Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  Before I know it, it’s just me and Machlan. And Machlan doesn’t look happy.

  * * *

  Machlan

  “What the fuck was that?”

  My words are ringing through the air as the door slams shut behind Spencer. There’s a bite to my tone, a jagged edge to each syllable that’s delivered with precision. I wait for Hadley to react. All I get is a slight roll of her eyes.

  “What’s what?” she asks.

  My head spins, the events of the last few minutes tumbling through my mind and clamoring against each other. I can’t make sense of any of it.

  “You don’t trust me,” I say. “So what was that all about? Why did you lie for me?”

  “I didn’t say I trusted you.”

  “You just told Spencer he could.”

  She jumps off the stool and places her hands on her narrow hips. “That’s Spencer.”

  She’s inches away, close enough for me to actually hear every breath she takes. Each soft intake of air feels like an invisible arm pulling me toward her.

  Everything inside me is screaming—from the elation, and relief, of getting the building. From the irritation of Hadley intervening. From the proximity of her body to mine and from the smug look she’s flipping my way.

  “Did you want this or not, Mach?”

  “Clarify this.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I grin. “Is that an offer?”

  Her arms cross over her chest, but the posture is muted by the way her lips part. “Clearly not.” She flushes. “But thanks for going there.”

  “It was your mind that went straight to the gutter.”

  She drops her arms at the same time she pulls her lip between her teeth. She’s definitely not doing it for my benefit because she has no way to know how hard it is for me not to reach forward and run my thumb along her jaw and free it. There’s no way she knows this is the exact look, complete with the lust in her eyes I’m scared of never seeing again, that I replay as I lie in bed alone and get off to memories of being entangled in my sheets with her.

  “You could’ve just said thank you,” she points out.

  “I could’ve.”

  “You should’ve.”

  “I would’ve if you hadn’t sidetracked me.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Whatever. You’ve never thanked me for anything in your life.”

  I step toward her until her back is pressed against the bar. Her eyes are wide, her breathing as heavy as mine, but she makes no indication this isn’t where she wants to be.

  “I can think of a few times I’ve thanked you,” I say. My voice is as thick as the air around us, gritty with the pent-up frustration I’ve had since she walked her tight little ass into Crave. “Are you going to pretend you forgot?”

  “I never pretend.”

  “So you remember when I thanked you for making those cupcakes up here for my eighteenth birthday?” The memory of what we did with that icing hits me in the groin.

  Her pupils widen. “Yes.”

  “And you remember when I thoroughly thanked you for picking me up the night Peck and I got caught throwing corn at the sheriff’s cars out by Bluebird?”

  Whether it’s intentional or not, I don’t know, but she angles her body subtly toward me. Her breath is hot against my skin with every little gush of air that escapes her lips. Every move she makes floods me with the scent of her floral perfume and the sweet smell of her skin.

  She swallows. “Yes. I remember that. Very well, actually.”

  I don’t move. I’m rooted in place by her stare. It’s for the best because I’m not sure what I want to do first—shove my face into the crook of her neck or twist her around and bend her over the bar. Neither of which is probably a good idea if I really think about it. Good thing that not thinking things through is one of my best qualities.

  My arm raises until my hand cups the side of her face. She gasps before a full-body shiver slides across her delicate skin. Her eyes are wide, glued to my lips, as I lower them to her.

  She lifts her chin to me, her eyelashes fluttering closed. She lays a hand on the center of my chest. Her fingers flex against the cotton material. If she feels how hard my heart’s ricocheting off my ribs, she ignores it.

  My lips hover over hers. She inhales sharply right before we touch—

  “Hey, Machlan! I told Navie … Oh, shit.”

  Still holding Hadley’s face, I twist my gaze to Peck. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. Or his executioner.

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I growl. My eyes almost pop out of my head from the force of my teeth grinding together.

  Peck stands there, mouth agape, but he’s shrouded in the red of my fury.

  “Trust me when I say I had no idea we were about to walk in on that.” Peck gulps. “You’re gonna kill me now, aren’t you?”

  “Brutally.”

  Hadley slips from beneath my grasp and slides to the side. Immediately, I miss the softness of her skin, the warmth of her proximity. I want to jerk her back, swallow the excuse on the tip of her tongue, and kiss her like she needs to be kissed. Like I need to be kissed.

  “Stop it,” Hadley says. She smooths out an imaginary wrinkle in her shirt and makes a point to stand a good few feet away. It’s not so much that point that boils my blood, but more of the wall I sense between us again.

  She doesn’t look my way. Doesn’t acknowledge me at all, really. Just fixes her gaze on Peck and Navie and that’s what bothers me the most. That she doesn’t see me. That she can pretend she wasn’t just pressed against me and willing to let me touch her.

  Damn it.

  “I’m Hadley,” she says to Navie, clearing her throat.

  Navie looks between Hadley, Peck, me, and back at Hadley with a curious bend of her brow. “I’m Navie. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry. Things aren’t usually this awkward,” Hadley says.

  Peck laughs. “She’s lying. They’re always this awkward between the two of them.”

  I glare at him again. Everything inside me is lamenting the missed opportunity, and as I look at her, I’m not sure I’ll get it again.

  “This should be fun.” Navie laughs, running a hand through her hair. “So on a different note, I just want to remind you that I have to be out of here early tonight, Machlan. I mentioned that a few weeks ago. Just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

  “I can help out,” Hadley offers.

  I don’t even look at her. “The fuck you can.”

  “I work here now, remember?”

  “The fuck you do.”

  “I told Spencer—”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you told Spencer,” I say, turning to face her. “You don’t know the first thing about bartending, for one. For two, I’m not about to let you in here at night alone.”

  “I can stay with her …” Peck gulps as I flash a look his way. “Forget I said anything.”

  My chuckle is low and angry. But as I take in my cousin, I realize I’m not actually mad at him. Or at Hadley. I’m mad at me.

  Something in my genetic makeup makes it impossible for me to ignore Hadley Jacobs. It’s like God created me with a chink in my armor, then He created her to fit that weakness, and I can’t get around it to save my fucking life.

  As I look at her across the room, I can’t figure out what it is that lures me so hard. She’s beautiful, but I’ve seen women who are technically prettier. She’s smart, but I’ve met smarter. She’s funny but not quite as funny as she thinks she is. She’s good and honest, but even she holds secrets and most of them are with me.

  That’s why I can’t just write her off. I’m bound to this woman by scars etched on both our hearts; scars we share with only each other.

  I tune back into the conversation as Navie picks up the remote for the television above the bar. “I love poker,” she says.

  “A lot of us meet up at Machlan’s a couple of times a month and play. You could come someti
me, if you want,” Peck offers.

  “Really?” Navie looks at me.

  I just shrug.

  “He cheats,” Hadley says.

  “I do not.”

  “You totally do,” she says. “You change the rules halfway through the game—”

  “No, I don’t. You don’t know the rules and think I’m changing them when they don’t go your way.”

  She puts a hand on her hips. “Then how do I beat you every time?”

  “Because I let you.”

  Navie’s laugh fills the bar. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

  Hadley’s hand falls to the side as she flips me one final gaze. She starts off toward the back of the bar. “I asked him to marry me once. He rejected me, so that won’t be happening again.”

  I hear Navie’s gasp and see Peck’s jaw drop out of the corner of my eye. I wait for Hadley to look over her shoulder, to give me some clue as to why she just said that in front of an audience, but she doesn’t. She just opens the door and lets it pop closed behind her.

  My eyes close as I count to ten. I don’t get to four before my legs start toward the back door too.

  Eleven

  Hadley

  My sneakers squeak on the asphalt as I pivot to make my way up the splintered staircase. Bursting up the rickety steps, the handrail wobbling in my palm, I make my way as quickly as I can to the apartment.

  I have no idea what led me to admit that out loud—in front of Peck and Navie, no less—but my cheeks are hot to the touch as I step into the kitchen.

  This is not how this was supposed to go. I’m not here to let him kiss me.

  But oh, God, I wish he would’ve.

  My phone lights up on the table, and Samuel’s name is on the screen with a text message. I walk right on by, leaving it untouched.

  My hand touches the spot on my cheek where Machlan’s hand rested.

  I’m an idiot.

  The entire point of being here is to figure out how to forget the touches and smiles and kisses, not to create memories of more.

  I reach for my sweatpants on the bed when the sound of someone barreling up the steps stops me in my tracks. My back to the door, I wait for Machlan. I don’t have to wait long.

  The door opens, rocking against the wall and rattling a picture of an old man praying before dinner on the wall. His presence takes up the entire room.

  I clutch the nightgown to my chest and wait for him to speak. When a few seconds pass and he doesn’t utter a word, I look at him over my shoulder.

  His hair is all mussed up as though he ran his hands through it on the way up here. There aren’t lines bunching his forehead like I imagined. Instead, a softness tints his features that has me blowing out a thankful breath.

  “That took about three seconds longer than I anticipated,” I say.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, not humored by my observation.

  “Getting my stuff together.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Um, actually, it is.”

  We’re face to face, my sweatpants and sunshine from the open door the only things between us. My gaze drops to his right hand. My cheek tingles at the thought of him touching me. And when I look back up at him again, I know he knows what I was thinking.

  He smiles carefully. “I told you to stay here.”

  “It’s a bad idea, Mach.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of you. And me,” I add before he can object. “Look at us. One of us can’t even do something nice for the other without a fight.”

  He considers this. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “I am? I mean, I am, but you agree with me?”

  His gaze settles off into the distance. “Thank you for what you did with Spencer. I guess I should’ve led with that.”

  “You think?”

  “Oh, so you are blaming it on me?” He grins.

  “I’m not blaming this,” I say, motioning between us, “on you. I’m just as much at fault.”

  “This is your fault,” he says, motioning between us too.

  “What? No. You touched me,” I say, tossing my sweatpants on my bag. “You broke the barrier.”

  “And you came home, love.”

  My knees go weak, and I grab the wall for support. I think it just slipped—him calling me love—but the glimmer in his eyes makes me consider otherwise.

  I press my lips together, trying to get my head on straight. He shakes his head, a cheeky smile splitting his cheeks.

  “Unless you want to be almost-kissed again, stop it,” he says.

  I take a step back, but I can’t fight the smile on my face either. “I hate you.”

  “Yeah. Sure looks like it.”

  My phone rings from its spot on the table. It sounds louder than it’s ever sounded before and more urgent than it’s ever buzzed. Machlan side-eyes me as he leans forward and looks at the screen.

  “Who’s Samuel?” he asks.

  “A super nice guy who I’ve been dating.”

  “You’re dating him?” He moves to pick up the phone.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  His hand stalls midair. “You’re dating him?” This time, there’s a gruff tone to his voice, a caution that pokes at my heart. He runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth as if going over a blueprint for war.

  “No,” I admit. “I’m not currently dating him. We’re on a break.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you care?” I ask.

  “Depends on the answer.”

  He turns up the thermostat in my body with one pointed crook of his brow. I think I might melt to the floor as he leans against the wall and runs a hand up and down his bicep.

  The colors of his tattoo draw me in, making it hard to look elsewhere. There are new designs etched in his skin, and I want to look closer. I want to drag my fingers down the designs and ask him why he chose each image.

  “Hey,” he says.

  When I skirt my gaze back to his, he nods, as if prodding me to answer his question.

  Sucking in a deep lungful of air, I steady myself. “We’re on a break because I apparently have commitment issues.”

  “Good.” He laughs. The jerk laughs.

  “It’s not funny.” I head across the room again and find my flip-flops under the bed. When I stand again, he’s on the other side of the bed watching me with an amused smirk. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “He thinks you have commitment issues? Does he even know you?”

  “He knows me well enough to know I’m unable to commit.”

  “Since when?”

  “He’s known me since—”

  “Since when do you have commitment issues?” He gives me a disapproving look. “And on that note, what the fuck with you saying shit to Peck and Navie?”

  “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

  I toss my flip-flops on top of my bag. He moves behind me. I just carry on into the kitchen and grab my toothbrush and toothpaste off the sink.

  “Are we telling everyone everything about us now?” he asks.

  My head whips to the side, and my eyes find his. “No.”

  He nods like he doesn’t care, but I see the relief on his face.

  My shoulders sag. I go about putting my things on top of my bag. They form a pile, teetering back and forth, as I add a notebook to the mix.

  “Had …”

  “If this is about … that,” I say, my throat thick with emotion, “then don’t.”

  His hand reaches for me and rests on my arm. I stop in my tracks and stare at the point where his skin touches mine. My chest refuses to allow enough air inside to keep me even-keeled. A flurry of memories, of hopes and dreams all gather in the corners of my eyes.

  I refuse to look at him, even when he says my name again. I look away, focusing on a pile of papers on the makeshift desk next to the microwave.

  My tears are hot. My nose burns. My brain wrestles for control of my overst
imulated nerves. Gently, I shake my arm free from him and turn completely away.

  “I’ve never talked to anyone about that but you,” he says in an almost-whisper.

  I sniffle, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my shirt. “I haven’t either.”

  “I’d hug you if I didn’t think you’d hit me.”

  I can’t suppress the soft laugh. “How can you be such a jerk and then almost sweet in the same minute?”

  “It’s what happens when you’re the fourth sibling. You get whatever genes are left. My bag of DNA didn’t include enough of either, I guess. I kind of hop back and forth between them.”

  “You really stay on the jerk side most times.”

  He shrugs. “Probably.” He finds my car keys on the nightstand and holds them in his palm. He looks them over as if they might tell him something, before sitting on the bed. “Let’s get back to this Samuel guy.”

  Plopping down on the sofa, I tuck my legs under me. Machlan watches but doesn’t press, and that concerns me. He’s a presser. The kind of guy who doesn’t give you a chance to get yourself together. But here he is, giving me space to articulate a response.

  It’s enough to make me want to answer him.

  “He’s nice, Mach. He …” I look around the room, trying to figure out the words to use. “He’s kind and smart and responsible.”

  Much to my amazement, Machlan doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t grin or smirk or give me some one-liner that makes me want to throat punch him. Instead, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

  “I’ve been seeing him a while,” I add.

  “Does Cross know this?”

  “Yeah.”

  He mumbles something I can’t hear. His knuckles turn a bright white before fading back to his usual skin tone. “I’m gonna have to disagree.”

  “On …?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of what? There’s nothing to disagree with,” I say. “I told you my opinions.”

  “And I told you mine. Look, Had. If this guy was so fucking great, first of all, he’d be here trying to get you back.”

  “No. Part of what makes him great is that he gives me room when I ask for it.”

  “You don’t want room,” he scoffs. “When you say that shit, you really just want someone to chase after you.”