Crank Read online

  And again, I watched my world walk away from me. But this time I knew I’d do whatever I had to in order to win her back. Anything.

  Delilah

  I raced out of the Funky Monkey, clutching my stomach, barely holding onto my sanity. How could he do this to me?

  I stumbled into the parking lot, sucking in a startled gasp when the cold November air slapped me. Spotting my car, I rushed in that direction with my head bowed against the wind. I hoped Rachel wasn’t too pissed at me. I’d call her later. I just had to get out . . .

  I nearly fell on my face as I ran headlong into someone.

  “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry—” My gaze zipped up from a pair of too-high, fire engine red stilettos, dark skinny jeans, a cleavage-bearing sweater . . . to Candace Carmichael’s overly made-up face.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she drawled, cuddling closer into the burly guy at her side.

  I shot him a glance then slid my eyes back to her. What could Blake possibly see in her?

  “Delilah!”

  I spun to face Rachel, who was bundling into her coat and rushing to follow me.

  “Wait!” she hollered, loping our way. She froze when she spotted me face-to-face with Candace and her guy. “What . . . ?”

  Candace grinned, showing the gap between her front teeth and I cringed at the smear of matching bright red lipstick on them. She opened her mouth to greet Rachel, but my bestie put up a hand in a show of bitchiness. “Hold it right there, Candy.” Her name slid off Rachel’s tongue like it was rotten.

  Oh, shit. This was about to get ugly.

  Candace’s mouth popped open.

  “What? Still out to torture my friend? Fucking around with her husband not enough for you?”

  I gaped and Candace looked like a fish out of water. “Wha—?”

  Rachel huffed and yanked on my arm to guide me away, but Candace spoke to our backs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t mess with no married men.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, a venomous retort on my tongue. I watched her eyes flick to the beefy guy next to her then dip. I tracked her gaze down to the fresh white circle on his ring finger.

  I tugged Rachel to a stop and we gaped at each other in disbelief, then pivoted. “Really?”

  Candace lit a cigarette and puffed out a stream of smoke into the night air. “Really.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Micah’s Jeep. Knowing that my husband (soon to be ex, but who cared at this point?) was just inside, justified rage roared up through me. I stepped away from Rachel and toward Candace, thankful the big daddy with her didn’t move or speak.

  “So,” I said, “having your hands down my man’s pants at Jack ‘Em Up doesn’t ring a bell?”

  Her eyes got round. “Oh. Shit. That was you?”

  I nodded and Rachel harrumphed behind me.

  “Well . . .” She glanced at her date. “Um . . . I didn’t think he was married. Hell, I’d had a little too much to drink that night. We both did.”

  Disgust coiled in my chest. How could he?

  Her gaze darted away and she inhaled her cigarette again. “For what it’s worth, he, uh, he didn’t exactly invite me over. I followed him, hoping to . . .” She cleared her throat. “I found him passed out in his office.”

  “And you climbed up for a ride?” Rachel popped off. “On an unconscious drunk man? Do you have any dignity?”

  I tried to be embarrassed by my friend’s verbal jab, but I really wanted to hoot in agreement. And relief.

  Candace didn’t say a word as she spun away with her date and they made for the front of the bar.

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Blake was telling the truth. He hadn’t . . .

  “What a skank,” Rachel said, her voice still peeved.

  I glanced at her, too tired to cry, and not sure what I was feeling. Did this change anything? Sadly, no.

  Our marriage was over long before Candace Carmichael.

  Rachel offered to let me go to her place again that night, but I declined. As much as I wanted to take her up on it, I didn’t want to rehash tonight’s events. Not even over a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

  So, heart heavy, I went back to my parents’. Luckily, all the windows were dark so I knew they were in bed and I wouldn’t have to explain where I’d been. Explain anything.

  I used my key and let myself in, creeping in the dark toward the staircase. I noticed a couple new photo frames in the hallway and I squinted in the blackness to make out the pictures . . . the day my dad got elected to JP, he and my mother smiling to rival the sun. What he’d always wanted.

  As I thought back to their anniversary and the intimate moment when he gave her that necklace, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to my parents than I’d ever imagined. Every marriage, every relationship, had its secrets, right?

  My eyes skimmed over to the next photos. Danielle’s high school graduation. A family reunion, me and my sister hamming it up with our cousin, Jewel. My wedding.

  My heart stopped as I stared at the image. I’d forgotten they had this. Showed how much I came over.

  I traced Blake’s young face with my finger. Longed for him. Then I studied myself. I was so young and happy. So in love.

  Bowing my head, I fought the surge of agonizing sadness that wanted to consume me. Even now, I loved him so much. I laid a hand to my stomach. Could Rachel be right? What if we’d made another baby?

  What if we hadn’t?

  I spun and headed for my room, knowing I’d have to know the truth. And soon.

  I woke up the next morning and stared at the textured ceiling of my old bedroom, the previous night sliding off me like a hazy nightmare.

  Somewhere between the hallway photos and this morning, I’d steeled myself for the possibility of being a single mother. It didn’t matter if I was pregnant, I could do this alone.

  I rolled out of bed and stifled the wave of nausea.

  Yup. Rachel was right. This was exactly how it was the last three times . . . though she only knew about the first. Blake and I held the memory of those other two babies close to our hearts alone.

  I practically crawled to the bathroom and got myself cleaned up, the scent of my peppermint shampoo soothing my stomach a little.

  I dressed in comfortable yoga pants and one of Jack ‘Em Up’s oversized T-shirts, then called in sick to work. After braiding my hair and sliding on my tennis shoes, I made my way—slowly—downstairs.

  I found my mother in the kitchen, humming over a pan of frying eggs. An unusual sight, for sure. I couldn’t remember the last time she cooked, much less hummed. But the smell of eggs and butter made my stomach churn.

  I blindly reached for a mug and tea bag, filling my cup with water and shoving it in the microwave. While it heated, I faced my mother with tired eyes.

  “Good morning,” she said, not meeting my gaze.

  “Morning.”

  “Hungry?” She glanced up from the pan.

  Ugh. “No. Thanks.”

  I watched her slide her eggs to a plate, along with a carton of yogurt, then stroll to a seat at the table.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked, eyeing the time on the microwave.

  “He’s at work.”

  “Are you going to court today?” The robe she still wore said otherwise.

  She took a bite and nodded. “No cases today, just paperwork. I go in a little late on those days.”

  “Hmmm . . .” I silently blessed the microwave when it dinged and pulled out my mug. While my teabag steeped, I pulled out the little bear-shaped container of honey, my mind automatically slipping back to when my sister and I used to sop the stuff up with biscuits my mom made. “Mom?”

  “Yes, dear?” She sipped her coffee.

  “Why don’t you make biscuits anymore?”

  Her brows turned down in puzzlement. “Well. I don’t know. I guess because we have Maria to cook for us, so I don’t have to.”

  I pou
red honey into my tea. “Well, yours were the best.”

  It was silent for a moment except for the clinking of my spoon in my mug. In the other room, our antique Grandfather clock chimed eight times.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said softly.

  I turned and sipped my tea, letting it settle my stomach. We remained quiet while she finished her breakfast and I drank my tea. When I was done, I rinsed out my cup and stepped to the doorway. “I’m going out for a while.”

  “You’re not going to work?” Her eyes raked up and down my casual clothes.

  “No. Not today. I’m not feeling well.”

  She stood with her empty plate. “And you’re going out?”

  “I just have an errand to run. Then I’ll be in for the day.” I paused, watching her move to the sink. Even in her fleece robe, she held a regal air. “But . . . I may be staying with Rachel for a few days, too. Just until I get settled.”

  She faced me. “Whatever you want to do. We’re just glad you’re finally getting a divorce. It’s time you got on with your life.”

  She couldn’t have cut me deeper if she’d wielded one of the knives from the butcher block. I sucked in a breath.

  “Really, darling. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but like you said, we all knew this was coming. Your father and I sure did.” She didn’t wait for me to respond, just brushed past me toward the stairs. “I’m going to go shower. I’ll see you later?”

  I didn’t reply, and she didn’t seem to be waiting for one.

  I ran for the front door, grabbed my purse and keys, and sprinted to my car. I sped out of the driveway, ignoring the bright, sunny day all around me. All I could see, all I could feel, was blinding agony.

  What was I thinking going back to that place?

  Ten minutes later, I found myself parked in the Walgreens parking lot, facing the automatic doors, my heart stumbling in my throat.

  I shoved my nerves aside and made a beeline for the entrance, walking straight to the aisle of birth control, feminine supplies, and pregnancy tests. I yanked up a double pack of the same brand I’d used with every other pregnancy and marched to the checkout counter.

  I paid and left, sinking into my car.

  With a sigh, I backed up and headed off to the only place I had left anymore.

  Blake

  I threw myself into work the next day. Seeing Dee again, kissing her, had just made me more determined, but I knew I had to be careful. Gentle. Bide my time.

  Make this right.

  Thank God I’d already planned to attend a big car show in Austin tomorrow and show my Porsche. It was still lacking a few very minor finishing details, and I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell of placing, but I was anxious to see how she’d be received. If my work was up to par. And the trip away might give me a little time to gain some clarity.

  “Want me to help you load her up on the trailer before I head home?” Trace asked behind me.

  I spun around, shaking my head. “Nah. I want to shine her up a little bit. I’ll load it up later.”

  He nodded, his eyes drifting over the car’s paint job. One of her best features, she was ultra-glossy like liquefied silver. She was one sexy bitch.

  “Hey,” I said, “I never asked you, how did Ryder’s game go?”

  A tiny smile curled Trace’s mouth. “Good. They won 10 to 3 and Ry scored the one and only touchdown. He’s pretty happy.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He backed up a bit, drawing his keys from his front pocket. “Guess I’m gonna head out. I promised the kid pizza tonight.” His gaze tracked to the front of the garage. “I finished up that Honda and new belts on the Suburban. Micah and I started on the tranny overhaul, but it’ll take us another day or so.”

  I nodded. “Cool. Thanks.”

  “You given anymore thought to hiring us some help? Not that I’m complaining, business is great, but I think we could blaze through some of these jobs faster if we at least had a shop helper for cleanup and errands and shit.”

  The piled up trashcan in the corner caught my eye and I thought of all the parts we needed to go buy . . . stopping us in the middle of our day. “You’re right, bro. I’ll look into it.”

  “Cool. If you want, I can ask around at Ry’s next practice. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a couple of kids with teenage brothers. That’d probably be perfect.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Let me know what you find out.”

  He nodded once and turned to go.

  Man, I was praying for the day that Jack ‘Em Up was more of a classic car restoration shop than auto repair. Not that I didn’t love it all, but there was just something truly magical about watching an old, neglected beauty rise back to its former glory. And the profits wouldn’t hurt either. If I could get there. Maybe then, I’d finally be able to offer Delilah the life she deserved. Show her parents that they were wrong about me. Finally prove that I wasn’t my father’s son, at least not in the ways that counted.

  I couldn’t sleep, and going to Delilah wasn’t an option, so I headed out to Austin at midnight with my Spyder snugly strapped into a trailer behind the garage’s shop truck.

  The whole way there, I had time to think of my wife. Obsess, really. How could I win her back? I tried to remember what I’d done to get her to love me in the first place, and vague images of passing love notes and long, breathless nights spent huddled in my car or under the stars came to mind. But those days seemed so long ago. I wasn’t that young kid anymore.

  I pulled into a gas station to fill up and use the bathroom, and as I perused the junk food, I suddenly remembered how much Dee liked Reese’s peanut butter cups. All things chocolate and peanut butter, really. On a whim, I grabbed up a king-sized package along with my mints and a bag of chips and checked out.

  I hadn’t thought this much about my wife in months. Maybe years. Maybe ever.

  It suddenly occurred to me that may be the problem. We’d been through some rough shit these past few years and I hadn’t been there for her like I should’ve while I spent every last bit of my time and energy on trying to build the business. I wanted to do it for her. For us. I had to.

  But I’d pushed her away.

  In the truck, I cranked up the radio to drown out my demons and kept moving until I reached my hotel. I parked and slogged into the lobby, hoping they’d have my room ready even though I was early. Score. After I checked in, I found my room cool and dark, so I stripped off my boots and collapsed onto the bed in an exhausted heap.

  I woke up to brilliant sunlight slamming into my eyes and a dream of Delilah making me uncomfortably hard. I groaned and sat up, fighting back the hormones. I rose and peeked out the window, making sure my baby was safe and sound in her trailer. It all looked secure, just like I’d left it. I padded to the shower, ran a razor over my face, and forced down some in-room coffee. Then I felt human again.

  On my way out, I snagged a muffin from the continental breakfast set-up off the lobby, then I got back in the truck and drove over to the fairgrounds where the car show would be held. It was way too early to check-in, but I figured I’d get the lay of the land. Didn’t have anything better to do.

  I crept in and circled the lot, scoping out the signs that would point out where the cars should go by age and class. German Racing and Sports Car Class would be my spot. I found it and parked two spaces over from the only other car in the lot.

  I ducked under the tape cordoning off the area and glanced around. The ground wasn’t muddy and my boots crunched over the rocky gravel path as I walked.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  I froze and pivoted, knowing I’d been busted.

  The shorter, rounder man grinned at me from behind aviator sunglasses. “Don’t worry, boy. I won’t tell anyone you’re here. Hell, I’m here, too, aren’t I?”

  I smiled. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He turned to study the display grounds and I glanced at his profile. A surge of recognition ripped through me. Was that . . . ?

  He shift
ed back and stuck out his hand. “Spark McGraw. Nice to meet you.”

  I pumped his hand, not believing I was meeting the living legend in motor restoration. “Blake Travers. You, too,” I stuttered.

  He glanced behind me toward my trailer. “You in the show today?”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  A gruff laugh burst from him. “Don’t ‘sir’ me, Blake. It makes me feel old.” He spun toward the lot. “Show me what you got.”

  Spark McGraw wanted to see my car? Holy. Shit. I scrambled to catch up with him, trying not to be star struck. He waited by the tail end of the trailer as I unlocked the door and slid it up. I jumped inside and undid the back of the tarp, lifting it carefully. “It’s a—”

  “A 1955 Porsche 550 RS Spyder,” he said reverently, his eyes roaming over her rear end. “Just like James Dean died in.”

  I didn’t say anything as I rolled the tarp the rest of the way off, but his look of awe made pride bubble up inside me. It was a very special car. I’d really lucked out in finding it at auction a few years ago, barely able to scrape up the money to buy it thanks to my meager savings account and a hefty bank loan.

  “May I?” He tipped his chin indicating the trailer.

  “Sure.”

  He climbed in, his eyes locked on the car. “Magnificent,” he murmured, walking around and examining her from all angles. He faced me again. “Why don’t you have this thing at Pebble Beach or Amelia Island? It’s certainly worthy.”

  I stifled my shocked pride. “Well, honestly, this is her debut after restoration. I’d like to see how she does, get the name of my shop out there, and maybe interest some serious buyers.”

  “Investment, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “Man. I sure wish I had that kind of cash laying around. I’d take it off your hands.” He stared longingly. “Whatcha got under the hood?”

  I tucked my hands into my jeans. “A 1.5 liter 589.”

  “Going old school, huh?” He grinned, his eyes caressing every curve of the Spyder.