Crave: The Gibson Boys, Book #3

by Locke, Adriana

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.”

  My legs drop to the floor. A tinge of sadness sits over my heart because it shows why he didn’t come after me when I left town. “Well, I’m glad to know you know that.”

  We exchange a long look. He shrugs but looks at the floor. “I’m glad to know you want someone kind and smart.”

  “What did you think I want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He might say that, but he doesn’t mean it. There’s an idea of what he thinks I want that he won’t say, and I wonder why. Before I can ask, he jams his hands in his pockets.

  “You won’t commit to the kind, great guy. That’s what’s going on?” he asks.

  “Basically.” I stand, too. “I’ll be honest with you.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I want to be in love with Samuel.”

  Machlan stills. He narrows his eyes just a touch, as if trying to comprehend what I said, before his hand slides in his back pocket. Out comes his can of tobacco, and the thumping of his thumb against the lid strums through the room in an easy rhythm.

  “You can’t just ‘be in love’ with someone,” he says finally.

  “Tell me about it.” I sigh. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t be in love with him.”

  The thumping stops. “That’s not a bad thing.”

  “It kind of is.”

  “No, it’s not. Do you really want to wake up one morning next to someone you made yourself love?”

  I look at the floor. “Sometimes I think it would be better than not having anyone to love at all.” Shrugging, I flip my gaze to him for a moment because I can’t linger on the sadness I see in his eyes. “I’m being dramatic.”

  “You still being honest?” he asks. “’Cause I’d like to know why you’re here. For real. No bullshit.”

  When I turn away, he touches my arm lightly. I let him spin me to face him.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  His eyes search mine with a tenderness that makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. It’s my favorite Machlan look, the one that I’ve only seen a handful of times. Usually, he’s too guarded and ornery to let himself be exposed like this, but when he does, it’s a sight to behold.

  I stare at him for a long time, letting my heart find a steady pulse.

  “Why are you here?” he asks again.

  Without breaking eye contact, I tell him. “I need to put you in a box I can manage.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Tears slip quietly down my cheeks. I don’t think Machlan notices. His eyes don’t leave mine.

  “Hadley …”

  “This is so embarrassing,” I admit.

  He swipes a few napkins off the table and hands them to me. Our fingers touch as I take them, but he jerks his away before I can relish the micro-second of contact.

  My heart pounding in my chest, my body warmed by his proximity, I do what he asked. I tell him the truth. “I’m here to figure out how to make peace with you. I fell in love with you when I was a little girl, and I can’t seem to find a place in my heart to love anyone else.”

  “You don’t love me, Had.”

  My jaw drops to the floor. I look at him, expecting him to laugh. Maybe grin. Chuckle, even. He doesn’t.

  “How could you?” he continues, sober as a judge. “I’m not fishing for gratuitous compliments because fuck that. But look at me. Look at what I’ve done to you, what we’ve been through. How could you love me?”

  “It was pretty damn easy.” I sniffle.

  “This is my fault. All your memories go back to me. You moved here after your mom died, and I was the one inserting myself in your life when you should’ve been making friends and grieving.”

  “I did make friends. And I did grieve.”

  “And I was right there, nosing myself in.”

  I force a tear-filled swallow. “I’m pretty sure I let you.”

  He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “What’s dickhead’s job?”

  “Who?”

  “Fucking … what’s his name?” he asks, motioning toward my phone.

  “Samuel?”

  “Yeah. Samuel,” he almost spits. “What’s his job?”

  “He’s an auditor.”

  “That’s what you need, Had. Someone like that. Not him,” he adds, “but someone like him who makes you smile and laugh. Not someone like me. Someone like me just fucks shit up.”

  I hold my hand out for my keys. He’s confused for a split second, then digs them out of his pocket and places them in my hand. This time, he lets his hand rest against mine.

  The warmth of his palm, the way his fingers drag over mine, kicks my tears back into high gear. My stomach knots. My chest aches.

  “What can I do to help you?” he asks.

  “Stop trying to kiss me.”

  He almost cracks a grin as he draws his hand away. He shoves his chew can back in his pocket and trudges to the door. He pulls it open, light filling the room in a happy flood of sunshine. Neither of us smiles.

  My phone rings again. We both look at it. Machlan grimaces, biting his bottom lip, before stepping outside.

  “Lock up behind me,” he orders.

  “I told you I was leaving.”

  He leans against the doorframe, his bicep flexing as he grabs the top of the door. “And I said you were staying.”

  “Mach—”

  “Let me win this one, Hadley.” He drops his arm. “Just give me this. Please.”

  The sweetness in his eyes, the way he looks at me with such genuine care makes me give in.

  “Okay,” I say.

  I ignore the flutter in my heart and shut the door. I flip the lock. It’s only then do I hear him descend the stairs. It’s only then, too, do I turn my phone off and climb into bed in the middle of the afternoon.

  Twelve

  Machlan

  “What smells so good in here?”

  I step through the screen door and scare the shit out of my poor nana. She jumps and clutches her chest. “Machlan Daniel. Don’t you do that to me.” Wielding a wooden spoon in her hand, she waggles it my way.

  My hands go up in self-defense. A spatula doesn’t feel great when your nana whips it through the air and wallops you on the back. I made the mistake of mentioning she decorated it with cocks one time. Just once. I’ve avoided the spatula since.

  She sticks her cheek out as I approach. I place a kiss on the side of her face as I walk by. “Sorry, Nana.”

  “You boys are gonna be the death of me.”

  “Let’s not talk about your death.”

  “It was an expression, Machlan,” she says. She turns back to the stove and stirs something in a copper pot.

  “It was an expression I don’t appreciate.” I hop on top of the island, knowing damn good and well she’ll swat me down when she turns around. “You didn’t a
nswer me.”

  “About what?”

  “What are ya making? Smells good.”

  “I have a ham in the oven and have some—get your hiney off my counter!” She swats my leg. “Goodness gracious, boy. Were you raised in a barn?”

  I shrug. “Maybe.”

  “You were not. Now get off there.”

  Her orders, delivered with the firmness of a sergeant but with the smile of a grandmother, make me laugh. I sit at a stool and watch her cook.

  She meanders around the space, lifting lids and getting things out of the refrigerator. She rattles on about some television show she watched that said a kitchen is dirtier than a bathroom, and I tune her out when she switches topics to her soap operas.

  I don’t have time to listen to that crap. I’m living a soap opera of my own.

  The corner of my lips turn up as I think of Hadley. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that girl. It was easier when she was in Vigo and Cross withheld information. I could rationalize that, tell myself she was happy and to just let her be. But now, with her right under my nose, I can’t pretend she’s not there. I can’t pretend I don’t want to be near her. I don’t want to.

  My breath comes out in a long, slow drawl. It’s enough to have Nana turning around with a concerned look.

  “A ham on a weeknight?” I ask before she can dictate the direction of this conversation. “Seems weird. You got a boyfriend or something?”

  “Not that it would be any of your business, but no. I don’t.” She furrows her brow as she turns back to the stove and shuts off a timer. “Lance called. He and Mariah are coming for dinner.”

  “And I wasn’t invited? I’m hurt.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder. “You’re always invited, honey.”

  “I kinda don’t remember the phone call saying, ‘Hey, Machlan. We’re having dinner tonight.’”

  She sets her spoon on a little tray on the counter. “I think Lance is up to something.”

  “Lance is always up to something.”

  “No, I mean a serious something. Do you know anything about this?”

  I balk. “Nana, are you asking me to gossip about my brother?”

  “Gossip? No.”

  “Yeah. You are.” I shake my head as if I’m utterly amazed at this revelation. “Wasn’t the pastor just preaching about gossiping last week?”

  Her mouth hangs open.

  “And about my brother, no less,” I add. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  She recovers, grabbing a dish towel and throwing it at me. “You’re so full of it.”

  “Full of what?” I goad, ducking as the yellow-and-white checkered rag goes over my head.

  “Nothing good.” She swats my shoulder as she walks by to pick up the errant towel. “At least you were listening in church, though. That’s a good sign.”

  “I always listen. Sometimes to the pastor too.”

  I watch as she moseys back to the oven. She opens it, and the entire room is filled with the sweet, smoky scents of baked ham and pineapple.

  “You really don’t know what Lance wants?” she asks, resting the baking dish on a towel. “I have no idea what to expect from that boy.”

  “I really don’t know. You know I’d tell you. I mean, you feed me.”

  She laughs, shaking her head. She gets out a plate and busies herself at the stove. I slide my finger along the edge of a cake on the island and plop the icing in my mouth while she isn’t looking.

  “You staying for dinner?” Nana asks.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “Oh, you will too.”

  “I just hate the thought of you going home alone and eating by yourself.”

  “Which is why you totally called me tonight, right?”

  She fires a warning look over her shoulder. “Keep it up and no cheeseball for you on Sunday.”

  I make a face. “Wow. Going right for the jugular, huh?”

  Nana busies herself again, going off on a tangent about how nice her yard looks. Walker apparently mowed it yesterday, and you’d think he shit gold.

  Through the window above the sink, I see the evening sky. It’s almost like a painting. I can’t see a sky like that and not think of Hadley.

  Evenings are her favorite time of day. I remember when she wanted to be a painter her sophomore year of high school. I bought her all these fancy paints and an easel for Christmas. She spent hours of her life outside, watching the sun go down and trying to capture it on a canvas.

  “If you won’t stay for dinner,” Nana says, setting a plate down in front of me, “you can at least eat before you go.”

  “Lance is gonna be pissed I got a plate before him.” I smile as broadly as I can. “That really makes me happy, Nana.”

  “You and that mouth.”

  “Just think,” I say, picking up the fork beside the plate. “I kissed you with this mouth.”

  She makes a face but laughs the entire time. As I take a bite of ham, she meanders around the island and hoists herself on a stool beside me. She groans as she gets situated, and a stab of fear races down my spine.

  “You okay?” I ask, my fork suspended in midair.

  “Oh, I’m fine. My back is just a little sore.”

  “Want me to take you to see Doc Burns tomorrow?”

  She places a hand on my arm. It’s not a swat and isn’t accompanied with a laugh or a joke about getting old. Instead, it feels a lot like a plea not to talk about it.

  My throat squeezes shut as I look at her wrinkled skin. Her wedding ring still sparkles on her finger even though my grandfather has been dead for ten years.

  Nana is my consistent, the woman who looked after me after my parents died. The one who makes me chicken noodle soup when I get a slight cough—even when she’s knows I’m faking just to get the soup. She’s not to blame for the bad parts of me, but the credit goes to her for most of the good parts.

  The idea of something happening to her makes me want to be sick.

  “Ready to talk?” she asks.

  I shove a spoonful of scalloped potatoes in my mouth. “About what?”

  “About whatever brought you here.”

  “Don’t I come here to check on you all the time without wanting to talk?” I ask, still trying to shake off something being wrong with Nana.

  “Yes. You’re a good boy and check on me all the time. But you do it differently most days.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “No. I think I’m observant.”

  I load my mouth with potatoes again so I don’t have to respond.

  She starts a story about my parents. Just the mention of my mother and the taste of the home cooked dinner has me lifting the fork a little slower.

  I miss this. A lot. More than I’d ever admit to her or my brothers or Blaire. It’s why I don’t miss Sunday dinners at Nana’s and why my ass is in a pew nearly every Sunday. As much of a heathen as I am, a part of me really likes the slower pace of family dinners. The way you can relax and catch up from the week. How someone cared about you enough to fix you dinner. How someone would miss you if you didn’t show up. How maybe, despite all the bullshit you do and have done, it can be okay somehow.

  Nana’s face is animated, her hands waving through the air as she finishes her story. I wonder what will happen when she does pass away some day. My stomach roils. I drop my fork.

  “Is it okay?” she asks, looking at my plate.

  “It was really good.”

  “But you didn’t clean your plate.”

  “I, uh, I grabbed a sandwich a little while ago.”

  She doesn’t believe me but doesn’t push it. “I talked to Blaire today. She seems to be doing good.”

  “I think she got laid on her trip to Savannah.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t talk that way around me.”

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “Oh, come on, Nana. It’s not
like you don’t know what happens.”

  “Of course, I know,” she says, patting her silver hair wrapped in a bun high on her head. “It’s not like I was always this old.”

  “I bet you were a maniac,” I tease.

  “Well, I wasn’t a wallflower, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Nana!”

  Her cheeks flush as she rinses my plate and sticks it in the dishwasher. “Your poor grandpa didn’t stand a chance.”

  “So you’re where we get it.”

  “Get what?”

  I look at her and try not to laugh as reality settles over her cute little face.

  “Well, I guess it could be true …” She smiles sheepishly.

  My laughter comes quick and loud as I hop off the stool. “Lord, I love you.” I pull her into a one-armed hug and kiss the top of her head. “Thanks for dinner.”

  She wraps her arms around my waist and doesn’t let go. “I love you, Machlan. Even if you’re ornery.”

  “I love you especially when you are.”

  She smacks my stomach. Despite her playfulness, I sense something else on the cusp of spilling over. I do quick math and wonder if I can get out of here before she brings whatever it is up.

  The answer is no.

  “I’m worried about you, sweetheart,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “When was the last time you brought a young lady over here?”

  I bite my lip. “Two thousand fifteen? Fourteen, maybe?”

  She smacks me again. “I’m being serious.”

  “Me too.” I dodge the next slap and step away. “I’m fine.”

  “I know you are. But I want you to be great.”

  “Fine. I’m great, Nana.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Your brothers both have a woman in their lives, and Blaire might even have a man.”

  “What makes you think I don’t have someone?”

  “Because you’re at your grandmother’s way too often to be a man with a lady waiting.”

  This is true, and I have a hard time disagreeing with her logic. I am here more than most mid-twenties men who are in good shape and make decent money. I also never bring women around. This is mostly because I don’t fuck around too much, but I heard she thought Lance was gay once and really don’t want to have to spend time making her believe I’m not.