Gibson Boys Box Set

by Locke, Adriana

  It’s too important. I’m too vulnerable. There’s too much on the line.

  “Ugh.” My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten since the three bites I had of Emily’s frozen lasagna last night. I head to the couch to grab my purse when my phone rings from the table.

  I ignored two texts from Samuel last night and one call that could be classified as early morning. Grabbing the device, I sit on the edge of the bed and answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Hadley.”

  I wait for a flutter of butterflies or at least a semblance of familiarity at hearing his voice, but nothing changes inside me. I might as well be talking to Cross or Peck.

  “How are things going down there?” he asks.

  “Oh, they’re good. How about you?”

  “Work is killer today. We balanced a couple of accounts this morning and …”

  My attention wanes, drifting to a certain tattooed bar owner instead of Samuel’s tales of the accounting tape. I wonder what Mach is doing and what he had for breakfast and if he still sleeps on his right side with a pillow between his legs.

  “Am I boring you?” Samuel asks.

  “Sorry,” I say, faking a yawn. “It was a long night.”

  The line quiets. “I wondered why you didn’t answer. Anyway, I’m glad to hear you’re having fun with your friends.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” I scrub a hand down my face. “Are you having fun with yours?”

  He laughs, and it pains me a little. The idea of Samuel having friends—the real kind, the kind like he knows I have—shouldn’t be funny.

  “We worked until three this morning. I guess the slight conversation we had outside of numbers and figures over cold pizza could be construed as a good time,” he says.

  “You need to have more fun. What about that one guy? Ryan? Brian? Whatever his name is. You guys should go out and have some drinks tonight.”

  “We’re all too busy. Hey, how’s your brother? I thought of him today. A guy tried to write off his gym membership, and it made me think of Cross’s gyms.”

  I flop back on the mattress and think about the awkward meeting between Samuel and Cross a few weeks ago. How Cross kept looking at me like I was crazy, and Samuel couldn’t understand why Cross didn’t want to man-hug when he left.

  “He’s good,” I say. “He and Kallie are living together now. They’re pretty happy.”

  “That’s good. I bet it’s nice for you to stay there and spend so much time with them while you can.”

  “Yeah.” I get to my feet and begin to pace the small room.

  A long, awkward silence fills the line. I walk back and forth, passing the table each time, wondering what in the world we’re supposed to talk about.

  When did it get this hard to talk to him? Has it always been?

  Papers rustle. “Well, that’s good. Do you think you’ll be home when I get back from Salem?”

  “Samuel …” I close my eyes and kick myself for answering the phone in the first place.

  “I know, I know. You can’t commit right now. But I’m hoping if we get some time away from each other, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “We’re on a break. We mutually agreed to that.”

  He sighs like this conversation is a distraction. “We did, but agreements change. Right? That’s why we took a break and didn’t break up. We can salvage this.”

  I stop pacing and look at the wall. Salvage. “What kind of word is that?”

  “What kind of word is what?”

  “Salvage,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It’s like garbage. Like a salvage yard where they take parts off old cars or something.”

  “It’s a proper term. It means to rescue.”

  “I know what it means, Samuel.” I sigh, feeling a weight on my shoulders. “My point is, is that what you want? To salvage our relationship?”

  “Frankly, yes. I do. I want to rescue it from its current situation. With a few tweaks, Hadley, I think we can bring it in the black.”

  Bring it in the black? I groan, and I know he hears it, but I just can’t make myself care.

  I consider the possibility of going back to Vigo and seeing Samuel again. It would be nice. Orderly. Predictable. We’d have date nights on Fridays and intelligent conversations about business. We’d read separately before bed and fall asleep on crisp white sheets. But as my mind drifts to other possibilities, to ornery bar owners and spirited discussions and jokes, the idea of going back seems like turning off my favorite rock song and putting on elevator music.

  “I don’t think it’s going to happen, Samuel.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I make you happy? Really? Do you come home with butterflies in your stomach to see me?”

  “That’s the most overused analogy in the history of analogies.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I look forward to coming home every day and seeing you. I get excited to spend the weekend with you. And I can’t wait to get home from this trip and convince you to … maybe move in with me.”

  My eyes almost pop out of my head.

  “It’ll make things a lot easier,” he says. “I won’t have to rush home so our schedules meet because you’ll be there. And you won’t have to rush into that new job of yours either. I can more than cover our rent and necessities.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Is it not?”

  “No. You don’t ask someone to move in because of ease,” I say with a sad smile on my face. “It should be about more.”

  “I don’t know how much more you can get than synchronizing our lives.”

  I want to tell him about all the more—the staying up late and breaking down the best songs of the nineties. Taking a truck to Bluebird to see if we can get it stuck in the mud. Sitting around a campfire with your friends and telling stories. I would tell him, but I don’t think he’ll understand.

  My head hangs. “You know what? I need to go,” I say. “I hope you have a great day.”

  “I hope this vegetable juice kicks in soon, or I’ll be dragging all evening.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Hadley.”

  I think he’s going to say more, like say I love you, so I end the call before he can. And before I can look at the phone and replay that entire conversation, I grab my purse and head to Carlson’s Bakery for lunch.

  * * *

  I wave to Dave, a little old man who’s driven the same black Ford Ranger since I moved to town. He waves back as he putts down Beecher Street.

  Puddles are everywhere. The gutters are full as water streams into the storm drains under the street. Tugging my jacket around my body, I jog across the street to the opposing sidewalk.

  The closer I get to Carlson’s, the more the air is scented with cinnamon and freshly baked bread. My stomach rumbles in response.

  Just as the bakery comes into view, a clap of thunder cracks above and a downpour of rain comes out of nowhere.

  “Ah!” I yell, the cold droplets hitting the pavement and splashing me a second time. I bow my head as if it’ll do any good and speed walk in the direction of Carlson’s. Pausing at the next intersection, I can barely see through all the rain. Just as I start to cross the road, a truck pulls up to the stop sign.

  I don’t look over. Before my foot can hit the asphalt, the truck’s engine revs.

  “What are you doing?” Machlan’s voice works its way through the rain.

  Squinting, I shrug, the water sticking my hair to my face. “Getting lunch.”

  “Get in here.” He grins, reaching over the console and opening the passenger’s side door.

  I waste no time rushing to the truck. Getting inside requires a little hop, which amuses Machlan to no end. The door closes with a thud barely heard against the weather.

  Smoothing my hair away from my face, I watch water drip off every inch of me. “I’m going to soak your truck.”

  “I think you already did.” He h
its the gas. The truck rips through the intersection before he eases up on the pedal. “Where were you going?”

  “Carlson’s.”

  “Why didn’t you drive?”

  “Fresh air, I guess.”

  “That worked out well for ya.”

  He watches me out of the corner of his eye before reaching forward and adjusting the temperature. The air warms immediately, and I relax back in the soft leather as we roll through town.

  The wipers streak against the glass. With each swipe, the quickness of the last few moments dissipate, and my present situation becomes clearer.

  And hotter.

  And squirmier.

  I reach up and turn the heat down.

  “I figured you were cold.”

  “I was. Now I’m not.” I point at the bakery. “If you could drop me off there, I’d appreciate it.”

  “You can’t have lunch there.”

  “And why not?”

  He grins. “Megan McCarter works there. She’ll poison you or something.”

  “Molly’s sister?” I laugh. “She will not. What would she have against me?”

  He bites his lip, and I know whatever is about to come out of his mouth is going to get a reaction out of me—one in addition to the way my thighs clench together as I look at his lips.

  “The first thing she’ll have against you is you have a vagina,” he says. “That’s enough for her to want to maim you for life.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “That’s true, and you know it.”

  I think back on the McCarter sister’s escapades. Like how Megan was accused of sleeping with the gym teacher in high school and he lost his job. Or how Molly slept with half of the football team her senior year so she’d be crowned Homecoming Queen. Not because she wanted it, but because she didn’t want Jessica Grimes to get it.

  “You might be right,” I admit.

  “And the second thing,” he says with a tease in his tone, “is she wants my cock so bad she could taste it.”

  “Well, I’m good to know she hasn’t tasted it,” I say.

  I turn toward the door so he doesn’t see the flash of jealousy in my eyes or the way my jaw tenses at the thought of that little hoochie being with Machlan.

  He laughs, his hand gripping my thigh and shaking it a little as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. A bolt of flames extends from the center of his palm down my leg, up my side and radiating out until it settles at the base of my belly.

  “Ooh, did that spark a little jealousy, Had?” he teases.

  “Nope. I just don’t like thinking about all the women who have tasted you.”

  He roars with laughter. I bite my lip so hard I think it might bleed.

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” he says. “I haven’t actually slept with everyone you probably think I have. I mean, I’m a good-looking motherfucker. I get it. But Lance slept with all of them, and I don’t really like sloppy seconds.”

  My lip pops free with a laugh. “I’m so glad your confidence isn’t waning.”

  He grins, amused I’m playing along. It’s infectious. I find myself grinning back, my cheeks aching.

  “How’s your confidence these days?” he asks.

  “My confidence is fine, thank you.”

  “I just thought since I shared some insight into my sex life, maybe you’d want to share some into yours.”

  “Um, no,” I say. I consider riling him up but enjoy the playfulness too much to risk it. “You would actually be bored to death if I talked to you about my sex life.”

  He takes his eyes off the road for a lingering moment. They’re filled with a mischievousness that really is a Machlan trademark; a glimmer of naughtiness that could go a plethora of ways. “Your sex life is my favorite sex life.”

  My jaw drops to my lap. I think I misheard him, but my heart is screaming that I didn’t. I try to keep my gaze pinned to his eyes and not on the way his lips purse together. Or the way his neck has the perfect amount of scruff dotting it. Or the way his white T-shirt, covered with an unbuttoned flannel, is cut in a way that gives me a peek of his broad chest.

  He flashes me a smirk before looking back at the road. “That’s the danger of Megan. She knows.”

  “Why would she think that?” I fumble for words. It’s hard to say a set of words when your brain is repeating another.

  “Why would she think there was anything between you and me? Oh, I don’t know,” he grins.

  A heat rises to my cheeks. I’m unsure if he’s just messing with me or insinuating there is something between us.

  A mixed response catches in my throat. Clearing it with a frazzled cough, I point as we fly by Carlson’s. “You just passed the bakery.”

  “Yeah.”

  We stop at the stop sign by the library. As we wait our turn, Machlan’s fingers tap against the steering wheel.

  The rain has slowed to a drizzle. Everything is quiet and peaceful. His truck smells like his bedroom. His breathing slows my heartbeat to match his tempo. Looking at his profile as he chews on his bottom lip makes me so comfortable I could curl my legs up and drift away into an easy slumber.

  On a normal day, I’d start to panic, to feel pressure of the unknown and start prodding. A bubble of alarm wants to burst and spread through my veins as Machlan turns his head. I think of Emily’s advice and pause.

  “They’re having taco salads at Peaches today. You like them, right?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He motions for the car on our right to pass through the intersection. “No onions, no beans. Extra olives. Right?”

  I nod again, this time with the biggest smile.

  He nods too and settles back in his seat. I’d normally comment on how smug he looks, but this time, I let it pass. I’m probably a little smug too.

  Fifteen

  Machlan

  The brown paper bag holding the Peaches take-out crinkles under Hadley’s fingers. She sits quietly beside me, the taco salad on her lap, and gazes across the soybean fields at the rainbow stretching across the sky.

  Nana told me a story once that a rainbow is God’s promise not to flood the world again. I remember sitting on her lap on the porch and having her read me this story from a little green-bound book she had. I don’t know why that stuck with me all these years, but it did. Every time I see one, I think of her. I don’t think of her long today because I can’t think of anything besides Hadley sitting in my truck.

  I hate that I like it so much. The way I feel calmer with her around is something I crave. I don’t feel this way around another person or in another spot. Just with her.

  I tell myself it’s because I know she won’t hold anything I do or say against me. Not really. If she would, she would’ve stopped speaking to me years ago.

  She should’ve.

  She could’ve.

  I would’ve had the roles been reversed.

  “Where are we going?” she asks as I steer the truck in the opposite direction of Crave and the apartment.

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.”

  She looks at me, expecting clarification or a reason, but I don’t give her one. She’ll assume it’s because I’m being a dick, because I usually am, but this time, she is wrong.

  I don’t answer because I don’t know where we’re going.

  All I know for sure is I saw her leave the apartment and didn’t think too much about it. Then it started raining, so I went after her on the small chance I’d find her stranded … and I did. And here we sit in the cab of my truck filled with her perfume, the heater on low, the music switched from my usual rock station to some country channel she loves.

  Heaven and hell don’t work together, but it damn sure feels like they do.

  “Thanks for picking me up,” she says. The bag crinkles again. “And for buying my lunch.”

  “No problem.”

  Easing up on the accelerator, I run my hand down the fron
t of my jeans. We’ve been in this situation so many times—her in the front seat of my truck while I drive around town with nowhere to go. It’s how we killed many Friday nights back in the day.

  Back in the good old days.

  The silence fills every nook and cranny. The two of us are the sole occupants of the truck, but it feels like there’s no room left. It’s almost too crowded to even breathe. I need to say something, anything, but come up empty. So, like a dumbass, I keep driving and leave George Strait to do the talking.

  “You need a haircut,” she says. “Getting a little long back here.”

  Her fingers brush against the back of my neck, ruffling the too-long strands that do need a trim. My neck flexes against her fingers, trying to deepen the touch. The warmth from her touch trickles through my body. I can’t remember when someone touched me like this—without an end game or to get something. Just because she actually cares.

  It fucks with me.

  “I can’t believe Nana hasn’t said anything,” she says.

  I fiddle with the cruise control button to keep my hands busy so I don’t reach for her. “Oh, she has.”

  “I bet. Do you remember when Peck let his almost turn into a mullet?” She throws her head back and laughs. “I thought Nana was going to have a coronary.”

  “Oh, yeah. How do you forget that? The harder she rode him about it, the harder he fought against cutting it.”

  “The best was when he would wear a bandana and push it all back like they did in the eighties.” She looks at me with the sweetest, simplest smile. “You boys put her through a lot, you know that?”

  I regrip the steering wheel. “Yeah, well, I think we put everyone through a lot. Don’t ya think?”

  The truck turns toward Bluebird Hill. The tires hit the gravel, the sound ripping through the air as we slow. Hadley rolls down her window and takes a deep breath.

  “Like the smell of wet gravel?” I laugh.

  “It’s the smell of my youth.” Even she laughs at that. “I have Peaches take-out, gravel, the grass still wet from the rain … and you.” Her smile fades. “That was a really weird thing to say.”