Page 65 of Changing Lanes

He’s so pretty it hurts, then he speaks and it hurts even worse.

I whisper, “everything,” without meaning to but when his eyes narrow at my slip, I hurry to ask, “What’s going on?”

He’s standing outside his bedroom door with his shirt off and hello abs.

Oh, but he’s angry. Why?

Then I hear it. I hear him.

“Another nightmare?”

Using my hands, I carefully try to squeeze out my pants legs onto the welcome mat. It’s absorbent, right? Hopefully, because the water just keeps coming. Like ants at a goddamn picnic.

“What do you know about that?” Marc’s tone is razor sharp, like a ruthless wolf.

“Enough.” I shrug, then stumble reaching for the bottoms of my jeans. I manage to catch myself before I face-plant though. Now that would be bad.

“Christ. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

It takes me a while before I can lift my eyes from the empty bottle by my feet.

“Last time he got a nosebleed,” I say finally, breaking the quiet.

“No shit. He does that every time.”

My head whips to him as I straighten, forgetting the pants entirely. “He does? How often is he having these…episodes?” The question comes naturally, like breathing. Once a nurse, always a nurse.

“Enough.” He throws my answer back in my face and my fists ball at my sides. I’m pretty sure they do anyway. There’s still not a lot of feeling in my limbs. It’s all just fuzzy naiveté—like happiness.

“Whatever. I’m going back to bed. Try not to make a mess.”

Bigger than I already have? The question sits on my tongue long after Marc disappears back into his room.

Since I didn’t actually fix Beckett’s door yet, I’m forced to position my ear near the wood without applying any real pressure while trying to hear inside. Deep breathing resonates through his room so I back away to my own.

“Please! Come back!”

One minute I’m almost to my door, the next I’m on the other side of his. Alcohol’s fun like that. It just transports you without consulting with you first.

Hesitating, I watch Beckett through the dark, wondering what exactly I’m supposed to do. Then I see his hand angrily swipe at his face and I dive across the room and onto his bed without any thought at all. With his hand firmly clutched in mine, I try to lower it but he’s strong—stronger than my alcohol-laden muscles—and makes another swipe at his face. After struggling, and failing, to stop his assault, I stretch my entire body across his arm, wanting to keep him from causing any more damage to himself. His nose looks angry but it’s not bleeding—yet.

His arm finally goes still beneath my torso and I take full advantage of this new vantage point. My eyes roam his handsome face, taking in the blond hair that almost reaches his closed eyes. Long lashes are draped across his sharp cheekbones as his breathing begins to slow.

My breath, however, hitches.

Full lips, that mine remember all too well, purse and I mash my own between my teeth as I continue my perusal.

What’s haunting Beckett to the point of self-mutilation? What has him so worked up that he’d willingly hurt himself, even in his subconscious?

A voice in the back of my mind nags at me but now that all movement has stopped, my head starts to sway like a rowboat in a hurricane, losing sight of anything tangible as I fight to keep my stomach inside my body. It wants out.

I slam my eyes shut against the rocking.

For Caleb’s twenty-first, Jesse booked the family a fishing trip and I got so seasick I almost fainted. The captain had me lie down on one of the bench seats and I accidentally dozed off sometime later. While it sucked missing out on the festivities, the relief my little nap provided was downright euphoric.

Falling asleep in Beckett’s bed is not an option though, so I vow to stay like this only until he calms down, then I’ll return to my own bed. If I don’t move at all, it’ll help even more.

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