Page 13 of Changing Lanes

“Ready?” I ask after finishing my meager dinner. As it turns out, the salad wasn’t that great.

Whatever. It’s cheap and filling…kind of.

My eyes drift over the bare counters. Nothing. He made nothing. All that knocking around and not a single thing to show for it. I knew he was a pouter. I just don’t understand what has his massive panties in a bunch now.

His underwear, regardless of what state they’re in, are none of my business.

I clean the plates I used then grab my bag, stuffing it with a few granola bars and an applesauce pouch.

Beckett stalks past, out the front door, expecting me to follow. I do, but only after waiting a beat.

Seated in his hunter green Tahoe, he cranks the music the second the engine roars to life, making small talk impossible. “Man or a Monster” pulses through the speakers, the after-market subwoofers sending tremors to all the right places.

I lower the volume, giving him directions to Sunbrook but Beckett’s eyes stay glued to the road so I take the opportunity to check him out. A bit of his light hair is peeking out of a backward hat and his face still has a sheen of sweat on it. His simple shirt says We Ride but has a couple holes in it, reminding me of scratch marks. Beast mode comes to mind and I wonder what he’s like in the sack, too. Probably growly and selfish. Most hot guys are. Like lazy house cats that do jack shit and still get fed by hand. Pants pulled tight against his thighs hint at a rather impressive package so at least he seems to be working with decent equipment. He’s covered in grease stains but doesn’t look filthy—at least not in a hygienic sort of way. He’s giving off dirty, sexy vibes like only a hardworking man can. When I first met him and Marc at their shop, Pop The Hood, he was covered in sweat from a hot day under steaming hoods and the image has stayed with me ever since. Marc’s leaner frame was smudged in dirt like maybe he works outside, but Beckett was all glistening muscle.

His long fingers spread wide, curl around the steering wheel like streams of hot lava igniting everything in their path. Visions of them on my body have me discreetly fanning my face and turning away.

Beckett’s head finally twists my way and holds. Unable to resist, I turn to see him checking me out as well. His eyes lift to mine and he clears his throat.

“So, older men your thing?”

My eyebrows almost touch.

“Uh, not particularly?” Why that came out as a question I’ll never know. I mean, most guys I’ve messed around with were older but by a year or two, nothing like a cradle robber or anything. I glance down at my chest, not seeing any signs encouraging sugar daddies to apply within taped to it. Beckett’s eyes follow mine but when I catch him ogling my boobs he glares before facing the road again.

“Why do you say that?”

His grip tightens on the wheel. “Dude back there looked old, older than you.”

My brain searches for the man he’s referring to, landing on Jesse, and I fly forward, laughing.

“You thought? That-” I start then stop, unable to finish a single sentence while gripping my stomach as tears stream down my face.

Nobody has ever mistaken one of my brothers for my boyfriend before.

This must be that infamous sense of humor Marc told me about.

Wiping my eyes, I sit up to peek over at a frowning Beckett and, I can’t help it, I start laughing all over again. My laughter fills the already hot space so I roll down my window, giving us some much-needed airflow. I regret it almost immediately as my loose hair starts blowing into my open mouth still cackling away. Nothing like a mouthful of hair to sober your sudden hysteria.

“So, that wasn’t your boyfriend?”

I pull the majority of the strands out of my mouth before shaking my head. “No, and he’s only twenty-seven. I wouldn’t call that old.” I eye him as my hair flies about chaotically. “How old are you?”

His shoulders visibly relax. “About to turn twenty-two. You?”

“I’m almost twenty-one. This month actually. I forgot it was coming up.”

He glances over at me. “You forgot your own birthday?”

I shrug. I’ve had bigger things to worry about.

“Will your family throw you a party or anything?”

It sounds like he’s fishing but I spot his bait a mile away so I keep to the shallow end, simply saying, “Doubt it.”

My brothers don’t typically throw parties. They attend them, they crash them, they bust them—well, mine anyway—but they don’t really plan them. Plus, with Mom’s new normal, nobody’s pushed for anything that we’d have to exclude her from.

“What about yours?” Beckett’s got that All-American party boy look. Throw in that tattoo I was happy to discover the other morning when he was shirtless along with his flashy bike and you’ve got a heartbreakingly beautiful bad boy. “Will your family throw you one?”