Detour: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 1)

by A. Marie

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. What happens when those payments stop? Who will she take her misery out on? I think she’ll come looking for her favorite plaything sooner than you think.” He gives me a pointed look that I promptly ignore.

  He’s right. I know it. He knows it. We all know it, but I’ve lived in fear for too damn long. I can’t let it, or her, squash my happiness any longer. Today marks the beginning in a long, hard journey but if I don’t take the shaky first step then how will I ever reach the highly anticipated destination?

  “Thank you,” I say, poking his side. “Thank you for saving my sanity more times than I can count.”

  “Well, we both know you can’t count that high so…”

  I can’t help but laugh at his horrible joke. Jerk. Well accustomed to using humor to diffuse uncomfortable situations—hey, if you don’t laugh, you cry, right?—I recognize what he’s trying to do here. Drew likes to downplay his role in my life but there’s no denying he’s played a very large part in keeping me from falling into hopeless oblivion. He didn’t have to stick around after our parents turned into bitter rivals but he did—thankfully.

  Drew plants a kiss on the top of my head while I crush myself against his chest, his usual tangy, berry-like scent as calming as his very presence. With one last squeeze before he walks over to his dad’s borrowed truck, he hops onto the shiny running board, pinning me with his tawny eyes, saying, “Call me if you need anything and I’ll be right over. I mean it.”

  “I will.” In my own attempt to lighten the mood, I call out, “You’re my boy, Drew.”

  Barely earning a smirk from my former step-sibling, he ducks inside while I swallow the stubborn lump in my throat.

  Three motorcycles, with almost obnoxiously revving engines, pull into Creekwood Apartments just as Drew reaches the entrance. His brake lights hesitating tell me exactly what he’s thinking without even needing to see his face, but who says they live here? They could be visiting someone, anyone really. I haven’t met any neighbors yet so Drew’s guess is as good as mine.

  As the noisy machines approach, three heads snap my way just before finding parking spaces across from my Jeep.

  The winding engines cut off, filling the lot with complete silence save for Drew’s awkward idling. Why do big brothers, even ones not born to the position, lack any sense of subtlety?

  With a flick of my hand to the truck, I grab the last box and make for the stairs but not before darting a glance over to the guys still sitting atop the street bikes. Motorcycles aren’t my area of expertise but these ones look nice. The car wash I work at doesn’t cater to bikes, which is a serious drawback in my opinion. Due to the relatively mild climate, this entire region is known for housing toys of all shapes, sizes, and speeds. Whether they’re for land, air, or water, they all get dirty just like cars do and would benefit from a place that could accommodate them accordingly.

  None of the guys have removed their helmets yet and I almost don’t want them to. What if they do live around here? And they’re complete assholes?

  What if they’re picking up a friend and I’m worrying for nothing?

  I can’t help but admire their rides though. One is red with some numbers near the handlebar. The neon green one in the middle has the word Ninja splashed across the side while the last one is flat black with no distinguishable markings whatsoever.

  The first two reaching for their helmets have me quickening my steps but the last one, the guy on the black bike, holds my gaze hostage. Even though I can’t make out his eyes hidden in his helmet’s shadow, it’s like I can feel them on me. Phantom gawking. It’s a thing, right? A chill runs up my spine despite the sporadic breeze dying down moments ago, leaving the sultry air to almost crackle against my skin. I tear my eyes away as I climb the rest of the stairs leading to my apartment.

  Safely back inside, I turn on “Young, Dumb & Broke” by Khalid before taking stock of my limited belongings. I stay busy the rest of the night unpacking and decorating, dancing and singing, genuinely having a good time in my new place.

  My place.

  I like the sound of that.

  CHAPTER 3

  Angela

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble from my bed.

  It’s been a quiet couple of days, but here it is Friday night and the neighbors are having a party. Oh, excuse me, it’s now Saturday morning. Hours into the shindig and it seems to be growing in both volume and size—if the amount of door slams are anything to go by. My shift starts in exactly six hours and I’ve got shit for sleep so far. With the party only gaining momentum, I doubt that’ll change anytime soon. Saturday is the wash’s busiest day, but more importantly it’s the day I open. Vacuum canisters need emptied, towels need folded, spray guns need tested, along with many, many other tasks that can only be done once the sleep has been slept.

  Damn it.

  Checking my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, I groan seeing those minutes ticking painfully by—with me still awake. My finger hovering over the keypad, I contemplate calling the cops but the fact that nobody else from the other apartments has so much as banged on the wall or yelled outside for the partiers to shut the hell up makes me reconsider.

  A door, that sounds suspiciously close, crashes against the wall making me flinch. Raucous voices filter through my wall, directly into my bedroom feeling particularly invasive. Yes, my bedroom is also my living room which is also part of my kitchen but still, hearing slurred partygoers only feet from your bed is disturbing on a good day. And today is not that day. Today is the day I meet my neighbors.

  Groaning, I pull a loose cardigan over my sleep set, trudging the few steps to my front door. Upon opening it, I find that the party is directly across the hall, like I suspected. People in all states of inebriation fill the hallway between the two doors. My feet freeze in the doorway while my hand jiggles the phone. It’s not too late. I could still call the police. Or maybe just the manager since I don’t want to add snitch to my resume for such a pitiful excuse of a party. Not that I know what makes a great party but if this hallway is their most desired location it makes me wonder who the hell is hosting it to begin with.

  A glance down at my outfit, or lack thereof, has me second-guessing this plan altogether until a shirtless guy halfway down the stairs lets out an obnoxious howl.

  People take calm for granted. When silence is used as a weapon your whole life, you learn to appreciate how valuable the quiet can actually be and these assholes are screwing with the peace I’ve finally found in living here.

  My fist rapping against the metal goes unnoticed, unless you count the kissing couple perched next to it shooting a glare my way at the interruption. Whatever. The warm hallway feels sticky, muggy, as if the alcohol’s seeping from its occupants’ pores into the narrow gap, intoxicating everybody present.

  Another crack of my knuckles proves useless, so I do it again, this time much, much harder. Some call it pounding, I call it making a point. Either way, it’s time to introduce myself.

  When the door finally swings open, I’m met with a black shirt that reads Save A Horse, Ride A Biker stretched across a toned chest in bold white letters effectively solving the mystery of who owns one of the motorcycles from the other day. Except this torso appears to have no end in sight as I search for the face of my neighbor. I’ve always been fairly tall at 5’8” but this guy must be well over six feet as my neck cranked almost all the way back is the only way I can even make out his chin. The striking blue eyes peering down at me hold so much mischief I swear they actually twinkle. I mean, how? He’s sporting the most playful smile I’ve ever seen along with some light facial hair to round out an incredibly handsome face. A tilted baseball hat with blond bits of hair peeking out, and the guy is hot. As hell.

  Losing myself in the easy tilt of his lips, I almost forget why I came over to begin with. Nobody’s ever been that carefree around me. That uninhibited. Without warning, my body sways forward as if the cheery v
irus might be airborne and his happy vibes will infect me.

  Just then I realize he’s talking, snapping me back to reality with a huff as I step backward.

  “What was that?”

  “I said you must be our new neighbor girl.”

  Our?

  “Oh, uh, yeah. I just moved in across the hall. Your party is keeping me up. It’s really loud.” I tap my ear, demonstrating my point. Smooth. Real smooth.

  Instead of an apology, blondie opens the door wider beckoning me inside. Did he even hear me? At that exact moment a new song comes out of the expensive looking sound system in the corner, blaring loud and clear, right into my very awake and soon to be pissed off ears. No one, including my ridiculously tall neighbor, so much as offers to lower the volume, making me question my decision to barge over here at all.

  “I’m Beckett,” he says, then splashes random types of alcohol into a tall glass before eyeballing the mixture suspiciously. “I live here with my roommates.” With a thumb over his shoulder, he gestures to a guy on the balcony with a girl tapping on his chest to get his attention. It’s futile though because the only thing he sees is the fresh meat dangling in his doorway. Instinctively, I take another step back, taking me further into the hall. This move does nothing to break the intense staring contest though, so I browse my neighbor while he sizes me up. “That’s Marc.” Where Beckett is light and bubbly, Marc is dark and severe. Dark hair cut close to the scalp, dark eyes that penetrate anything, or anyone, they land on, dark skin hinting at a Hispanic heritage. Flame tattoos licking up his forearms match the lit cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth. The guy is fire and ice personified. Hot, just like his roommate, but in a completely different way. The way dry ice entices you to touch it even though you know damn well it’s dangerous. “And that one over there is Coty.” Beckett finally looks up from his shoddy cocktail, meeting my eye as he turns to point out his other roommate.

  Unsure who he’s talking about, I glance around the crowded dining table—a table that couldn’t even fit in my apartment—until a chill starting at the base of my spine spreads the rest of the way up my backbone ending at my hairline when my gaze collides with his. Coty. Or that’s who I’m guessing is Coty since the guy makes no move to introduce himself other than pinning me to the spot with his mocha swirl eyes alone. Yes, mocha fucking swirl. The swirl is important. Not to be confused with just regular mocha eyes, Coty’s are a deep chocolate color with a distinct swirl of mocha right through the middle making me crave a coffee creation containing both immensely, even though I’m pretty sure mocha already has chocolate in it. The longer his gaze stays on mine, the more everyone else fades away, including his talkative friend. Movement steals my attention as I watch his lips tilt into a devilish smirk. Even though I’m not very religious, I send up a forgive me Father for I’m about to sin so I’m covered. You know, just in case.

  With unkempt brown hair and a wicked curve of his mouth, this guy is the perfect mixture of his counterparts. He runs his gaze the length of my body, leaving behind that same pesky chill I’ve felt twice in his presence now, so I return the favor. Immediately tucking my cardigan tighter, my eyes take the long route roaming along my new neighbor, exploring every visible inch. He’s tall, not as tall as his boy, he’s dark, not as dark as his other boy, but damn if he’s not just as wildly attractive as both. Relaxed jeans hanging low on his hips, a shoulder thrown over the back of a chair next to him, making his shirt stretch tight against his well-built chest, I can honestly say I’ve never wanted to be a garment more in my life than I do admiring Coty’s gray V-neck. Who did I move in next to? A pack of male models?

  Beckett still talking next to me, raucous laughter around the table, hell, a nuclear bomb just outside couldn’t break the intense stare down Coty and I are having, but the word boyfriend tossed through the air goes off like a grenade silencing what feels like the entire complex.

  I tilt my head to Beckett, eyes narrowed.

  He lets out a small chuckle. “We should celebrate. Do you need to get your boyfriend? Or girlfriend maybe?” His wriggling eyebrows jostle his already slanted hat making me smile even as I’m reminded of Drew’s words. ‘You’re a young, pretty girl living all by herself. People might notice and try to take advantage of that.’

  The question, although presented as innocent, feels more like a probe. A probe for information I’m not ready to reveal. Not now. Maybe not ever. Before I can answer, the music drops in volume dramatically causing the party to erupt in protests. Coty stands at the system with his finger pressed to a button and his eyes locked on mine.

  A glimpse around the room proves all three painfully beautiful roommates are watching, listening, for my answer. I shake my head, looking back to Beckett. “I need to be up early for work. I’d appreciate it if you could keep it down.”

  “It’s Friday. When the fuck are we supposed to party?”

  Coty glances over to Marc but Marc doesn’t notice. His sharp gaze follows my throat as I try to swallow inconspicuously. Try and fail, as I half choke on the worthless saliva.

  Somehow during the stare off with Coty, I managed to step further into the apartment, bringing me into the heart of the lion’s den. If I show fear for even a second these animals could pounce, but I’ve got plenty of practice battling a beast.

  Steeling my spine, I cock an eyebrow at Marc mockingly. “Party whenever you want. I’m just asking you to turn the music down.” I nod my head outside. “Maybe keep the dogs on a tighter leash instead of out on the stairs where your neighbors can hear their sloppy ass mating calls all night.”

  I ignore Coty’s narrowed eyes as they shoot back my way. It’s not like I’m asking for much. I need this job and the opportunity it’s provided me so far—a chance to escape the mental prison of living under my mother’s roof. I’m not risking that over a stupid party. If they can’t shut up, I’ll shut them out, but I have to try. This isn’t some paranormal romance novel where buff guys howling at the moon is hot, this is real life and that shit’s plain annoying.

  I meet all three sets of eyes. Marc scoffs, going back to his entertainment still vying for his affection. Beckett’s grinning as if this is his entertainment for the night. And Coty…Coty hasn’t so much as blinked, watching me like the predator he must think he is. As much as I’ve been led to believe, I’m no prey, so I spin on my heel to leave then come to a stop when a dripping hand is thrust in my path.

  “What’d you say your name was again?”

  Beckett’s glossy gaze is about as syrupy sweet as his drink concoction. For someone as big as Beckett, he sure is a slippery little sucker. One I’ll have to keep my eye on. Hell, maybe both eyes.

  Coty still hasn’t restored the music to full volume as he takes in the scene from across the room. Next to a big brown leather couch, he rests against the edge like he’s got nowhere better to be. Nothing else to do besides wait for something as insignificant as my name. When he winks, it takes everything in my power to keep my feet from moving forward. From going straight to him. That little tug at my restraint shows me exactly how I got inside in the first place. I may not be an easy target, but Coty’s showing part of his arsenal whether he knows it or not. I can only hope that stupid wink is the only flex he’s got. But I have one of my own, so dropping my eyes down his casual stance, I bring them back up making sure to meet his gaze before smirking and looking away altogether. The clench of his fists doesn’t go unnoticed. By anyone.

  With a step around Beckett’s proffered hand, I say, “I didn’t,” before returning to my apartment without so much as a backward glance.

  Just as my door’s closing, I hear an amused laugh as Beckett calls out, “Oh, this is gonna be fun, boys.”

  Once in bed, I roll to my side, watching lights dance through the open windows then grimace as the music jumps back up to full volume.

  Damn it.

  The howls also start up with a gusto causing me to cover my ear with a pillow.

  Too bad i
t can’t hide the smile splitting my face, too.

  * * *

  The next day I’m exiting my Jeep when I hear a car door slam behind me. Peeking over, I notice Beckett walking from a hunter green Tahoe with tinted ass windows and bigger than life rims. He’s wearing a holey tank that says Ride Hard Or Go Home with a grin stretched from ear to ear. He’s dirty and sweaty in what look like mechanic’s pants, but still just as adorable. His dirty blond hair is sticking out like a frenzied free for all like he just took his hat off and the strands don’t know how to behave.

  Just like Beckett, I smirk to myself.

  “Hey, neighbor girl.”

  I flip my hand in greeting before gingerly tossing my backpack over a shoulder. The sun was brutal today even with the copious amount of sunscreen I slathered on my skin. Hot Spots gives t-shirts to all their employees but there’s just no way a shirt with sleeves will cut it when you’re using your arms all day in the scorching heat. Most of the employees take advantage of the laidback management by altering their uniform to reveal more skin. Tighter, shorter, you name it, they’ve done it. I only cut the sleeves along with the arm pits out of mine so I can work without getting a rash in the process. We all have our own personalities, theirs are just a little more revealing than mine.

  A sleek black Camaro pulls into the space next to Beckett’s Tahoe. Marc emerges from the passenger seat the next instant with “Heathens” by one of my favorite bands following close on his heels before closing the door behind him and cutting the song short. His black tank, showing off his tattoo sleeves and chest, paired with dark green shorts are a little cleaner than Beckett’s but still show a hard day’s work with random stains. With a New York baseball hat perched gingerly atop his buzzed haircut and his caramel complexion, he looks like the kind of guy you’d let run over your foot as long as he’ll talk to you while you bleed out. Unfortunately, his pissed off expression suggests he’d let you.