Page 23 of Changing Lanes

“Well, regardless, it won’t happen again.”

“You could’ve called me, you know.” He sips his coffee, never breaking eye contact. “To pick you up. You were in pretty bad shape.”

Sticking by his innuendo-dipped tongue, his eyes caress my entire body, starting at my toes. By the time he makes it to my suddenly parched throat, I lean toward him without meaning to. An arrogant smirk slashes across his mouth like a tally mark, righting me almost instantly.

Smug bastard.

“My shape is always on point, but thanks for keeping tabs.” His eyes flare and now I’m the one smirking. “You sure your attention isn’t better spent elsewhere though? Maybe on a certain princess in a Lexus?” My voice raises just enough for any eavesdroppers but I keep my gaze on his, not really interested in seeing her anymore. And she can’t have my pancakes either.

Beckett pushes off the counter while I do the same, meeting him in the middle, less than a foot apart. I swear my refusal to be intimidated will be the death of me. That or The Headache.

“You sound jealous.” My snicker is covered by him adding, “But don’t worry, I have more than enough attention to go around. Let me know if you want on the roster. I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

The tall asshole grabs a handful of pancakes before walking around me, taking a huge bite as he leaves.

Forget the throb in my head, the only thing I can focus on now is the pulsing between my thighs and damn if I didn’t just find the cure for The Headache.

Too bad it’s at the oversized hands of my off-limits roommate.

* * *

After a relatively quiet breakfast with Marc, I get him to drive me back to the bar I left my bike at. His BMW breathes sex like it was made for that very reason. The red and black seats are tailored for comfort and functionality for any position you might find yourself in. The sound system exhales deep beats of bass in a hypnotizing rhythm. The smell is leather and man—there’s no other way to describe it. Marc is all man and his car is the testosterone-soaked cherry on top.

I slant a look at him, finding his flame tattooed arms flexed as one wrist rests overtop the steering wheel, the veins in his forearms pronounced enough to make a starring role in any phlebotomist’s wet dream. His close to the scalp cut is partly covered with a baseball hat today and his caramel skin looks painfully smooth aside from some kind of brush burn just below his sharp jawline. His long black lashes rarely blink, allowing for his dark eyes to take in everything without interruption. His shirt’s armpits are cut to his damn hip bones, showing off the tight muscles that make up his entire torso. Relaxed fit jeans with high tops complete the swagged-out look he rocks on the regular. He’s even got a cut above his right eyebrow that looks fresh.

The man is hot in all the right ways and there’s no doubt he’d make for a fantastic bed buddy—if I were interested. Fortunately, I’m not. First and foremost, he’s my roommate and I can’t ruin the sweet set-up I’ve got going living with him and his annoying bestie.

Which brings up reason number two—Beckett. While he’s also my roommate, I can’t deny he’s got something over me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on and it’s not just his towering height. The guy drives me crazy, has from the second our eyes collided that first day, and I don’t think about him the same way I think about his friend. I like to look at Marc. I can’t stop looking at Beckett. At him, around him, behind him. What the hell is his deal?

Marc asks about last night, wondering how mad Beckett got.

I shrug, staring out the window. “Not too bad. If anything, I think he was more irritated he was pulled away from his date.”

He surprises me with a low rumble resembling a laugh. When I turn my head his way, he says, “She left right after you did. That wasn’t his problem.”

That has me staying quiet the rest of the short trip.

I don’t know what Beckett’s issue was last night then. Was he really pissed at me for coming home drunk? And more importantly, why would he be? It’s not like these guys don’t drink themselves. The fridge at home has more beer than food, the freezer’s even worse with hard alcohol, and don’t even get me started on the cart in the living room dedicated solely to cocktails.

Before parting ways, Marc invites me to one of their Friday night family dinners sometime. I accept, knowing a meal with my new roommates and their close friends will be a step in the right direction. Since I work Friday nights, I won’t be drinking and I can see if that changes Beckett’s attitude toward me.

* * *

Back on my white pony, I breeze through town with last night’s events still on my mind. The details from the night before are like looking through a steamed-up window on a humid day, I can see everything but it’s slightly blurred. As the stubborn mist wears off, I’m able to remember more and I’m beginning to wonder how the hell Beckett heard anything in the first place, especially if he wasn’t up entertaining like I’d first assumed. Marc’s room is the closest to the front door so it’d make more sense for him to be upset over my drunk and disorderly conduct, yet he acted like he didn’t know about any of it.

Tysen meets me in the front of the furniture store with his pick-up and together we get Mom’s recliner into the bed. My body continues to rid the toxins from last night in the form of rivers of sweat cascading down my face like spring waterfalls and I soak up as much of it as I can using the bottom of my gray tank. The growing puddles show on the light fabric but I can’t bring myself to care. My newfound 6’6” remedy pushed from my mind has brought my hangover to the forefront once again and my head is absolutely swimming. The thought has me imagining the cold water of Creekwood’s pool so I invite Ty to join me for a dip before we deliver the chair to Sunbrook all while crossing my fingers he doesn’t see through my thinly veiled attempt to prolong our time together. I was lucky enough to get him out of the house today thanks to a promise to buy him dinner.

My brother and I race to the apartment, ignoring the car horns honking as we weave through traffic. Tysen, being the middle child, is the glue that holds the family together. He’s the chameleon of the family, too, a shapeshifter of sorts. He is whoever we need him to be to keep the peace. He doesn’t like any discord and will go to any length to keep everyone happy. He blends with our grumpier, more serious, older siblings but can also keep pace with me and Nicky when we try to lighten things up.

“I think you dropped your exhaust pipe back there,” I joke from my seat on the stairs when he finally pulls up. Riding a street bike has its advantages in traffic, like cutting through lanes like softened butter.

Tysen looks adoringly at his truck, rubbing the hood. I got my love of fast things from him. Unfortunately, I also got my love for junkers from him, too. The old Ford is dripping oil all over the two parking spaces it’s taking up.

“Old Bessie’s been needing to lose a few pounds. It was probably good for her.”

He pretends to shine the rusty grill, making me snort.

“Bessie is the definition of a Ford—Found On Road Dead.”