the foil wrapper so it doesn’t fall from my hand, the corner of my lips lift to the ceiling as I try to wrap my head around the fact that she cares. Maybe not about me, per se, but about what I’m doing. I don’t really know how to process that.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’m used to doing a lot of this on my own. It’s weird having someone looking over my shoulder.”

  “Oh, I don’t want you to feel like that,” she pushes. “It’s not what I mean.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m, um, I’m not used to having someone pay attention.” I hold her gaze, my stomach twisting into a bigger mess than the tractor.

  “Yeah, well, it’s what I do,” she says, dismissively. “I get it from my mother. My siblings are all like that. We try to fix everything. And I mean everything.”

  “Like the Ranger?”

  “Like the Ranger,” she agrees shyly.

  Lifting the sandwich, I take a bite of Crave’s famous barbecue bacon cheeseburger and think about what she said. “What’s your family like?”

  “They’re great. Nosy, all of them, and pains in the ass. But I don’t know what I would do without them.”

  “You seem like you miss them.”

  She considers this, leaning her head to the side as she focuses on a spot on the wall behind me. “I do. I miss them like crazy. It seems like the older I get, the more I miss them.”

  “Are they like you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘are they like me’?” she presses.

  “Exactly what it sounds like.”

  “How would you describe me?”

  Beautiful. Sexy. Intriguing.

  “Capable,” I suggest.

  “Oh, gee. Thanks.”

  “What?” I laugh before taking a sip of my soda. “Capable is a good word.”

  “If you’re talking about a soldier!”

  “Fine. You’re determined.”

  “I think I’m taking my burger to go,” she laughs, tossing her half-eaten fry at me. It misses, hitting my cup and falling to the floor.

  Setting my burger down, I focus my attention solely on her. “What about interesting?” I offer, more quietly this time. “Or classy? Or good-hearted?”

  “You think I’m interesting?”

  Her eyelashes bat together, the apples of her cheeks glowing. I want to show her just how interesting I find her to be, how her classy mouth sounds when it’s crying my name in the dirtiest way.

  “A little bit,” I grumble instead, bundling what’s left of my burger up in the wrapper. Her gaze sits squarely on my shoulders and I know if I look up at her, she’ll be expecting an explanation. So I don’t look up. “I have to get back to the tractor. Thank you for dinner, Sienna.”

  “Any time,” she whispers.

  Turning to toss my stuff in the trash, we nearly collide. The scent of pineapples rushes across me, mixing with the heat of her body. It’s a connection I can’t break, the way my body wants to crash against hers. The way I don’t have to look in the morning to know she’s here because I can sense her walking into a room. There’s a definite link somehow from something in me to something in her, and even though I fight with everything I have to break it, I can’t.

  “Do you need help?” she asks. There’s a twinge of hope in her tone that I can’t let go.

  “What do you know about tools?”

  “I know you think I’m a silly girl who’s never touched a hammer before, but that’s both sexist and not true.” Hand on her hip again, she throws her shoulders back. “If you don’t want my help, that’s fine. I’ll go.”

  “So you know the difference between a socket and a screwdriver?” My question is quick, the desperation that she says yes thick — maybe too thick. I think she starts to read into it, but like me, tempers her hopes.

  “Of course,” she huffs.

  “Fine,” I say, turning away so she doesn’t see my smile. “Let’s get dinner cleaned up and get to it.”

  Twelve

  Sienna

  “Can you grab me a wrench? Inch and a half.”

  “Sure.” Nearly skipping to the back wall that’s lined in front by giant toolboxes, I’m relieved I actually know what a wrench is. The last two things he’s asked me for have sounded like he made them up. My quick online searches have provided me with proof they were real, as well as an image to reference as I scan the thousands of implements in Crank and retrieve the one he’s looking for.

  Grabbing the wrench, confirming the dimension printed into the steel, I hand it under the tractor. His fingers rub against mine as he takes it, sending a pulse zipping through my veins.

  “Thanks,” he says. Just like the last two times, I can hear he’s impressed that I got it. Just like the last two times, I feel my grin grow wider. “How do you know about tools, anyway?”

  “Oh,” I say, darting around for some answer that’s not Google. “We have a farm. I mean, not lots of tools or farm animals anymore,” or ever, “but I have lots of brothers,” who know nothing about cars.

  I try to imagine one of my brothers in their polo shirts working on a car in front of what we affectionately call the Farm. It’s nothing more than an old farmhouse that’s been in our family for ages and is the farthest thing from a place to do farm activities. It’s been the headquarters for my family’s political activities, held family Christmases, and was even photographed for a piece about Southern homes in a fancy magazine last year. But actual real-life farming? Nope.

  “How many brothers do you have?” he asks.

  “Four. They’re all older than me and my twin sister.”

  “You have a twin?”

  “Yeah. And, no, I can’t read her mind or feel it when she stubs her toe.”

  His chuckle floats from under the tractor and wraps itself around me, making me light-headed. “Weird answer.”

  “Everyone thinks that,” I say, taking the last sip of my drink. “Maybe some twins have telepathic abilities, I don’t know. But we don’t.”

  “Hey, can you hand me a tractor pin?”

  “Sure.”

  Whipping my phone out as I head back to the toolboxes, I punch in tractor pin. An image pops up of a small stick with a key looking thing attached to it. Going from one box to the next, I look for anything similar.

  My blood pressure shoots up as I near the final one. There’s nothing that looks remotely like what popped up online. I could tell him I can’t find it, but I’m three-for-three. Maybe I want to impress him in his realm.

  “Find it?” he calls out. “I think Peck stuck them up against the side of the box on the right. Top drawer. Probably hard to see.”

  Sighing in relief, I jump to the right box and retrieve the pin. “Got it. This is the last one, just so you know.”

  “Yeah, we don’t use those much.” His hand is sticking out from under the equipment awaiting the pin. I place it gently in his palm, letting my fingertips touch him as I let it go. He snaps his hand closed, catching my fingers for a brief, sudden hold.

  Neither of us pulls away for a long second, the feel of his touch, however small, is like the spark of a match on a dark night. It’s warm and bright and with it comes a flash of hope that may or may not pan out.

  As I draw my hand back, white noise roaring past my ears, I fall back into my chair.

  Fiddling with a straw, I watch him scramble around under the tractor. Before long, he’s adjusted his position and I ca
n’t see him anymore. A part of me wants to walk around the equipment so I can get a glimpse of him again without him knowing, but I stay put just in case he’s paying attention. I don’t want to look thirsty.

  “I heard a lot about you in Crave tonight,” I tell him. “There are some interesting stories floating around about you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup. You were a football star.”

  “Hardly,” he snorts.

  “That’s what they say,” I sing-song. “You also had lots of girlfriends.”

  A tool hits the concrete. “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, come on,” I laugh. “That’s the one I believe. How would you not have a ton of girlfriends?”

  “Who was telling you all this shit?” he asks, clearly annoyed.

  “Machlan. Peck. A guy named Cross at the bar. They also said you once burned something in Merom’s football field before the big homecoming game.”

  “That wasn’t me,” he laughs. “That was Machlan and Cross’s dumb asses.”

  “Who is Cross?”

  “Machlan’s friend. They’ve raised absolute hell together since they were kids. Cross owns the gym on the other side of town.”

  The sound of his laugh, something I don’t get to hear often enough, makes me smile.

  “Do you have any questions for me?” I ask.

  “I have no interest in hearing about your dating life.”

  “Good because I don’t have one,” I grumble. “My brothers made it terribly hard growing up. Dating is something that never came easy to me.”

  “How would it not?” he scoffs. “Look at you. You could get any man you wanted.”

  I don’t say anything, point out that the man I want is under a tractor and refusing to take the bait.

  The sounds get louder from him banging on the tractor, so I sit in the chair and let my mind wander. I wish I could ask him all the questions I have, get to know him better, but he’s so locked up and I don’t know why. Even more, I don’t know why I’m so awkward with him. So unsure. So … not me.

  “You still here?” he calls out.