“Mark Billingsley.”
“Want me to talk to him?” I offer.
“It’s not just that. I mean, what am I going to do? My stuff is coming in a pod thing soon, and I have nowhere to even put it now. I could fill Navie’s entire apartment with my stuff.”
She kicks a pebble around the driveway. Her shoulders are tense. Each kick is a little harder until I’m afraid that if she aims wrong, she’ll put out a window with the rock.
“Are there storage units around?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Closest one I know of is about forty-five minutes away.”
“That’ll be convenient.” She sighs as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “I need to find a place to rent.”
My brain goes into overdrive. There aren’t a lot of vacant houses around Linton because most people never leave once they get here. The houses I know are rentals are occupied, and most of them are owned by a guy out of Chicago who has the personality of a wounded badger.
Dylan looks down and scratches a place on her calf. “Flea bite.”
I walk a circle trying to rack my brain for something to solve her problem when I spy the leftovers she brought me for lunch. The smell and warmth of walking into Navie’s last night stuck with me all night. So did the conversation with Dylan.
All night, I wished I could’ve stayed. It was like hanging out with Walker’s girl, Sienna, or Machlan’s girlfriend, Hadley. Being around both of them feels like being with family. Like I can say or do anything without it being held over my head—in a bad way, anyway. My family roasts me for years over every stupid thing. At least I know they care.
Dylan is like that. But more … exciting.
“Hey,” I say, turning to face her.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Yeah?”
“I have an idea.”
“Please tell me you just thought of a place to rent for cheap that isn’t filled with animal fur.”
“Maybe I have.”
She perks up. “Really?”
“Maybe …”
This could be a terrible idea. It’s probably a terrible idea.
I try to talk myself out of saying what I’m about to say because … well, because of a lot of things. Because of that old saying not to fix what’s not broken. Because she’s so pretty. Because it would be an invasion of my personal space, and I’d be asking her to do it so I can’t even get mad when it happens.
Don’t do it, Peck …
“So I know a one bedroom, one bath,” I say in a rush before I start listening to myself. “Not that big, really, but enough room to move. Not big enough for all your stuff, but there’s a big barn out back where you could keep your stuff until you can figure out what to do with it.”
I grit my teeth as she happily receives this information.
“You do? Peck! That’s great. Where is it? Is it available? Who do I call?”
“It’s available. It’s just out of town on the other side. Near Bluebird Hill.”
“I saw a sign for that. It’s some kind of outdoors area or something?”
I nod. “That’s it.”
She looks at the house and then back at me. “Do you know how much the rent is? I was paying four hundred dollars a month for this place, and that was about the top of what I can do.”
“I think it’s less.”
“That would be perfect.” She scratches her leg again. “Who do I call?”
Rocking back on my heels, I look at the ground. “Me.”
She sighs in frustration. “Don’t mess with me, Peck. I seriously need to find something.”
“And I seriously have a room you could stay in.”
I look up at her. There are equal parts of hope and suspicion in those green orbs, but I get it. I feel the same way.
A part of me is excited at the thought of having her around to joke with for a few days. But a part the same size is worried this might be all kinds of fucked up. But now that I’ve already spilled the beans, I have to ride it out.
“I can’t stay with you,” she says.
“Should I take that personally?”
“No,” she says with a grin. “But I barely know you. It would be super careless to move in with you.”
“I was using the words ‘stay with me’ because it sounds way less permanent than ‘move in with me,’” I say. “I don’t mean forever. I just mean while you figure this out.”
Her face falls. “This isn’t your problem.”
“I’m aware of that. But if someone has a need and you can supply the fix, you should. I have a room and a bathroom that never gets used. And a big ole barn out back that’s pretty much empty. You’re looking for both those things.” I smirk. “Or you can pile your things in Navie’s apartment, and the two of you can sleep outside. Up to you.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you serious-serious?”
“As serious as I’m gonna get.”
“Do you sleepwalk?” she asks.
“Um, I don’t think so.”
“Do you eat a lot of beans?”
I laugh. “You’re gross.”
“I lived with a guy once that loved them, but they didn’t love him back, and I’d rather not do that again if I have the choice.”
“Well, then, I’ll explicitly ask for no beans, no guacamole when I go to Peaches and get Mexican.”
Her brow furrows. “Peaches for Mexican? That makes no sense.”
“Tell me about it.”
She rubs her forehead again as she walks in a small circle. She stops to look at the house before turning on her heel and facing me again.
“I guess it won’t hurt anything since you’re in love with Molly,” she says.
My head spins with that announcement. Molly? What the fuck does she have to do with anything, and how does she even know about her?
“What? What do you know about Molly?”
“That you love her.”
She says it carefully, testing the sound of the words in the air. Each syllable is enunciated, broken out by a thoughtful tongue.
Leaning back, she waits for my response. It’s one I don’t want to give her.
Molly and my feelings toward her are complicated.
She’s been a constant in my life—more so than anyone even knows. I don’t bother to explain it to them because it’s none of their business, for one. And, for two, they already have their mind made up about her.
She’s not easy to get along with. There are things about her that even I don’t love. But underneath her attitude is a person who needs someone to care about her. I promised her one day a long time ago that I would always give a shit.
It’s a promise I won’t break.
“I have things to do today, you know,” I tease.
“I’m calling bullshit because you planned on helping me today.”
“And now I’m not and could go by Crank and help Walker rip a tranny out of a SUV. Or go check on Nana or have a drink at Crave.”
“At this time of day?” she asks.
“Are you judging me?”
“Maybe.” Her cheeks split with a smile. “What’s the rent?”
“Whatever you want to pay. Honestly, the room is just sitting there.”
“Four hundred a month then. That’s what I was going to pay here.”
I laugh. “Yeah. No. How about we just talk about it later? See how you like it and how it works out?”
She wants to argue with me, but she can’t. I’m her only option, and I’m not upset about that.
“Fine,” she says with a grin. “I would love to stay with you for a while.”
I look at the sky and sigh. “Like you’re doing me some big favor.”
“Oh, but I am,” she says cheekily.
“Only if you cook a lot. Can we add that to your rent? Like you have to make dinner when you can so I don’t have to go find it every night.”
She laughs. “You never cook?”
“Never. If I can’t get Nana to make something, I go
to one of my cousins’ houses. If they’re not making food, I just go buy it somewhere.”
“That’s a waste.”
“It was. Now I have you.”
We exchange a smile.
The air between us picks up, and a gentle breeze carries the scent of cat pee our way. We both make a sour face.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
“I need to talk to Mark and get my security deposit back.”
I head to my truck. “Follow me. We’ll take care of that together in case Mark has anything to say. Then we can head to my house.” I pop open the door when I’m stopped by Dylan’s voice.
“Hey, Peck.”
“Yeah?”
She smiles. “Thanks for this. All of it.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
There’s more she wants to say, but she doesn’t. She climbs in her car instead.
It’s for the best. I need to figure out what the fuck just happened anyway.
Nine
Dylan
“If I had known you were a hoarder, I wouldn’t have invited you to come here,” Peck says. He wipes his brow with the back of his head. “If I see another box labeled ‘Not Sure’ …”
He leans against the wall of the barn. My things, in boxes laden with my generalized description of the contents, are stacked in a neat row behind him. His jeans are dusty. Bits of cardboard are stuck to his faded blue T-shirt and dot the top of his baseball hat.
We’ve worked to unload the shipping container for the past hour. Luckily, I had my personal things—clothes I wear often, dishes, toiletries, and the like—clearly labeled, and we took those inside his house. The rest we stuck in his barn until I can find a permanent housing solution.
“At least I’m honest,” I say. “I happened to look inside your kitchen cabinets, and I’m not sure you’re sure you know what’s in there either.”
“Of course, I do. Kitchen stuff.”
“And these boxes have my stuff.”
A laugh sits on the tip of his tongue. “Two totally different things, Dyl.”
“Not really,” I say, trying to ignore the slip of a nickname. “Kitchen stuff means those items go in the kitchen. My stuff means it goes with me. Basically, it’s the same thing.”
I brush a strand of hair off my forehead. Peck watches me like he has all the time in the world and doesn’t have anywhere else to be.
I’ve noticed this is a thing with him. When he’s with you or talking to you, he’s with you or talking to you. It would be unnerving except for the fact that he seems like he cares.
Or at least has enough manners to pretend really well.
Really well.
Well enough that I’m convinced he could reiterate the gist of any conversation we’ve had thus far.
Who does that?
“I was in a hurry, okay?” I say. “And low on boxes. So a box might have some candle holders, a piece to a blender I used to have, some coffee pods, and a Christmas ornament. How would you have labeled that?”
“Trash.”
I gasp. “You did not just call my life’s treasures trash.”
“No,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling. “I called some random shit you just rattled off trash. But if the candle holders were made outta gold or something or if the ornament had your dog’s paw print from its first Christmas with ya, then that’s obviously not trash.”
“Dog’s paw prints?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Don’t people do that?”
“Yeah. With their kids’ fingerprints,” I say with a laugh.
“I bet people do it with their dogs too.”
“Maybe. Doubt it, though. Wouldn’t the paint get stuck in their fur or something?”
He shoves off the wall and walks by me with a grin. “You think too much. Come on. Let’s go get a drink.”
I follow him out the barn. The late afternoon sun teases the horizon, painting the sky with colorful rays, and the crickets begin to sing their ode to the day. It’s so peaceful here. It’s unlike any other place I’ve ever been.
Just like its owner.
Peck is a few feet ahead of me. I happily remain a few steps behind. Today has been a whirlwind. When I woke up this morning, there was no way I thought that I would be bunking with Peck by the end of the night. I would’ve said I would’ve been way too nervous to share a house with a man at all, let alone one I barely know.
But I’m not.
I don’t know how to feel about that yet.
He stops at the steps leading up to the back porch. “You comin’ or what?”
“You walk too fast.”
His smile touches his eyes. Leaning against the rail, he waits on me to catch up.
I stop next to him. A warm breeze trickles over my skin, bringing the scent of pines and freshly cut grass with it. It smells like a candle you’d buy with hopes that it would take you back to a vacation or a moment in time when you had no worries in the world. It’s that smell.
He climbs the stairs after me, giving me plenty of room.
“That’s all your stuff, right?” he asks.
“Yeah. The rental company will be by tomorrow to pick up the empty storage container.”
The back porch squeaks as I step on it. A grill sits to my right and a porch swing to my left. Some type of orange lily grows in a pot at the end, stretching toward the setting sun.
We step inside the house, and Peck flips on a light. He washes his hands and then busies himself with pouring two glasses of lemonade. I take his spot at the sink.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to do this.”
He glances at me over his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
“I want you to know that I won’t take this for granted. I’ll be on the lookout for a place on my own starting tomorrow. I won’t wear out my welcome.”
I dry off my hands before taking a glass from him.
He moves around the kitchen, wiping off the counters as I sip my lemonade. The kitchen is on the small side anyway but looks even smaller with him in it. It’s not that he’s huge—I’d guess he’s right at six foot or so—but he fills out a space somehow. I’m not mad about watching his muscles flex and ripple as he moves.
Not mad at all.
The sweet drink quenches my thirst as I watch him tidy up. Everything he does, he does with intent. It’s like tying up the garbage bag is an important project he’s taking on, and he’s doing it with care. There’s a quality about that I find soothing in a strange way.
He tosses a sponge in the sink. “So …”
“So …”
I set my drink on the table.
What happens now? I have no idea.
This isn’t like sharing a space with Navie or another friend. This is Peck Ward, a guy I’ve known a few days but somehow trust implicitly. Even if Navie didn’t already know him and adore him, I think I would’ve. Or maybe it’s because of their friendship that ours is so easy. It’s as if I’ve known him for a long time. And through Navie, I guess I have. I’ve heard so many stories about this man, stories that have made me laugh until I cried. Through the tales, I picked up that he’s been in Navie’s corner since she arrived in Linton.
Maybe he’s in mine too.
There’s a kindness in his eyes that settles all the anxiety I think I should be feeling. But I’m not. At all. How could you feel nervous when he’s so nice?
I bet they said that about serial killers too.
It hits me that this is the modern day, grown-up version of getting in the car with a stranger. Only, instead of a car, it’s a house. And instead of a puppy, it’s puppy dog eyes.
I’m probably dead.
My mouth opens to ramble something random, something to take up the space between us until I can figure out how to dart out of here before he carves me up with a knife, when he laughs.
“What?” I ask instead.
“What are you thinking?”
“Why? Can you read my mind?”
&nbs
p; He snorts. “No, thank God. I have a feeling that inside your mind is a scary place.”
I pick up a saltshaker from the table. If nothing else, I could wield it at him and give myself a couple of seconds to run if this goes awry.
“You know what else would be a scary place?” I ask.
“Inside one of your boxes?”
“Very funny. I was thinking something more like …” I toss the shaker in the air. Surprisingly, I catch it with the same hand. But I have no time to celebrate how cool that probably looked. I have work to do. “Soundproof rooms. Trunks of cars. Barns with power tools.”
His brows pull together.
He’s even cuter when he’s serious.
Damn it.
“You got something you wanna tell me, Dylan?”
“Not if you don’t have anything you wanna tell me, Peck. If that’s even your real name.”
A light bulb goes off over his head, and he begins to laugh. Humor dances across his face, his hand dragging the jawline that’s speckled with the day’s stubble.
“You’re having second thoughts, aren’t you?” he asks.
“No,” I say too quickly. “I mean, not really. You know … totally am.”
My lips smack together. I toss the shaker again, but this time it lands on the floor in front of me. “Shit,” I mumble as I bend to scoop it up.
“You don’t think I pressured you into this, right? Because I’m not that guy, and if I did or said something that made you—”
“No.” I shake my head fervently. Heat tinges my cheeks as I feel very, very silly. “I’m just nervous, I guess. I’m sorry for acting like a weirdo.”
“Why are you nervous?”
It’s an honest question. He stands tall, facing me completely as if to demonstrate his openness.
A lump settles in my throat. “I just get a little enthusiastic sometimes and was worried that maybe I jumped into this too soon. I mean, I don’t really even know you.”
“You were kind of quick to accept my offer.” He tosses me a wink. “I’m kidding.”
“I’m not. One time, I told someone I liked kids and, the next thing I knew, I had a part-time job at a daycare watching a bunch of babies for minimum wage. And then I tried to quit, and they wouldn’t let me and …” I sigh. “I can get in over my head fast.”
Crazy: Gibson Boys Book #4 Page 7
