Page 36 of Changing Lanes

Perfect.

Apparently, Ethan/Ivan lives with his parents—shocker—and isn’t allowed to bring dates over. I argued that this isn’t exactly a date but he didn’t find it funny. He’s not much for laughs.

Ethan seemed excited to nail a chick that rides a motorcycle though and jumped at the chance to take me home from the bar. Guys see a strong female as a challenge, a wild animal they have the urge to break into submission. I am neither a challenge nor can I be tamed but I’ll let E-Money here think whatever he wants.

Ivan doesn’t bother opening my door, even drivers from those apps open the fucking door these days, and I stumble out on my own, unscathed. The door handle, however, does not make it out intact and I’ll probably have to buy him a whole new car now. Add the ugly hatchback—whatever it is—to the mountain of shit I can’t afford but will work until I die to pay off.

“You think my car’s ugly?”

Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?

I inspect the vehicle in question.

“No.” I make my way over to him, draping my arms around his neck to soften the impending blow. “I think it’s fucking hideous.”

My chest shakes with laughter but he’s not amused. Like at all.

Buzz Kill Ethan at it again.

He says, “my name’s Evan,” making me flinch.

“Nice, Paige. Didn’t even catch this one’s name first?”

Evan’s head jerks upward while I casually lean mine back as well. I’d recognize that voice anywhere and I’m not going to give myself whiplash just because he’s decided to cock block for the fifty-seventh time since I moved in. He should really find a hobby or something.

“Hello, Beckett.”

Both his elbows rest on the banister as he stares down at us unworthy commoners from his cherished Creekwood throne, with the words Just Ride It in black on his chest a stark contrast to his tan tee with the sleeves rolled up, and black soft shorts he probably fell asleep in considering it’s well past who gives a shit. His hair’s deliciously mussed though. Like maybe he was in the middle of a really, really good dream before he decided to become my worst nightmare.

“Always a pleasure.” And although Beckett’s glowering expression from our front balcony is not one for pleasure, I’d still give him a shot at it.

I snicker at my own stupidity.

Evan looks back down at me and I sober, hoping my behemoth of a roommate didn’t ruin this completely.

“Who’s that?”

“Neighborhood Watch, I’m afraid. Except instead of looking for murderers, he’s on the hunt for fornicators.”

“Uh, what?” Evan stammers.

Unable to hold it in any longer, my head hits the top of his car as it’s thrown back in another laugh causing Evan’s arms to envelop me fully—not to protect me, I’m sure, but to keep me from damaging any more of his precious go-kart of a ride.

No sooner do his hands reach my back are they ripped away in a motion I am so not comfortable with. Wobbly as it is with my support suddenly disappearing, I crash forward into a brick wall. A never-ending brick wall I like to call Beckett. But only to his face.

“What do you call me behind my back?” He chuckles.

Fuck. “I have to stop doing that.”

“Nah, I like you unfiltered.”

He’s undoubtedly wearing some obnoxious-as-shit expression I’d love to slap right off, but my face is cozy right where it is on ab number eight so I stay put. Beckett can move me if he so chooses.

“You don’t like me at all,” I mutter against my newfound pillow, sneaking inhales.

“Hey, uh, I think I should get her up to her apartment. She took a lot of shots.”

Beckett’s arms stiffen around me like a cage and I don’t know if it’s to lock me in or keep others out.