Page 73 of Changing Lanes

She will when she sees him though. He is so much more than okay. Beckett’s like a hot air balloon festival—hypnotically beautiful, downright electrifying, and completely baffling. How does anyone control those things?

“But only if you put out some snacks,” she says, knowing full well I’m stocked with plenty of small bites. All nurses are. I think it’s a requirement.

“Hey, I always put out,” I joke then frown, realizing it’s been a while since I actually have. A long while.

As soon as my face heals, I swear I’m back out there on the hunt. This dry spell is ridiculous and being cooped up with my off-limits roommate is making it worse. His huge presence is both a blessing and a curse. He makes everything else seem to fade into sheer insignificance…except my sex drive. That he brings to the forefront like one of those telecommunication towers flashing its warning to airplanes in the dead of night—a steady pulse with no chance of blinking out anytime soon. Ugh.

We chat for a few more minutes before hanging up with a plan in place. She’s going to bring all the ingredients to make peach margaritas while I provide the blender, chips, and homemade salsa Esme dropped off recently, and a movie. I even decide to include Marc and Beckett but when I go out to set everything up, I’m greeted by an empty apartment and a twinge in my chest. Where did they go? Where did he go?

I check both bedrooms and balconies before looking out at the parking lot only to find both bikes missing. He went out after all. No text, no medicine left out with overly detailed instructions—he swears I don’t apply it correctly, as if my job doesn’t consist of doing that very thing for others—nothing.

Beckett’s disappearing act shouldn’t surprise me. He’s different from any other guy I’ve ever been around which, admittedly, is a lot. Some men bury their issues with a fucking excavator while others wear their problems like this season’s newest trend. Beckett is a tricky combination of the two, where he does a damn good job distracting people from the shit haunting him from just over his shoulder, if you bother looking to see it—which I do. I know what skeletons look like no matter what state they’re in and I bet Beckett’s closet is full of them. His boys and everyone around him may accept him for who he is and maybe even know his story, but they don’t share his pain. He works his fine ass off making sure they don’t, that nobody does.

And it’s not like I don’t understand either. I’ve almost perfected giving the stiff arm to emotional connections with anyone other than my family and I fully expect that Heisman Trophy to show up at my front door any day now. Looks like Beckett’s giving me some competition for it though.

I should be happy. He beat me to that five finger emotional punch, saving me the energy of having to do it first.

Why doesn’t it feel better then?

* * *

Oh, great.

He’s in his bed thrashing again.

Cynthia and I collapsed in my bed after laughing our asses off watching an old comedy and filling ourselves to the brim. It felt good to just be. To be with somebody. Somebody who actually wanted to be around me, too.

When we left the living room, the guys still weren’t back from wherever they fled to and after about an hour of tossing and turning, I finally heard them return but have been treated to complete silence ever since while I impatiently wait for sleep to descend.

I drank just enough margaritas to loosen my grip on reality but not enough to let go entirely, and now Beckett’s furious tossing is blaring through the calm apartment, echoing all around me.

At least he’s alone.

Right?

If the noises coming from his room are from him and someone else…

Nope, not going there.

I don’t want to even think about Beckett entertaining for the night, much less hear it.

Hopefully it’s just another nightmare. But that possibility doesn’t sit well with me either.

With four siblings, I should be able to sleep through anything, but no. Not when someone I care about might be suffering.

Do I care about Beckett now?

I roll over to face Cynthia, wondering how she can sleep through all of this. He’s hurting, literally, and nobody else even notices.

Beckett’s mumbled voice increases with both volume and urgency before I hear a distinct smack of skin against skin. I’m out of bed the next instant and trudging across the hall.

A light knock to announce my presence goes unanswered and after a long breath, I push the broken door open to find Beckett—alone thankfully—in bed, having another night terror or whatever.

I catch his hand midair before he can make contact with his nose again and tuck it beneath my body as I climb onto the mattress next to his restless form. As I settle in though, his other arm swings over my body and relaxes across my middle, essentially trapping me. My tight white tank is on the short side and his warm arm sears my bare skin, almost like a branding, above my loose sleep shorts.

Last night I was able to blame the alcohol for my meddling, tonight he’ll figure it out. I did drink but not that much. He’ll know I saw a side of him not many people are privy to. And going off every other encounter I’ve had with Beckett…it’s a complete mystery how he’ll react. My money’s on a blow-up. An epic blow-up followed by a substantial amount of pouting. Maybe a hate-filled make-out session in there somewhere.

I swallow a laugh. This isn’t a romance novel.