Page 32 of Changing Lanes

“I know you have a lot more going on than you show. I know your smile covers the cracks and your jokes stifle the pain. Whatever you’re burying isn’t completely dead and you know it but are too scared to face it. At least not without your trusty laugh track in place first.”

“The fuck makes you think that?”

His face hardens to stone and I take a moment to look it over, recognizing the same fissures I see when I look in the mirror.

“Why don’t you let anyone stay the night?”

“Easy. Just like you, I don’t want a relationship.”

“But you do.”

“What?” he snaps, shooting those baby blues around.

Don’t worry. They’re still there.

“You do. You want a relationship so bad but you’re terrified they’ll hurt you. That you’ll be the one to give them the power to destroy you, so you push women away with a smack on the ass and a smile on your face all while telling yourself that’s what you want.” I’d know. I’ve been doing the same thing for over a year now. It’s easy to keep others out. The hard part is showing the mess hidden inside. “But you’re already in a relationship with your boys and even if it’s not a romantic one, it’s a relationship just the same, proving your theory wrong and verifying what I thought all along—that you’re just a coward with a pocket full of one-liners.”

He stands to his full height and with one smooth motion, he yanks my waist until it’s flush against his, an embarrassing gasp falling from my lips from the contact.

“Here’s a one-liner—fuck you.”

Dropping me back on my feet, he stalks off, drawing notice from the entire party. When he joins his original plaything at the stairs, all eyes bounce between that and my stupid ass sitting in the middle of the pool.

I drag my hands down my face, catching movement by the gate.

My guy didn’t leave.

Walking slowly past the tangle of limbs—someone really should teach the girl how to use her legs correctly—I climb the stairs, making sure to splash Beckett with every step I take on my way out. I’ll need him for this next part.

Once I’m toe-to-toe with the rocker, I fist his unbuttoned shirt at his chest, pulling him to me gradually. My lips touch his and he finally catches on to what’s happening. Opening his lips with my tongue, I slide in to massage the piercing there.

Smoke and metal, like a car crash waiting to happen.

Something feels wrong with this kiss and it’s not just the taste of ash on his lips so I pull back slightly, taking his bottom lip with me. I’m still in it but I’m not in it.

His hands join in, dropping to just above my bikini bottoms with an eagerness I wish I could return. At least organically.

I hear a growl behind me and almost release the lip between my teeth from the smile sneaking out.

I draw the display out a little longer, pressing into him and earning a deep, loud rumble of a groan from him when my wet bottoms rub against the front of his skinny jeans. Those black-painted fingernails of his dig into my lower back to the point of pain and I almost slap the moron but hold off—barely—since it’d give the whole ruse away.

Happily releasing his lip with a juicy smack of my own, I roll my head over my shoulder, finding Beckett with the handrail in a death grip, watching the entire thing through glacial eyes. He’s a twitchy bull in the ring with steam billowing from his nose, following the red cape of hair at my back.

With him still standing, I make sure to meet his gaze head-on, unsheathing my second sword, ready to make my final cut. Lifting my middle finger, I rasp out, “no, baby, fuck you,” then leave the silenced party behind as I strut off, knowing I got the last laugh after all.

Nobody, not even a fuckboy on a power trip, determines what I can and can’t do.

And would you look at that, I guess I did have a few more shits and giggles to spare.

* * *

Back upstairs, after throwing on a cover-up, I find myself in the kitchen, diving into food prep with Esme. I’m still worked up from the scene outside and I’m not exactly sure what pulled me in here but Esme’s massive dinner makes for the perfect distraction.

I should feel bad for leaving River with a raging hard-on but serves him right for wearing skinny jeans to a fucking pool party.

I refuse to even consider what Beckett’s doing.

Esme and I chat about different topics ranging from farm life to zodiac signs. Both born in July, she’s a Cancer while I’m a Leo. She’s lived an incredible life but struggles with the constant unrest between her husband and their son. I guess things between the father-son duo have improved since Pop The Hood landed the farm as a major client but not as much as Esme would prefer. Her eyes light up anytime her kids’ names are even spoken and when she describes her daughter like she’s talking about a best friend, a jealousy like a deep cavern settles in my stomach, waiting to be filled with any inkling of affection in the vicinity.