Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

Tossing a wrench into the toolbox with more force than necessary, I glare at my cousin. “This was all your idea.”

  “And a damn good one at that.”

  I pluck a screwdriver out of the container and head back to the SUV we’ve been messing with all morning. My stomach growls as I remove the screws holding in the faulty part that’s taken two hours to get to. It falls into my hand with a heavy thud.

  “Finally,” Peck says, taking it from me. “Now can I go to lunch?”

  “Yeah, may as well. When you get back, maybe the new piece will be here.”

  “Hell, at this rate, I’m tempted to go to the parts store in Merom and just buy the fucker. We’ve waited all day.”

  “And we’ll pay double.”

  He grabs his keys and phone from the rack by the door and makes his way out. I watch through the window. He stops and talks to Sienna, telling her something that makes her laugh. I move closer to the glass without thinking, wishing I could hear the sound.

  It’s taken everything I have all day not to go back in there. It’s taken more than I knew I had not to look up every three seconds and look for her.

  She moves with grace—her chin always lifted, her back always straight. It reminds me of the ballerinas who used to perform with Blaire when she was a little girl. Always poised, always performing. The only difference is, with Sienna, it doesn’t feel like a performance.

  That’s the fucking problem right there. That’s the reason I can’t shake this girl from my system despite every attempt at doing just that.

  There’s a confidence exuding from her that’s overwhelming. How can someone be that sure of themselves? How can she just blaze into my world, my business, and make decisions like she’ll just fix it if it’s wrong? Who does that?

  I laid awake last night with her on my mind. I’ve worked all day today and had a stream of Sienna rolling in the back of my brain the whole morning as I tried to fix this fuel pump. She’s intoxicating, a drug foreign to me that I’ve somehow ingested and can’t purge from my body.

  But I need to. Desperately.

  “Hey.” Her voice sweeps through the garage, capturing my attention. “There’s a pump of some sort here. Peck said to tell you if it came in.”

  “Thanks.”

  She waits as I head her direction, holding the door open for me. I want to tell her to stop it, to stop making it so hard to dislike her, but I don’t. Instead, I listen to the door shut behind me and spy the box on the desk.

  “What’s this for?” she asks.

  “A fuel pump we’ve needed since nine,” I say, leaning against the wall. “We order everything from Standski’s, but their delivery has been shit lately. I don’t want to order from one of the online places, but they’re gonna force me to.”

  “You should’ve told me. I could’ve called and spurred them on.”

  “You think it would’ve helped?” I scoff.

  “I can be really persuasive.”

  That, I have little trouble believing. Instead of agreeing with her, I glance around the lobby. “Damn. You’ve done a lot today.”

  You can see the cars in the parking lot, the trees lining the other side of the road through the now-clear windows. The floors don’t shine, but they definitely don’t have heaps of dried up mud on them either. And the desk is semi-organized with a handful of stacks of papers in a neat line on top.

  “You like it?” She shoots me the brightest smile, one that hits something inside me it shouldn’t. “I didn’t know where to start, so I just started at the messiest place and moved on. I thought I’d take those rags to the cleaners when I leave.”

  “To the cleaners?” I ask, lifting a brow.

  “I’m not putting those greasy things in my washing machine,” she gags. “They stink too.”

  “Um, fun fact, Slugger: you take those to a dry cleaners and they’ll laugh your ass right out of there.”

  “Do you just throw them away then?”

  “There’s about fifty bucks’ worth of towels. No, I don’t throw them away,” I say like she’s crazy. “We take them over to Suds N Spins and wash them there.”

  “That’s a … what do you call it?”

  “A laundromat? Haven’t you had to do laundry there before? When your washer broke or at college or something?”

  “Um, nope. But I’ll take these there. What do I need to know?”

  “Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “You’ve never been to a laundromat?”

  “No. So what?”

  “So who even are you?”

  Something crosses her features as a hand goes to her hip. “Do you want me to take them or not?”

  There’s a laugh ready to expel, a reaction to how adorably sexy she is when she’s all riled up and challenging me back. Not because I’ve never been challenged, but because I don’t think anyone has ever given a fuck to actually help me and not gotten frustrated when it’s not easy.

  I bite back the reaction and instead answer her question. “I’ll get to it.”

  “Why are you so hard-headed?”

  “Me?” I ask.

  “Yes, you.” She points a white-tipped fingernail my way. “I’m trying to help you out. The least you can be is nonjudgmental.”

  “I’m not being judgmental.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  As I take a step forward, she takes one back. Then another. And another until her back is against the wall. Her chest rises and falls at a spectacular speed, her blue eyes sparkling in the sunshine streaming through the window. Just standing this close to her, feeling her body this close to mine, is enough to fray any sensibilities I’ve managed to hold on to.

  With the most caution I’ve ever used, I drag the back of my hand down her cheek. Her skin is soft, the quiet intake of breath so perfect that I find myself forgetting where I am.

  God, I want to give in. I want to dip my head down to hers and kiss the fight right out of her. She would be so perfect in my hands as I pin her to the wall, feel her body squirm against mine as our bodies press together and she moans in to my mouth.

  “Damn it,” I groan, my voice more haggard than I wanted it to be as I drop my hand away from her face. “Why are you so frustrating?”

  “I don’t mean to be.”

  It’s not the words, but the way she whispers them that shoots through me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, forcing my feet backwards.

  She sags against the wall, her fingers flexing against her sides. She searches my eyes, almost desperately, and my stomach sinks right along with her shoulders.

  “What are you sorry for?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” I twist around and snatch the box off the desk. “Peck headed to lunch. If you wanna go, Carlson’s Bakery has pretty good sandwiches. Tell Veronica I sent you over.”

  I don’t wait for a response. I just hit the door to the bay and escape while I still can.

  Seven

  Sienna

  The towel rubs along the steamed up glass, squeaking as it wipes away the moisture. After a few swipes, I can make out my foggy reflection.

  Hair up turban-style, my body wrapped in a soft pink robe, the streaks of dirt and dust from Crank are only a distant reminder. My cheeks are still rosy, though, and I wonder if it’s from the heat of the shower or the fantasy of being pinned against the wall by Walker I just indulged while rinsing off the grime from the day.

  My grin stretches from ear to ear, and with just me in the room to witness, I don’t try to hide it. There’s no point in pretending I’m not utterly perplexed by Walker Gibson.

  Closing my eyes, the heat of the bathroom makes me remember the fervor zipping between us when he walked me back to the wall. There was an intensity etched on his face, lines dipping deep into his skin as he wrestled with whatever was causing the browns of his eyes to spiral like a storm. Each step towards me both a warning and a promise, a message that I couldn’t quite grasp.

  I wanted him to touch me, kiss me, break this barrier he’s so obvio
usly constructed between us. Most guys have no problem trying to see what they can get away with. Walker? I’m not sure I could beg him to.

  As I take in my reflection again, the apples of my cheeks are even redder. The fabric tucked around my chest is unforgiving and I have to loosen it to breathe.

  “Sienna?” Delaney’s voice sounds from the other side of the door. “I’m going to grab some takeout. You want anything?”

  “No,” I say, blowing out a breath. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

  “When I get back, you’re gonna tell me all about your day. Right?”

  “I’ve already told you everything,” I lie.

  “Sure you have. Be back soon and then you can for real.”

  Her steps soften as she heads to the doorway and end when the front door snaps shut.

  Sagging against the counter, I really just want to go to bed. My body aches from all the mopping and wiping and sweeping. I did more cleaning today than I’ve ever done, despite the distraction Walker and Peck delivered through the window.

  Peck, on his own, would be hard to not watch. He has this boy-next-door sweetheart thing going on and a personality like a magnet. But next to Walker, he doesn’t exist.

  I open the door, letting the warm, wet air trickle into the rest of the house. Everything is quiet as I make my way to the living room and plop down on the chair. The blue and red plaid material is rough against my legs. I’ve hated this chair since Delaney had me help her carry it in from a swap meet when I first moved here.

  A few boxes sit half-packed against the wall and reality bowls me over. In a few days, Delaney will be gone. I’ll be here. Alone.

  Tears well up in my eyes as I take out my phone and pull up social media. My friends from back home smile from Tybee Island. My girlfriends are posting loop videos of themselves at dinner at one of our favorite restaurants there. Right before I click off, I see a picture my sister posted of her holding my father’s hand. It’s innocent with a text saying, “I love my daddy,” but there’s nothing in the picture that I recognize besides the scar running from his index finger down the top that happened one Christmas morning a long time ago. But there is the edge of what I suspect is a hospital bracelet and a blue and white checked fabric faded into the background that looks eerily like a hospital gown.

  The longer I look at the picture, the more I can’t shake the fact that something isn’t right: Camilla posting something so intimate on social media. The odd location, the way the photo blurs and shows really nothing to the naked eye.

  A chill tearing through me, I call Camilla. It rings twice, my heartbeat soaring with each tone, before she answers.

  “What’s going on?” I ask immediately.

  “Did Graham call you?”

  “No. Why would G call me?” I spring to my feet, my heart in my throat. “What’s happening, Cam?”

  “Calm down. It’s nothing or I would’ve called you already. You know that.”

  “It’s something or we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

  My tone almost reaches the level of panic, a ball of tension taking root at the back of my neck. Every possible situation that could be wrong screeches through my mind.

  “Dad didn’t feel well today,” Cam says gently. “Mom took him to the emergency room to be safe. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?” I ask, aghast that she would downplay something as serious as a trip to the ER. The fact that he allowed Mom to take him has vomit threatening to spew from my mouth. “What did they say? Is he okay?”

  “They said it was angina and he should make some dietary and exercise changes. He has to see a cardiologist sometime soon.”

  Red-hot tears dot the corners of my eyes, a ball lodged in my throat making it impossible to talk.

  “He’s going to be okay, Sienna.”

  “Do I need to come home?” I say, my voice sounding all gulpy.

  “No. We’d love to see you, but don’t race home because of this. He’s irritated tonight. Graham showed up and tried to tell Dad what he was going to do, so that went over well.”

  “I bet,” I chuckle. “Who won?”

  “Mom,” she laughs. “She told them both to settle down in that voice she keeps for the two times a year she actually gets mad.”

  Imagining my sweet mother’s face angry, I’m able to catch my breath. When she goes into that mode, she gets shit done. She fixes the problem. It’s where my siblings and I get our need to step in and take care of things.

  “So Dad’s okay?” I ask, taking a long, calming breath.

  “He’s fine right now. If anything comes of it, you know you’ll be my first call.”

  Slumping back down in the scratchy chair, the adrenaline from thinking there was a crisis starts to wane. “You had me scared with your vaguebook.”

  “I didn’t vaguebook. Dominic took the picture and I thought it was nice so I posted it. I didn’t expect anyone to read that much into it,” she laughs. “I should’ve known you would.”

  “Of course I would. So Dom was there?”

  She chatters on about her new-to-the-family boyfriend, one who I knew about for almost a year before she told everyone. He’s a good guy—he treats Cam like gold and he and I get along great. I know I should be thrilled that he was there for her, for my mother, tonight, but I can’t help but acknowledge the jealousy that stems from him getting to be there and me not.

  “He fits so well into the family,” she continues to gush. “I don’t know why I was so afraid of bringing him around. Ford loves having him work at Landry Security. Lincoln loves kicking his ass on the golf course,” she giggles.

  “Sounds great.”

  Stop. Biting my cheek, I have to remind myself that I’m not there because I chose not to be. I’m the one who opts out of living there. I’m the one who doesn’t want to end up in pearls and heels alongside my mother and sister. I don’t want to be a pawn in a world with reporters and security guards and paid drivers. I don’t want to be a piece of something. I want something I’m a part of. Something that I need as much as it needs me.

  “It’s been great,” she admits. “But what about you? What’s happening up there? Tell me your good stuff.”

  I consider telling her about Walker’s truck. I think for a brief moment about replaying my day in the auto shop, about Walker and Peck and Nana and all the things I’ve done over the past few days, but decide not to. She’d understand, probably even love it. But the follow-up questions would be too much, and besides, what’s the point? I’m leaving here soon anyway. There’s no sense in making this anything more than a distraction. Instead, I focus on facts.

  “Delaney is going to work for her family,” I tell her.

  “What does that mean for you?”

  “Just that the business will be mine. I’m going to call Graham tomorrow and have him get the papers together for me,” I say, wondering how our brother will take that bit of news.

  There is a part of me that hoped I could impress my brother by striking out on my own. I understand design and I understand the business behind it and somehow, by Delaney leaving, it feels like I didn’t keep it together.

  “How do you feel about that?” Cam asks.

  “She has to do what she has to do. It’s her family, you know? I’d do the same for you guys.”

  “I was hoping you had happier news.”

  “Well,” I start, an eruption of warmth swelling from deep within me. I can’t stop it. “I met a hot-as-hell car guy.”

  “Oooh, car guys,” she squeals. “Tell me about him.”

  “It’s not like that,” I warn.

  “It is. I hear it in your voice.”

  “It really isn’t,” I say, the seriousness in my tone not matching the grin on my cheeks.

  “Then tell me about him that’s not like that,” she laughs.

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The words get jumbled on my tongue, the descriptions, the place to start gets fuzzy as I mentally jump from one thing
to another. I don’t know where to begin.

  Pacing the room, one foot in front of the other, I search desperately for words that I can’t come up with.

  “Got it,” Cam says after a long pause.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “That’s how I got it.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I say, rearranging magazines on the coffee table for a distraction. “There’s really nothing to tell. I just hit his truck with a bat and then—”

  “Wait. You did what?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “I … I don’t know where to start with that.”

  “Don’t, because that’s not where we’re going,” I tell her. “So he owns a car repair shop and somehow I’ve managed to spend a little time down there to pay off my debt.”

  “Does he not take cash?”

  “He does, but it’s a long and convoluted story, Cam.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” she says, clearing her throat to hide the amusement laced in her tone. “You damaged his truck and are now working it off. Like, manual labor? You. My twin sister, Sienna Jane Landry, working in a car repair shop?”

  Laughing, because it sounds even crazier hearing it out loud from someone else, I throw up my one free hand. “Basically. That’s it.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

  “It’s crazy, right?” I say, Walker’s face now firmly affixed in my mind. “Thank God it’s only for a couple of weeks. Or, maybe it was just for today. I’m not sure, actually …”

  The words no more than enter the world and I wish I could take them back. Even I can hear the way my voice dropped off at the end.

  “Tell me about him,” she says easily, prying me for information in the most unobtrusive way. “What’s he like?”

  Heading into the kitchen, I try, once again, to figure out where to start. As I try to come up with a good description, I grab a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and take a good, long drink.

  Finally, after I’ve put the cap back on and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and stalled for as long as I can, I suck in a deep breath. “His name is Walker. He’s infuriatingly difficult. A total grump. Broody.”