Page 2 of Changing Lanes

I shoot my head off the bed, glancing around my room, making sure there aren’t any stowaways. Coming up empty—like usual—I close my eyes again and drop back down, hoping to get some more sleep.

Flipped onto my back, I throw an arm over my face, blocking out the faint morning sunlight streaming through my blinds.

Last night was epic. Our last hurrah with our boy Coty before the new roommate moves into his old room.

Before she comes in and ruins everything.

I still don’t understand why Marc agreed to let that chick live with us. Having Angela, our first roommate’s girlfriend, living in the apartment directly across the hall was close enough. Coty usually kept her pretty busy though, like rabbit-type busy, that I never had to worry. Well, except for that one time.

Luckily, Angie didn’t make a big deal of it but I’ll never forget the look on her face—confusion followed by understanding. At least it didn’t hold any pity. Having her own demons, she knows it’s useless feeling sorry for shit that’s out of our hands. Shit our parents did to us.

She’d need to be there to have done something to you.

My eyes pop open and I run my hand down my stomach, releasing a puff of breath before climbing out of bed.

Not today, Satan.

Today’s already its own kind of hell without bringing thoughts of her into the mix. I’ll save that for a special kind of day—like the week after never.

After slipping on my favorite pair of shorts, I scoop up the abandoned bra and head out to the kitchen, pulling the busty garment through my fingers. Whoever had to do last night’s walk of shame without her girls properly supported must’ve made for one hell of a scene. I think she was blonde. Maybe. I don’t know.

A pink bra though, that must’ve been what caught my eye in the first place. Unfortunately, it ended there too, judging from the item still being in my hands with absolutely no memory whatsoever of the girl who wore it. I can’t help but snort at the irony.

“Is this normal?”

I jerk at the feminine voice slicing through the still apartment, my gaze colliding with hers. Our new roommate. Paige.

Marc, my other roommate and best friend—before this whole lapse in judgment—speaks up from the breakfast bar, saying, “He usually only wears neutrals. He must be trying out a new look though.”

I pin him with a scowl. What?

When his eyes narrow on my hands, my grip tightens on the bra.

“This color’s all wrong on me,” I half-joke. I wear pink. Not in bra form, obviously, but pink is badass and I have several shirts to prove it.

If this girl sticks around long enough, she’ll see them.

She’ll see everything.

A smirk pulled tight at my lips, I lift the stupid thing and say, “maybe it’ll look better on you,” then toss the bra across the room to her. She makes no move to catch it and the pink monstrosity ends up hitting her chest before falling to the floor with a thump.

Okay then.

Without so much as blinking, she cocks an eyebrow, sending a warm shot of something straight to my groin.

Ignoring her and the unwelcome heat below my waist, I yank the fridge open and, seeing we’re out of the coffee concentrate Angela keeps us stocked with, I grab the juice. With my back still to the room, I adjust myself through my mesh shorts before turning around and unscrewing the cap in silence. I tip the bottle to my lips, taking big gulps, never breaking eye contact with her.

Marc mutters “dick” under his breath but I ignore him, too. I never wanted her as a roommate. He made that dumbass decision alone. He can welcome her alone, too.

She finally cuts the connection but keeps her bright green eyes on me as they trail the rest of my body. I slow my swallows, taking her in as well. Skin-tight, black jeans cling to seriously long legs tucked into heavy combat-looking boots, a black V-neck tee with a white wing design on both sides hang loosely off a toned body—it must be tight to handle a motorcycle of her own—and dark, wavy hair with plum coloring frames a strikingly beautiful face. One that lures you in only to spit you back out begging for more. Her entire persona screams biker.

And fuck me.

Why does she have to live just past my bedroom door? Why couldn’t we have had some fun together for one night before I forgot all about her like pink bra girl?

“Beige was it?” I poke.

Her eyes thin, coming back up to touch on my juice-coated lips before darting over to Marc, and I miss them immediately. I don’t care if she’s picking me apart like a lion consuming its last meal, I want her focused on me and only me. I don’t know why, but I do.