Page 21 of Changing Lanes

“Not really.”

Not really? Either someone’s your ex or they’re not. Right?

Her fingernails skim up the backs of my arms, giving literally all of my skin goose bumps, even my fucking scalp. Holy shit.

“So,” I work to clear my throat, “what was all that outside about then? I’m pretty sure Tree Stump thinks your hook-up tonight meant something.” Enough to brag about it.

This dizzying laugh, similar to the one in my Tahoe the other day, floats past her lips, up above our heads, settling at the base of my skull.

“Our kiss tonight was…a mistake. But, it’s still over between us. We want different things. The end. Are we done talking now?”

Paige’s hands slide around my neck as she tries to close the distance but I don’t budge. Too loyal to my boy, too afraid I won’t be able to stop, too fucking wound up from it all, I lock my muscles in place, holding firm, inches away.

“What does he want?”

I bet I can guess.

“To fall in love.”

I pull back to look in her hooded eyes. “And you don’t?”

She squeezes her eyes shut, dropping her hands to the mattress with a bounce and swallows audibly. I twitch from the loss but don’t move otherwise.

“I just can’t right now. I don’t have any room.”

Can’t?

My eyebrows slam together. I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that.

So, Dean caught feelings for a hard ass looking for a fling? Even though it’s good to know where she stands, it still doesn’t rule out her having a thing with Marc. I know for a fact that, like me, dude has no plans for settling down anytime soon.

They’d be perfect for each other really.

That thought fills me with something I’d rather not acknowledge so I focus on the latter part of her answer, asking thickly, “Room for what?”

Her light snore fills the silent bedroom.

Well, damn. Tonight’s just full of firsts, isn’t it?

CHAPTER 6

Paige

I’m nursing what I’ve started calling The Headache. Not to be confused with a common household headache that all of us mere mortals suffer from occasionally. No, this is The Headache. The one that follows a night of complete and utter debauchery. The kind you bring upon yourself by ignoring any and all common sense garnered throughout your life by attempting to drink yourself into oblivion. The kind I’ve been bringing on myself too often lately.

I just hope I gave the bartender with no core values whatsoever a great tip for indulging my apparent death wish I had last night. That kind of customer service is hard to come by these days.

It’s always strange waking up at the time I usually go to sleep but today it’s even more off-putting since it’s my first morning in my new apartment. I’m not sure if the guys have work today or not because it’s still fairly quiet, save for the occasional heavy breath or two.

Feeling somewhat human again after a hot shower, I decide to make my roommates breakfast. If they’re anything like my brothers who would wake up like a pack of ravenous wolves after a night of drinking, then they’ll appreciate a home cooked meal when they do get up. Cooking will also give me something to focus on instead of my embarrassing effort at seducing Beckett last night. The guy probably had his fill from his scaly friend last night then was forced to deal with my Sloppy Jane impersonation.

What was I thinking?

My hand curls around the vanilla extract for pancakes and I remember. His smell. It does things to me. It makes me want things. Things I can’t want right now.

Isn’t that what he asked me? Why I couldn’t fall in love? It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t, at least for right now. Besides the fact that I absolutely do not have the time, I can’t spare the mental realty for anyone extra. My brothers, and most importantly my mom, are it for me. They are my first, last, and middle priorities with only room for the sporadic stupid decision—or two. Last night easily fell into the latter category, what with Beckett ramming his tongue down his date’s throat. No amount of Marc’s motocross stories could distract me from that whole scene, even if they were mildly entertaining.

Dean wasn’t much help either, peppering me with kisses that tasted like a cheap replacement for what I really wanted. For who I really wanted.