Crazy (The Gibson Boys #4)(14)

“The hell you didn’t,” Dylan interjects. “You let me think you were Logan. You brought Logan’s pots and pans … or Navie’s pots and pans that you—I mean, Logan—stole … Ugh. This is giving me a headache.”

Both of them watch me for a reaction. Navie is mildly entertained, but Dylan looks mostly shocked. If I had the balls to laugh at her pretty little face scrunched up in horror, I would. Buuuut I don’t. Not even close.

I shuffle my feet, unsure if I should get another beer or run before I get poked in the chest again.

“That skillet was a good one, right?” I ask.

It’s a stupid thing to say, but this is a stupid situation. Maybe the stupidest situation I’ve ever been in, and with Walker, Lance, and Machlan Gibson as cousins, I’ve been in a whole lot of them. So that says something.

Navie’s features soften. “You bought those? For real?”

“Yeah.”

“Both of you hush,” Dylan says. She moves her weight from one foot to the other. “You aren’t Logan. You’re Peck.”

“Yup,” I say. “I’m pretty sure we’ve made that clear—ouch!”

She slaps my bicep. The sound echoes through the bar, catching the attention of Machlan as he reappears. I plead silently for him to help me. He laughs instead and disappears once again into the storeroom.

Fucker.

“What’s that for?” I ask, rubbing my arm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked,” I say. “And you didn’t give me a chance.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit what?” I say with a chuckle. “I was under a damn truck, and here you come roasting me for all this stuff, and I finally was like, ‘Okay. I’ll be the bad guy if it’ll make you stop talking.’”

She gasps.

“Only because you were confusing the hell outta me. I had work to do, and you were accusing me of being some asshole that ghosted my friend.” I blow out a breath. “So now that you know I’m not Logan—thank fuck—we can move on. Right? Are we friends here?”

No one answers. It’s like they’re stunned silent.

“Also,” I add since they’re being quiet. “I’m still the cute best friend here. I won’t relinquish that title.”

Still … nothing.

I slide my hat on backward again. “I’m going to figure out who is going to feed me tonight. Good night, ladies.”

“I heard Sienna made Walker chicken noodle soup today,” Machlan calls as he comes out of the storeroom again.

I jam my finger in the air as if to say, “Gotcha,” and head for the door.





Six





Peck



“If you’re such a crack mechanic, why haven’t you fixed this yet?” Walker walks across the parking lot of Crank and wipes his face with a purple bandana. There’s a smear of grease along his eyebrow that makes him look a little like a pirate. “How does it take this damn long to take an oil pan off a machine?”

“Simple. Some genius told me not to use penetrating oil because it’s for pussies. Could’ve had it fixed in ten minutes otherwise.”

“Ten minutes, my ass.”

“Okay, maybe twelve,” I joke. “But … watch and learn, Captain.”

I smack the final bolt with a hammer to loosen it the rest of the way—hopefully—and then grab the wrench. A few twists, and it’s off. The oil, thick and black, splashes into the tray underneath.

“Annnd done—the hard way, I’ll point out,” I say. “Which was stupid and a huge waste of time, but you’re paying me by the hour, so what do I really care?”

Walker’s arms are smeared with grease too as he crosses them over his burly chest. He’s as big as a damn house and strong as an ox too. Regardless of how menacing he looks or assholish he sounds, he’s one of the best people I know. And now that he has Sienna Landry living with him—and on the verge of marriage, if I’m guessing, and I’d have to be guessing because Walker doesn’t talk about those kinds of things—his edges are getting a little softer too.

I wouldn’t tell him that, though. Soft edges or not, he could still kill me.

“That’s a good point,” he says, jamming the bandana in his back pocket. “Maybe I oughta pay you a salary. Then I could just give you a list of things to do every day and not give a shit how long it takes you to do it.”

“Maybe I’d quit.”

He snorts. “I’ve tried to get rid of you for years. Ain’t got ya to leave yet.”

We exchange a smile because he’s right, and we both know it. I’d never leave him, and he’d never let me anyway. Somehow, our dynamic gets shit done. Four or five mechanic shops have tried to open in Linton in the past handful of years, but they close down fast every time. No one can compete with Crank because we don’t steal our customers’ money and actually give a damn about our work. It’s not exactly a cutting-edge business model, but it works. Well.

“I’m gonna grab some lunch,” he says. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Where ya going?”