Crank

2017·0.55 MB·english

by  Adriana Locke

Crank
Copyright © 2017 Adriana Locke
All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted
in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other
electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the
publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews
and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover Art:
Kari March, Kari March Designs
www.karimarch.com

Cover Photos:
Adobe Stock

Editing:
Lisa Christman, Adept Edits

Interior Design & Formatting:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
www.typeAformatting.com
Contents
CRANK
Books by Adriana Locke
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Enjoy an Excerpt from Sway
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The Exception Series
(each novel can be read as a standalone)
The Exception (book 1)
The Connection, a novella (book 1.5)
The Perception (book 2)
The Exception Series Box Set

The Landry Family Series
(each novel can be read as a standalone)
Sway (book 1)
Swing (book 2)
Switch (book 3)
Swear (book 4)
Swink (book 5)

The Gibson Boys Series
Crank
Cross—coming December 2017
Craft—coming January 2018

Standalone Novels
Sacrifice
Wherever It Leads
Written in the Scars
Battle of the Sexes
Lucky Number Eleven
Twelve Days Until Sunday—fall 2018
Don’t miss a release! Sign up for my Amazon Live Alert
Follow Adriana on Goodreads to stay up-to-date on all things bookish.
“I’M NOT TAKING YOU to the hospital.”
Peck teeters on the edge of one of Crave’s billiard tables. He sways back
and forth, his sneakers squeaking against the cheap wood over the chatter of
the patrons of the bar. “You don’t think I can land a back flip off here?”
The truth is I’m pretty sure he could. My cousin has the reflexes of a cat.
The problem is he also has nine lives, and I’m sure he’s used up eight of them
already.
“The question isn’t if you can land it. It’s how bloody the end result
would be,” I say, taking a sip of beer. “And I’m not trying to splint a head
wound. Can you even do that?”
“You could. Look at my arm.” He holds his left forearm in front of him,
his watch catching the light from the new fixtures above. “This is some of
your best work.”
Memories of splinting Peck’s arm with nothing but a belt, a bar towel,
and a Playboy rush through my mind, as does loading him into the back of
my truck for a quick trip to the emergency room.
“I really think I can do this,” Peck insists, working his shoulders back and
forth.
Downing another drink, hoping I’m good and hammered before Peck
attempts this disaster, I look across the table. My older brother, Lance, is
watching me as he brings an Old-Fashioned to his lips. We exchange a look,
both of us waiting for Machlan to catch wind of Peck’s antics and throw him
out of Crave. Again.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Peck asks. “Another broken arm?
I mean, I think I can get the rotation fast enough to not land on my head.”
“I think it’s your turn to take him to the hospital,” I tell Lance.
He coughs, choking on his drink. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“Remember how hot that nurse was last time?” Peck asks, wiggling his
brows. “Actually, that kind of makes me want to go for it now just in case
she’s on duty.”
“She’s not,” Lance chimes in. “I think she was fired after the Hospital
Administrator found her fuck-foundered in triage three the night of your
broken arm.”
“Peck! Get your fucking ass down.” Machlan’s voice rips through the bar,
booming over the crowd.
Everyone quiets a few notches, not quite scared of my younger brother,
but not willing to test his boundaries either. His reputation as a man you don’t
want to tangle with without a small army definitely helps his cause when it
comes to managing his bar. Peck, on the other hand, just rolls his eyes.
“Just one jump, Mach! One. Uno. I got this.” Peck gives Machlan his best
shit-eating grin before looking at me and Lance. “If he throws me out, I’ll be
back in a couple days. Hell, he threw me out on Tuesday and I was back on
Thursday for corn hole.”
“I think that just means you’re in here too much,” Lance offers.
Peck starts to respond but his attention is redirected as Molly McCarter
saunters by. The dim lighting does nothing to hide the exaggerated sway of
her hips or the way she licks her lips as her sight sets on me.
Bracing for what may come out of her mouth, I fill mine with alcohol.
“Hey, Walker,” she says, stopping at my chair. Her hands rest along the
top rung, her fingertips sliding across the back of my neck. “Hey, Lance.”
Lance tips his glass her way.
“I was thinking,” she purrs, “my car is way overdue for an oil change.
Maybe I could bring it to Crank sometime this week, Walker? Do you think
you could fit it in?”
“I’m pretty full this week,” I lie, ignoring her thinly veiled offer. “See
what Peck has available.”
A huff whispers through the air and she pivots on her heel. “Thanks
anyway.”
“I can get you in . . .” Peck’s voice drowns into the Crave chaos as he
follows her towards the bar.
He tails after her, all but drooling, as she slides onto a bar stool. Her gaze
flicks to mine, her knees spread just a little farther apart than a lady ever
should. Then again, no one has ever called Molly a lady.
“Ever fuck her?” Lance asks, downing the rest of his drink as he turns
back to me. “I’ve been tempted to a couple of times and did get a decent blow
job one Halloween when she was dressed up in this nurse outfit.”
“What is it with you and nurses?”
“Think about it: they’re smart, make good money, work a lot so you have
free time, and they’re used to getting dirty,” he smirks. “It’s like a straight
shot to my dick.”
“And they’re good with needles, have access to medicines that can make
you lose your mind, and I’ve never met one who didn’t have a warped sense
of humor,” I counter. “They set off my crazy radar.”
Lance laughs. “Did that radar just start working? Because I distinctly
remember you getting balls deep with some psychologically-challenged
women. One in particular.”
“Are you feeling froggy tonight? Because if you keep that mouth runnin’
like that, I’m about to knock those glasses off your face.”
I’m kidding. More or less. The problem is Lance knows it.
“Oh, go to Hell,” he laughs.
“Already there, brother. Already there.”
He takes his glasses off his face and places them on the table. “I usually
look at your life and think I’d hate to have it. But after the day I had today,
I’d trade you places.”
“What? Did the high school kids refuse to learn about the American
Revolution?” I laugh. “You have such a cush job.”
“I’m a professional.”
“A professional bullshitter, maybe.”
He makes a comeback, but it’s swallowed in the roar of the crowd as a
popular song blares through the overhead speakers.
Crave, an old brick building along Beecher Street, is longer than it is
wide, and pulses with the noise of the crowd and music. Alcohol ads, high
school sports schedules, and a giant cork board adorn the walls. The latter is a
good read and filled with letters and notes from one townsperson to the next.
Affairs have been called out, coon dogs found, marriage proposals made, and
entire conversations about who is working what shift at the factory have
taken place on that thing. It’s been a mainstay of the bar since our uncle
founded it almost fifty years ago. When our younger brother, Machlan, took
over Crave thanks to Uncle George’s failing liver, he extended the wall of