Crazy
Gibson Boys Book #4
Adriana Locke
Copyright © 2019 by Adriana Locke
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Image: Adobe Stock
Cover Design: Kari March
Editing: Marion Making Manuscripts
Jenny Sims, Editing 4 Indies
Also by Adriana Locke
The Exception Series
The Exception
The Connection
The Perception
The Landry Family Series
Sway
Swing
Switch
Swear
Swink
Sweet
The Gibson Boys Series
Crank
Craft
Crave
Crazy
Dogwood Lane
Tumble
Tangle
Trouble
Restraint- Coming Soon
Standalone Novels
Sacrifice
Wherever It Leads
Written in the Scars
Lucky Number Eleven
For an email every time Adriana has a new release, sign up for an alert here: http://bit.ly/AmazonAlertAddy or text the word adriana to 21000
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Sway
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
Peck
“It’s you.”
A pair of red flip-flops come to a stop next to the truck. Dust billows from the harder-than-necessary halt to movement and flows under the truck and right into my face. I wave my hand in front of me and cough.
“Yeah?” I ask. “What’s your point?”
Toenails painted the color of grass on a spring day tap against the gravel. A thin gold ring adorns the second toe.
“Are you proud of yourself?” she asks.
The tone she’s using nixes any ideas I may have had to scoot out from underneath this vehicle. It has that flair to it, that you’ve-done-and-gone-screwed-up-but-I’m-going-to-make-you-wallow-a-while thing that turns men’s blood to ice.
The only problem is that I can’t figure out what I’ve done. Or who she is.
I drop the wrench in my hand and study the tanned legs visible from my disadvantageous position. They’re short and tanned, the muscles in her calves flexing as she pops one foot up on her toe.
The voice—one that’s clearly annoyed with me for some reason—isn’t familiar, nor are the legs. A quick scan of recent activity doesn’t unearth a woman who should be pissed. Not that a woman needs a reason to be pissed, but still.
“Well,” I say, “it depends on why you’re asking.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that if you’re asking if I’m proud of the fact that I diagnosed and will have Dave’s truck fixed in under an hour—minus the time I spend in this conversation with you—then yes. I am. Or if you’re asking about the black lines down the middle of Main Street, I’m proud of that too. I—”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Do I?” I scratch the top of my head.
Staring at the undercarriage, I attempt to figure out what the heck is happening here. The day has been a doozy already. Between Nana calling me at four in the morning because she couldn’t get out of bed and my cousin Walker’s pissy mood when I got to work at his mechanic’s shop Crank, I should’ve just called in sick. I should’ve stayed in bed instead of trying to make the best out of the day.
Sometimes, you just know better. I knew better this morning. I’m just not smart enough to listen to myself.
“You’re a jerk, you know that?” she says with a huff. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “No, I take that back. You’re more than that. You’re a jackass.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Um, nope. I really don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Now come out here and face me like a man.”
“If you insist,” I mutter.
Pressing my heels into the gravel, I roll myself out from under the truck. The sun is bright, almost blinding me with its early afternoon rays. I shield my eyes and look up into the face of a woman who looks like she wants to kill me.
Her bright green eyes widen just a bit before resuming their narrowed position. A set of full lips are pressed together in a hard line. Her face is framed by a couple of unruly strands of sandy brown hair that’s fallen from a lopsided ponytail.
I bite back a smile. I’m one hundred percent certain I’m supposed to be intimidated and not entertained right now, but I can’t help it. She’s fucking adorable.
“Well, here I am,” I say.
She takes a step back. Her eyes release from mine and drag down the length of my body. When they return to my face, she narrows them again. “You’re a jackass.”
“You’ve said that.” I get to my feet and brush off my hands. “Look, do I know you? Not that I don’t love being yelled at by a stranger …”
“You are incredible,” she says, dropping those pretty little lips of hers open.
“Thanks.” I smile. The gesture does not get returned. “If you’re Tad’s daughter or something, tell him I put the gas cans back. It was an emergency. I swear. Just tell him they’re behind the shovels in the barn, and I’ll pay him back. Okay?”
She cocks a brow. “And you steal gas too. Wow. What a winner.”
“You’re awfully judgy for someone who doesn’t even know me.”
“I know all I want to know about you.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, sliding my hands down my jeans.
A gasp sneaks through the air as her hands fall to her sides in exasperation. I take a step back for self-preservation. Just in case.
“Are you hitting on me?” She blinks once, then twice.
“No,” I say. “I mean, if you want me to, I’d—”
She throws her hands up in the air. “She said you worked fast and would move on without thinking twice about it, but I had hoped that she’d be wrong.”
“Who? Who said that? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
She lets out a little laugh that’s anything but funny. I wait for steam to come out of her ears, but the only thing rolling off her is the scent of oranges.
I glance around for cameras because this has to be a joke. Surely, one of my cousins is setting me up. But the longer I look, the more it becomes apparent: she’s as serious as a heart attack.
“You’re exactly like she said you’d be,” she says.
Blowing out a breath, I focus.
“Let’s just restart this whole thing,” I say. “What’s your name?”
“We’re really doing this?”
“Doing what?” I hold my hands in front of me. “What are we really doing? I don’t get it.”
She flashes me a disapproving look. “You’re really asking my name?”
“That’s what ya do when you don’t know somebody. At least it is around here.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. I’m Dylan,” she says as if she’s talking to a baby. “And we talked last week about how much you love my best friend.”
The last part of that gets loud. Really, really loud. She takes my cringing as a sign of weakness.
She moves toward me, her eyes flashing her fury at me like bolts of lightning. Her finger jabs me in the chest.
“You better be scared of me,” she says. “Thinking you’re gonna ghost her like some careless asshole after she opens up to you about—”
“Whoa, wait—”
“No, I’m not gonna wait.” She jabs me again, harder this time. Her face twists when I don’t budge. “I shouldn’t have even shown up out here because that probably will make your ego explode.”
My brain scrambles with her accusation but gets even more fogged up with the look in her eyes. Worry is etched on her face.
“Listen, I’m sorry about your friend. Honest. But—”
“I highly doubt that.” She takes a deep breath, the passion starting to wane as she thinks her point has been delivered. “You better stay away from her. Do you hear me?”
I have no idea what we’re doing here, but I feel bad for Dylan. And her friend. And for the guy who ghosted her friend if Dylan ever catches up with him.
A part of me wants to maintain my innocence, but I’m not sure it matters.
“I get it,” I tell her. “Your friend is hurting, and you’re ready to go to battle. I respect that. Lord knows the battles my family has gotten me in. But I …”
This placates her a little. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. Another deep breath is taken, causing the tiny chip of diamond in her nose to shine.
She’s pretty. This girl with her golden-brown skin and long eyelashes and personality for days would have me chasing after her if I didn’t want to run out of fear for my life.
The venom in her eyes subsides. She reaches up and brushes back a strand of hair that came out as she railed me, and I see a tattoo on her wrist. It’s the word family written in a delicate script. I think about my brother, Vincent, and how many times I’ve gone to war for him or my cousins.
I consider telling her I’m not who she thinks I am. But if I do that, she’s going to start shouting again, which means I’ll just be here longer fixing this damn truck. Besides, I did nothing wrong, so maybe I’ll let it go. Let Dylan get it off her chest and move on. I have broad shoulders. Besides, the guy, whomever he is, probably wouldn’t give a shit anyway from how it sounds. It’ll probably make her feel better to think the guy feels bad—at least a little.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to make this better?”
“Stay away from her.”
“I will. Promise. Cross my heart,” I say, acting out the gesture in front of her. “Anything else?”
She nods, looking around Dave’s front yard. “Well, you could bring her pots and pans back. They were the first nice thing she ever bought for herself, and it makes it easier to save money if you can cook at home. I’m sure she’d like to have them returned.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering why some dude would take a woman’s kitchen equipment. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I bite my bottom lip, trying to figure out how to get a set of pans back from a guy I don’t even know. Dylan scrutinizes every move I make. Finally, she shakes her head.
“You pawned them, didn’t you?”
“No,” I insist, slightly offended. “I wouldn’t pawn someone’s pots and pans. Who do you think I am?”
“A jackass.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. I forgot.”
“And you could bring me a bottle of Jack. After all, I’m helping her pick up all the pieces of her heart that you so thoughtlessly threw against the wall. So thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
She scowls. “Really?”
“Look, I’m doing my best here,” I say with a chuckle. “Give me some credit.”
Her arms cross over her chest as she considers this. “Fine. I’ll give you some credit for at least sort of taking responsibility. That’s it. That’s all you get.”
“Good enough, I guess.”
With a satisfied nod of her head, she starts to turn away, but then she stops before she gets too far. “One more thing,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder. “Don’t tell Navie I was here.”
I blink once. Twice. Three times.
Navie? Bartender Navie? Navie-Who-Works-At-My-Cousin’s-Bar Navie?
My friend Navie?
Navie knows Dylan? And Dylan doesn’t know me?
Am I being set up here?
I grab at my temple with my right hand.
“You won’t, right?” Dylan asks when I fail to answer.
“Yeah. Sure. I, um, I won’t say a word,” I say, trying to piece all this together.
Her shoulders relax, the V-neck dropping low enough to see the cleavage that I would enjoy any other time except right now when I’m mentally marinating Navie knowing Dylan and Dylan thinking I’m some other guy.
I run a hand down my face and, once again, regret not going back to bed.
“It’s a shame you’re such a jackass,” she says.
I drop my hands. “Well, thanks. But I’m not one really.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Suit yourself,” I say. “But tell Navie that if she needs to talk—”
“Nope. If you want to talk to her, you do it. Be a man. Prove me wrong.” She walks toward her car again. “And bring back her pots and pans. Do you hear me?”
“If I can find them.”
She stops at her car and flings open the door. Her eyes narrow again. She’s so damn cute, and this entire thing so bizarre that I can’t take it. I laugh.
“If you don’t find them, I’ll come find you,” she says.
“Could you warn me first? And let me schedule that into my day because I’m running about a half hour behind right now.”
She fights a smile as she climbs into her car. She pulls away just as quickly as she arrived, and I’m left standing next to old man Dave’s truck, wondering what the hell just happened.
Two
Peck
I tug my hat down to block out the early evening sun. Stepping over a broken piece of sidewalk that the town of Linton hasn’t bothered to fix in at least fifteen years, I make my way toward Crave.
My cousin’s bar is my usual haunt after work, and today is no exception. What is different about today, though, is that I have a reason to be here besides not just wanting to be alone.
My face breaks into a grin as I remember the little spitfire. Her finger pressed against my chest as she leveled warnings makes me laugh. But as entertained as I am with Dylan’s moxie, an uneasiness settles over me when I think of Navie.
I would like to think Navie and I were close enough that I’d know if she was seeing someone seriously enough for them to steal her cookware. And I’d really hope she knows she could ask me for help if she needed it because if this guy is the jerk that Dylan seems to think he is, then what else has he done?
The door chimes as I tug it open. Eighties rock music is playing on the spe
akers, letting me know my cousin Machlan, the owner of the bar, is still here. Pieces of streamers and popped balloons are stuck on random nails and pictures from Machlan’s birthday party that got a little out of control last weekend.
“Hey,” Machlan says from the other side of the bar. “You’re in here early.”
“Long day.”
I plop down on a barstool. Machlan slides a beer down the bar, and I catch it with one hand.
“Tell me about it,” he says. “Hadley woke up mad at me for something I did to her in her dream last night. And then Navie was an hour late and about as happy with me as my girlfriend for some unknown reason. I can’t win.”
I take a long sip of beer. The glass has the perfect level of dew on the outside. Setting it back on the bar, I look at my cousin. He doesn’t seem to know things he’s not telling me, but Machlan is good at hiding shit.
“What’s going on with Navie?” I ask with as much nonchalance as I can muster.
“Fuck if I know. I’ve learned it’s best not to ask.” He leans forward, his elbows resting on the counter. His lips turn up into a smirk. “Tad was in here earlier looking for you. Said something about gas cans and a note left scrawled on a two-by-four in spray paint last night?”
“I left a damn note, and I returned the gas cans. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Maybe that you broke into his barn,” Machlan offers.
“I did not.” I look at Machlan. He’s still wearing that stupid smirk. “What? The door was open. That officially makes it not a break-in.”
“Pretty sure Tad and all relevant legal definitions don’t agree with that assessment.”
Crazy: Gibson Boys Book #4 Page 1
