Page 108 of Changing Lanes

Marc?

“Bitch likes it rough, man. Look at her!”

When exactly has the “she was asking for it” excuse ever applied? Is never definitive enough of an answer? Unfortunately not, apparently.

“Motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you.”

Beckett.

A bone-splintering crunch causes a gasp somewhere from my left but I can’t tear my eyes off Beckett as he lays into the writhing mess below him. His anger is palpable, his intent clear. He will end him.

At some point I stop viewing the fight as an interested spectator and start watching as an invested member of the group. Beckett maintains most of my concentration but the others aren’t far behind in my worry for their well-being. I may have something to lose here, too.

Or do I?

“Cruz, get them before someone gets killed,” I order with a quiver in my voice.

Beckett’s doing something to me.

I look over the others, one by one, landing on Angela last.

They all are.

Cruz works to separate the two groups but only one trio is left standing—mine.

Where did that come from?

I do a quick scan of each of them, checking for injuries, but they appear minimal, allowing me to finally take a full breath.

So, the pretty boys can fight after all. My brothers were scrappers, too. I think Jesse’s first step was taken as he was landing his first punch actually. My dad was the one to show us how to take care of ourselves and each other. He knew that having four older brothers could make me soft, always relying on my siblings to stick up for me, but he didn’t want that for his only girl. I was never Daddy’s little princess. I was brought up just like the boys, learning to fight my way out of any situation that called for it, even against said brothers on certain occasions. And in a family with five kids, there was no shortage of scrapes. Ever.

His tutelage may have stopped when he died but my rebellious streak never did. I was taught not to cower to anyone, least of all some prick with grab hands, and that’s not about to change because of one eye-opening concert.

Beckett catches my eye again but I don’t break the spell, staring right back as his chest rises and falls with purpose and mine swells with…gratitude? I don’t know what else to call it but it’s warm and strong and threatens to consume me. All of me.

Just like Beckett.

Leaving the heaps of sad excuses of men on the ground, Cynthia, Angela, and I start walking before security can bust us. Our guys will catch up—if they know what’s good for them.

CHAPTER 26

Paige

We make it back to the outdoor food court without incident and immediately start seeking out an open misting station. We’re all hot and sticky, but more importantly fired up. The girls from the altercation, the boys from their fights, and everyone from the hormones provoked by that last one. It could just be me, but the hungry gazes being tossed around like smoke bombs during battle say otherwise.

Shots fired.

And now we wait for the chaos to ensue.

The high temps aren’t showing any signs of dropping even without the sun’s notorious presence and every one of the misters is crowded. Some are packed with actual overheated faces while others are full of influencer-types looking for a noteworthy shot. There are lots of those circle lights and people lying on the ground to get the best angle to make the overhead sprinkler look trendy. Or sexy or whatever. I just want to cool off.

Once a group finally leaves, we gather under the mist, getting just wet enough to feel relief but not enough to ruin our makeup. Our faces are caked in makeup and glitter, mainly because none of us are very good at applying either.

The boys, hot on our heels, join but forgo the same reservations about getting wet. All four stand in the middle of the fine mist, making me wish there was a higher setting option.

Holy. Hotness.

It’s like watching four ripped—okay, three and one mildly average—firemen get drenched by the spray-back from putting out a nearby fire, except they’re not extinguishing anything. Not really. Judging from the needy looks from other females around the edges, they’re igniting much more than they realize. If they so much as lose their shirts, we won’t even be able to stop the masses from swarming. It’ll be apocalyptic—every woman, and probably some men, for themselves.