Relay (Changing Lanes Book 1)

by Layla Reyne

  “Check your texts.” Hooking the sunglasses in his collar, Alex waited as Dane read his message.

  Stormy eyes shot from the screen to his. “For real?”

  “For real, when I sent that message two minutes ago, but smoking up, Dane . . .” Alex inhaled, recharging to rant, then reconsidered and checked his temper. That Dane had been willing to sacrifice his career for a time-out from reality meant he was farther off the rails than Alex feared. And haranguing him more wasn’t going to help.

  Sighing, Alex leaned a shoulder against the wall beside Dane’s. “Look. I—we—fucked up. We let all the shit between us boil over, and we sidelined Mo. We can’t keep going at each other like this, or it’s going to cost too much. Teammates, medals, careers, reputations. And after what happened at the press conference today, and what I overheard—”

  “What you overhead?”

  “You standing up to your parents.”

  Teeth sinking into his lower lip, Dane hung his head, and Alex couldn’t tell if he was hiding a smile or an impending breakdown.

  Alex reached a hand out, clasping Dane’s shoulder. “You’ve got enough battles without me leading another against you.” Alex squeezed, then dropped his hand. “Not a good trait in a team captain.”

  Dane’s conflicted eyes flickered up to him, then away again. “I started it, years ago.”

  “Yeah, you did.” Alex fell the rest of the way back against the wall, matching Dane’s slouched posture. He breathed deep and let the bottled-up hurt and indignation go on a giant exhale. “But we’re grown-ups now. Fucking Olympians. And you’re the best freestyler in the world. I was a fool for not putting you on medley relay to begin with, when you’re our best shot at gold. This is about more than you and me and what happened when we were kids.”

  “Kids.” The resignation belying Dane’s single word tore at Alex’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

  Alex lolled his head to the side, staring at Dane’s beleaguered profile. “Were you really to blame?”

  “I didn’t stand up to them when I should have, so yes.”

  “Then thank you, for the apology and for standing up to them today.”

  “What you said yesterday about pretending . . .” Dane’s gulp was audible. “I couldn’t just sit there, pretending, at the press conference while you and Bas were so real.”

  “We’re not perfect.”

  “No, but you’re you, real. Sitting next to you, how could anyone not see right through me?”

  “Because you’re a damn good actor. You’re just off the script now.”

  Dane chuckled, the sound kind of sad, also kind of relieved. “Shitty first act, almost destroying everything for a high.” He glanced up, obviously chastened but seeming to climb out of his funk. “Thank you, for saving me just now. I know that was stupid.”

  “You had a bad day.”

  The swirling gray in Dane’s eyes parted, making way for clear bright blue. “We’ve had a bad day.”

  Alex contemplated asking Dane more about the argument with his parents, but he didn’t want the storm clouds to converge again. His gaze drifted past Dane to the colorful umbrellas on the other side of the river. A little color in their evening, in Dane’s cheeks, would be a good thing. “Pot might not be allowed, but you know what is?” He brought his eyes back to Dane’s. “A drink. We do have the day off tomorrow.”

  With minimal arm twisting, Dane followed him over the bridge to the restaurant. The outside tables were full, but two stools were open at the end of the bar. They were nearing the bottom of a tequila-laced pitcher, Dane relaxed and talking animatedly now from under his hoodie about their prospects and competition in Madrid, when Alex’s phone vibrated on the bar top for the umpteenth time.

  “Probably Coach,” Dane said. “Wondering where we are.”

  Alex was loath to interrupt their reprieve, but Dane was right. They needed to check in. He flipped the phone over, a picture of Bas staring up at him. “Not Coach, but close.”

  “Go,” Dane said. “I’ll settle the tab.”

  Alex slid off his stool and out the glass entry doors, phone vibrating in his hand again. “Bas,” he answered. “I’m sorry, I was—”

  “Just tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “And Dane?”

  “He’s okay too, better even.”

  “His parents are hella angry. They were ready to send out the National Guard, but Coach and Roger talked them down.”

  “He just needed some air. We both did.”

  “I hear that.” Bas’s words were nearly drowned out by a familiar buzzing in the background.

  “Are you in a tattoo parlor?”

  “I needed some air too.”

  Ink-stained air.

  Fuck, if it wasn’t one of his teammates, it was another. Escape seemed to be on everyone’s agenda this evening, whether or not it was smart. And Alex had thought Bas past making ill-timed decisions, having learned his lesson at the last Olympics. “Do you think now’s the best time for new ink?”

  “I’m the one doing the inking.”

  Alex covered his face with his hand, as if the futile motion could block out the answer he already knew. “On who?”

  “The pup.”

  Yep, reality-hand-block did not work. He groaned into his palm, cursing adulthood and being the responsible one. “Same question. Do you really think now’s the time?”

  “Jacob’ll be fine,” Bas said. “His head’ll hurt worse from the liquor.”

  Alex dropped his arm, letting it flop at his side. “You do know he’s underage, right?”

  “He’s over eighteen.”

  “Not for the tattoo, Stewart. The booze.”

  “He showed me an ID that said he was twenty-one.”

  Because like many a student at schools with decent party scenes, the rising junior Longhorn had a fake ID. Alex rolled his eyes even though Bas wasn’t there to see it. “I thought you couldn’t swim with a new tattoo.”

  “I’ve got some watertight bandages. I’ll touch it up, if needed.”

  Well, that was one problem solved, kind of. The other, though . . . “You’re explaining the hangover to Coach.”

  “If he’s even around tomorrow.”

  “Bas, after—”

  “Not gonna fuck up this time, Cap.”

  Before Alex could reply, a commotion broke out behind him. Dane’s hoodie had fallen back as he exited the restaurant and the fans were swarming.

  “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” Bas asked.

  “Big Red’s drawing a crowd.”

  “If I were you, I’d grab a bit more air before coming back here. Wait until his parents and publicist are gone for the night.”

  “Roger that,” Alex said. “Take care of the pup.”

  “Take care of you and Big Red.” Alex could hear the smile in his best friend’s voice and promptly hung up on him. Eyes on Dane, Alex watched as his teammate graciously signed autographs but declined to be in any selfies. He still had some wits about him. “Time to roll?” he asked once Dane fought his way free and over to him.

  “Back to the hotel?” Dane sounded as thrilled with that prospect as Alex.

  Alex shook his head. Bas’s advice to stay away had sparked an idea that, once formed, couldn’t be put out. More air would do them both good, would stoke that spark to life. “Do you really want to go back there?”

  “No, but this hoodie is too damn hot.” Dane yanked at the collar. “And this hair—” he waved at his bright mop “—is too damn red.”

  Alex grinned. “I can fix that.”

  Fuck the script.

  At least Dane had accomplished that goal today.

  Press conference, botched.

  Parents, pitchfork angry.

  Backbone, found, sort of.

  First Olympics, almost jeopardized.

  Only to be saved by the guy who’d made the past ten days a living hell.

  The guy he still
desired.

  The guy whose sexy grin ensured Dane would follow him anywhere.

  Including to the outside of a darkened Goodwill store. Dane guessed he was about to veer even further off the script. “It’s closed,” he said.

  Alex slid his sunglasses back on and adjusted his cap, tucking under the ends of his dark curls. “That’s what I was counting on.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Make sure that hoodie’s up good.” He skulked down the side alley between buildings, and Dane, after zipping up the stifling hoodie and yanking it down over his forehead, shadowing his face, followed cautiously.

  They cleared the back corner, and Alex pumped his fist. “Score!” He dashed over to the mound of bags by the rear exit door.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “They’re not supposed to, but people leave donation bags after hours.” Kneeling, he rifled through a grocery bag brimming over with clothes, tossing items aside at Dane’s feet. “This is how we got the best stuff as kids.”

  The remembered fondness in Alex’s voice chilled Dane’s blood. Had those five outfits he’d worn at camp been donation finds like this? The “best stuff” in Alex’s wardrobe? Dane had realized quickly that summer—by Alex’s single beat-up duffle, his lack of electronics, and the way he’d counted every penny—that Alex came from a different world than him. Dane had been too focused on living in the moment, too caught up in the attraction like no other, that he hadn’t scratched beneath the surface. Hadn’t wanted to because then it would have been real. And reality was the last thing he’d wanted that summer.

  Things had just gotten very real.

  Mo had been right. Life had been more unfair to Alex, and Dane had been the one whining. Like a privileged ass. Alex hadn’t made his life a living hell—Dane had done that just fine on his own. And he’d made Alex’s life hell too, if he were being honest. He hung his head, a more sincere apology than the one earlier on his lips.

  Alex cut it off with a slap to his shin. “Don’t just stand there.”

  “Is this legal?”

  “Probably not, but we always left behind what we could, be it our clothes or money. We didn’t steal anything. We just wanted first dibs.”

  Dane hid his self-reproach behind a cough and knelt, digging out his wallet and withdrawing a fifty. “This cover it?”

  “More than.” Alex smiled wide, and Dane’s fingers itched to touch its corners, to trace and part those full curved lips. That smile made his stomach flip now as much as it had when he’d spotted it across the pool the first day of camp.

  That smile was his ruin and his salvation.

  An elbow jostled him out of his daze. “Dig in,” Alex said.

  Dane patted the sides of a black trash bag—felt like clothes—and pulled it toward him, untying the orange plastic strings. “What am I looking for?”

  “The last thing anyone would expect you to wear.”

  “To where?”

  “A club.”

  Dane froze. “We’re going dancing?”

  Alex’s eyes cut to his, mischief kicked up a notch, along with one corner of his mouth in a devastating smirk. “I know you can.”

  “Barely.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lead.”

  Countless nights they’d danced together in the dark, in the narrow space between their dorm room beds. Bodies close, lips brushing, hearts beating as one. “But we never went out?”

  “You never told your parents ‘no’ before today either.” Alex held his gaze, challenging him to take that next step. Would he risk being seen, risk the pointy end of his parents’ pitchforks, for a chance to have Alex’s body close again? A chance to maybe touch, to maybe taste those lips again . . .

  Fuck yeah.

  He ripped open the first bag to Alex’s deep, throaty laughter. Another gift on this strange day. After pawing through a layer of baby clothes, he unearthed a pair of dark jeans and a navy button-down. “How’s this?” he said, holding it up for Alex’s inspection.

  “Ay dios, you’re hopeless.” Alex swatted the clothes out of his hand and shoved a different bundle at him. “More like this.”

  Dane unfurled the fabric—a stretchy black top that might as well have been mesh for how see-through it was and jeans that looked like they’d had a run-in with an angry lawn mower. “I’m not wearing this.”

  “I know. I am.”

  Dane muffled a strangled gasp, imagining Alex in that top. Before his body ran away with his mind, a gray cowboy hat landed in his lap.

  “You’re wearing that for sure. It’ll cover up the red.”

  Dane trailed his fingers along the wide felt brim. When in Rome, or rather Texas . . . He searched deeper in his bag, finding another button-down. This one chambray, with Western-style stitching and scuffed pearl snap buttons.

  “Now you’ve got it,” Alex said, grinning. “This’ll go with.” He tossed him a white ribbed tank top and retied his bag. “Grab the dark jeans and we’re set.”

  Bags repositioned, Dane slipped the fifty into the donation box while Alex tapped at his phone. “We gonna change at the club?” he asked.

  “Nope, at the next stop.”

  Which turned out to be a Walgreens down the street. Dane spotted the Restrooms sign in the back-right corner and made it two steps that direction before Alex bumped his hip with a plastic shopping basket. “Supplies first.”

  In the hair aisle, Alex grabbed a bottle of styling gel, then one row over, a foundation compact and tube of eyeliner. Dane balked. “I’m not wearing makeup.”

  “One, you’re already wearing makeup from the presser, because I know you’re sunburned. Two, do you want a night out where no one bothers you?” Dane couldn’t argue either, and Alex dropped the items into the basket. “That’s what I thought.” He disappeared around the row-end, then returned with a bottle of Febreze. “Here,” he said, handing Dane the freshener and clothes. “Go to the bathroom, spray down the clothes, and get changed. I need to grab a few other things and pay.”

  Dane brandished the bottle of Febreze. “Don’t you need to pay for this?”

  “I’ll tell the cashier. Go.” Alex hustled away, and Dane, afraid of what “a few other things” might include, opted for ignorant bliss a while longer.

  In the restroom, he tossed his cowboy hat on the purse hanger in the one toilet stall and hung the clothes over the metal stall sides, going to town on them with the spray, thinking the entire time that this night out plan was increasingly insane. The prospect of dancing with Alex again sent heat purling through his belly, but doubts and anxiety worked on his nerves and weakened his legs. How was he supposed to handle any of this?

  “It’s just a dance club.” He yanked his outfit down, held each piece under the dryer a few seconds, and continued to coach himself as he changed. “Find a girl who isn’t too drunk, dance a safe distance apart, keep your hat on and head down.” He could do that . . . If he ignored Alex dancing.

  Not likely.

  The memories he’d brushed aside earlier came roaring back.

  Music had coursed through Alex’s then-rangy body, his long legs, narrow hips, and firm ass moving perfectly in time with whatever tune they’d played or whatever song Dane had hummed in his ear. Smooth and seductive, dancing as natural as swimming for Alex.

  Not for Dane. White boy head-bob, that was about all he could manage on his own. Years of cotillion classes were wasted on him. He’d been awkward, offbeat, and murderous on his partner’s toes. Until Alex moved behind him, pressed his front to Dane’s back, and splayed his fingers across his hip bones. Leading. Something Dane had been expected to do when dancing with girls. With Alex, though, Dane hadn’t had to worry about that. All he’d had to do was lean back and give his body over to the hard one behind him. Following. Something he’d been as eager to do horizontally.

  His first taste of freedom.

  His last.

  It’d take an act of God, or a very firm grip on the nearest piece of furni
ture, to keep Dane from reaching for that freedom again tonight. From reaching for Alex. He’d already gone too far today. Maybe he should buy some rope and tie himself in place. “Because that wouldn’t look weird or anything,” he muttered.

  “What wouldn’t look weird?”

  The door whooshed closed at the end of Alex’s question, and the flip of the lock ramped up Dane’s nerves. “Nothing,” he said, fumbling the buttons of the shirt.

  “How’s it going in there?”

  Dane opened the stall door, eyes downcast as he tried to straighten out his shirt. “There are a lot of snaps.”

  Alex inhaled sharply, and before Dane could wrap his head around that sound, around the blush streaking those high cheekbones, Alex had already moved on. To standing right in front of him. “You’re supposed to leave the shirt open.”

  Dane lifted his hands, and Alex batted them away. He grabbed the uneven shirttails and ripped the buttons apart, the staccato snaps mirroring Dane’s stuttering heartbeat. Alex’s grip on the chambray lingered, as did his presence in Dane’s space, and with each heaving breath, each whiff of cologne tinged with chlorine, a pore-deep scent no swimmer could shake, Dane’s paper-thin resolve shredded.

  He started to reach for what—who—he wanted, then Alex stepped away, rotating and digging into the plastic shopping bag in the sink. He returned with a pair of scissors and a razor, shoving them into Dane’s hand. “Cut off the sleeves, then shave. There’s gel in the bag.”

  Dane rubbed his other hand over his jaw. Hipster cut notwithstanding, he kind of liked his scruff. His parents never tolerated it at home.

  “Coach is gonna make you lose it before Madrid,” Alex said, as if reading his thoughts. “And it’s a fucking beacon.”

  No denying that. Between his beard or his smile, Dane couldn’t say which would attract more attention in his current state.

  “My outfit?” Alex said.

  “In the stall.”

  “Thanks.” Alex brushed past, shoulders grazing, and Dane fought back an excited shiver, stopping his curling fist just before the razor sliced his palm. Moving to the sink, he shrugged out of the shirt and took the scissors to the sleeves. “What did Bas say on the phone?”

  “Just checking in. He suggested we stay out a while longer to let the dust settle.” Alex’s dress pants appeared over the door. “He couldn’t talk long. He was too busy inking the pup.”