Just A Taste: Crank

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Who said mechanics aren’t sexy?
No one.
Meet Walker Gibson in this taste of Crank

“Hey,” Peck says, breaking me from my spell. His head is stuck around the door, having just arrived. “Donaldson is in. Where’s his invoice?”

“Fuck if I know,” I grumble. “Sienna filed all that shit.”


“All I know is the folders were all sparkly. There’s still glitter on the floor back there. I’d just follow the glitter trail, Peck.”

“I’d like to follow that glitter trail,” he smirks.

Flashing him a look, my lips pressing together so hard they hurt, I watch as he laughs.

“I heard the guys at Crave talking about her last night. You have three calls on the answering machine right now with men wanting to bring their trucks in for basic shit they usually do themselves. You get what I’m saying?” he asks.

“Charge Donaldson fifty bucks. Get what I’m saying?” I ask, lifting a brow.

Peck laughs again, the sound cut off by the door closing. I go back to the truck and try to ignore the pain across the back of my shoulders. The lug nut is almost tightened when my hand falls from the tool. It dings off the concrete, making a racket, but I stay squatted down and wait. Within a few seconds, her laugh spills from the lobby and floods my ears.

The grin that settles over my lips every morning when I feel her presence does its thing, but because no one is here to see it, I let it go. I let my stupid body react while my brain screams at it to stop. It’s like I’m trapped in a madman’s world where the two parts of me are in a constant battle. My brain is right. My body is wrong. We all know it. It’s common with men. But the override button I can usually press on my physical reactions is broken and that’s why I’m fucked.

Angling my ear so I can hear her better, the faint pitches and dips of her voice as she teases Peck melt away a bit of my stress.

She showed up. Again.

Rocking back on my heels, I let out a breath before standing. As I turn around, the door is opening behind me and Peck’s dumb ass is whistling as he comes in.

“Good Lord almighty,” he cackles. “You need to go see that.”

“See what?”

“See what,” he scoffs. “I don’t know. That ass. Those fucking legs. Hell, even her purple hair is hot. But the best part is, she brought in blueberry muffins.” A hand clamps on my shoulder. “She cooks, Walk. She fucking cooks.”

“So what?” I say, rolling my eyes for his benefit. “I cook. Nana cooks. Veronica at Carlson’s cooks. It’s not a thing.”

“And as much as I love Nana, she doesn’t look like that.”

Heading towards the sink in the back, I use every bit of self-control I have not to look at the lobby window. “Don’t you feel guilty for mentally cheating on Molly McCarter?”

“Ah, don’t bring her up,” he sighs. “I saw her this morning at Goodman’s gas station. She waved at me.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little pathetic you have that look on your face because she waved at you?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little pathetic you have that look on your face because Sienna is standing out there and you’re too chicken shit to go out there and talk to her?”

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