Marley takes it all in stride while my anxiety has skyrocketed by the time we’re done browsing aisle one. I just follow her lead, scanning the shelves for anything appealing. Every so often, she’ll grab something and throw it in the cart. Meanwhile, I’m too concerned with not tripping over the mess to pay attention.
After we’ve made our way down every aisle—and only then—does Marley allow us to head to the dressing rooms. Surprisingly, this area of the store is quieter and I relax a bit as Marley unloads a pile of costumes into my room.
“Try each one on and show me,” she instructs before pulling the curtain closed between the two of us.
Alone, in the solitude of the cramped dressing room and full length mirror, I take a deep breath and blow it out. There are at least six costumes to try on and I know better than to just pick one and go. Not only will Marley insist on this little fashion show to satisfy her love of movie montage scenes, but I want to look good for Lane. I want to make sure he sees me—and not just because I’m naked.
I go through French maid, sexy police officer and school girl, while Marley rates them each on a scale of 1 to 5. As I wiggle into the faux leather skirt and zip up vest of the biker babe, I immediately feel empowered. My mind drifts to The Skulls, the bad boys of Alaina Taylor’s motorcycle gang series. I trace my silhouette in the mirror, imagining hopping onto the back of a bike with Nelson—the leader of The Skulls. I picture his protective arms around me, his tattoos and leather jacket, the chain that hangs from his belt. My reflection smiles back at me and I know I’ve found a winner.
As soon as I pull the curtain back, “Five!” Marley shouts. “I’ve got some fishnets and hooker boots that will be perfect with that. We’ll grab a few temporary tattoos and make you the baddest badass of the night. Oh god, that neighbor of yours is going to be like putty in your hands. Honestly, I’m barely holding myself back as it is.”
I bounce on my toes and give her a grin. “What about you?” I ask. She holds up a bag containing a costume for an overweight lunch lady, complete with hairnet and a food-stained apron. “I thought you said this is the one day a year where we can dress slutty without judgement?”
“Ha,” she laughs. “I do that every day of the year. Pink hair, don’t care. I figure for Halloween, I’ll go funny. I wouldn’t want to distract from you anyway. You know how I hate being the center of attention.” For six seconds she keeps a straight face before bursting into a fit of giggles.
“You are ridiculous.”
“You love me and you know it,” she says. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you’re into this. You keep surprising me, Stella.”
I spin and face the mirror before turning back toward Marley. “It’s easy. I’m just picturing myself as the main character in one of my favorite motorcycle gang books. It’s easy to get on board when I think about all those hot guys and hot rides—all that power vibrating between your legs while holding on to your man. Whew!” I fan a hand in front of my face.
Marley throws both hands in the air. “Stella, darling. I’ve got enough vibrating power in my nightstand to trigger the Richter scale on a good night. You have got to forget about your books and focus on real life. You’ll never get what you want if you try to make men live up to those expectations. Just the covers are enough to keep me away. I’m not opposed to the shirtless men and washboard abs, but the hair blowing in the wind, the heaving bosoms, the woman’s clothes being ripped away… it’s all a bit fairytale and in dire need of a lesson on consent. Believe me, I’ve been through a lot of guys and no one has all the qualities to make it into one of your absurd books.”
Propping my hands on my hips, I level her with a look that keeps her quiet. “First of all, the covers you’re referring to are what my grandmother used to read. While there is still a market for those books and I would never shame anyone for reading what they like—that’s not what I read. Romance novels today are…refreshing, hot, modern day love with realistic characters.”
“Realistic characters? How many horny, good-looking billionaires can there be in the world? And are they all looking for a plain Jane waitress with a heart of gold? Realistic is a moderately employed man with a bit of a beer gut whose best line is ‘I'm new in town. Could you give me directions to your apartment?’”
I roll my eyes. “There’s so much more out there. You just haven’t looked. I’ll get you to read at least one of these books and then you’ll be hooked. You’ll see. Even if I have to tie you down and force you to read.”
She stands and urges me back into the dressing room. “You say the kinkiest things, love. Now get in there and take that off before I have my way with you on top of the balloon counter.”
8
I PUT THE second large hoop earring in and swing my head back and forth to see how they look. My thick-lined eyes and long lashes compliment the pop of red lipstick on my mouth. Marley has styled my hair in a cute pinup style, complete with a red bandana headband to hold it all together. My red lacy bra barely shows under the pseudo leather vest—the zipper lowered just enough to show some cleavage. I’ve got fishnets on under the skirt that is so tight and so short it could be considered a form of bondage. Marley’s boots cover most of my legs, ending right above the knee. And the three-inch heels give my ass a nice lift.
“I’m going to freeze in this outfit. Do I look ridiculous?” I ask, running my hands down the front of my vest.
Marley emerges from my bathroom in her costume and laughter bursts out of me. “You’re supposed to look ridiculous, love. It’s Halloween,” she answers.
“Well, I’d say we’re both in good shape then. Seeing all that pink hair confined to a hairnet is amazing.”
“Oh, shut it,” she says, leaning against my bed with her overstuffed bum. “You look edible. If anyone besides Lane tries to get in on that, let me know. I’ll be your cockblocker tonight.”
“In that costume, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble.”
She points a finger at me with one hand while adjusting her fake butt with the other. “Hey, this shit is funny. I’m your winglady. I’m the Goose to your Maverick.”
I spin to face her and prop my hands on my hips. “I didn’t think you were old enough for ‘Top Gun’ references.”
“What can I say? I’ve got a thing for young Tom Cruise—pre-Scientology, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree.
_______________
Five minutes later, we are standing on Lane’s porch. My pulse beats in time with the thump, thump, thump bass rhythm of the music inside. The door is propped open, a welcome sign for guests, and yet I don’t move.
“What are you waiting for?” Marley asks.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. These boots are making my legs sweat and I’ve lost all feeling in my little toe. Everything is so tight and you can see my bra in public. My momma would just die.” I look down at my costume and run my fingers over the temporary tattoos littering my arms. I tell my feet to move, but they seem to be glued to the floorboards. Marley is not having it.
She steps around me, grabs my hand and pulls me inside. I love my house, but this place is spectacular. It’s got all the old charm of my home with all the modern amenities—like recessed lighting and granite countertops. The floorplan is open and spacious, allowing us to get a good view of the crowd before we enter the room. Familiar art prints hang on the walls, mixed in with what I assume are a few local pieces. Two cream-colored oversized sofas center the room, a beautiful textured rug beneath them.
Minimal Halloween decorations are scattered throughout the space, mostly pumpkins, fake gravestones and lots of candles. With the overhead lights turned low, the candlelight gives a warm, glowing movement to the room.
There are small groups gathered around—zombie couples, a sparkling vampire, cheerleaders, and even a slutty nurse. I wring my hands together before tugging at the hem of my skirt.
“Look at that,” Marley stage whispers. “Everyone is in costume. Oh, check out t
hat guy dressed as Joe Biden. I love it!”
“I think that’s supposed to be Anderson Cooper.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. He’s a silver fox.”
I scan the room for Lane, but don’t find his familiar face among the guests. Still, I follow Marley in and smile as she wedges us in and introduces herself to the first group we encounter. “And this lovely dime piece right here is my mate, Stella. Say hello, Stella.”
Blushing, I give the group a shy wave. “Hi. I live next door,” I blurt out, not knowing what else to say. The guy dressed as Clark Kent with an open shirt and the Superman emblem underneath is definitely checking me out. His eyes rake down my body and snap back to my face.
He grins and tips his drink in my direction. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Stella. I’m Tate. I’m just across the street from you. If you ever need anything, I—”
“Nope,” Marley says, shaking her head and moving herself to stand between Tate and I. His jaw drops and I want to laugh at the stunned expression on his face. “Just going to cut this off right now.”
Everyone else introduces themselves, but I don’t hear a word of it, because I finally spot Lane across the room. All I can see is his profile, but my pulse races at the sight. As if he feels my presence, he turns and finds me. Our eyes hold each other as a smile curls up the left side of his mouth. A guy dressed as The Joker is talking to Lane, the whole time his gaze burns into mine. Lane nods and even sips his beer, but never looks away. The attention he’s giving me is warm, melted wax poured over my skin, sliding down every surface and pooling at my feet.
When I can’t take it anymore, I glance to the ground, but knowing he’s still there—waiting, watching—makes me look up again. And I am not disappointed. Lane runs a hand through his hair as he chews on his bottom lip. He looks like I feel, ready to pounce.
“Excuse me,” I say to the group. My boots carry me across the room, ignoring everyone and everything between us. That is, until a short little furball in a leather vest runs across my feet. I laugh and watch Chap trot through the room. His costume says “Bad to the Bone” with a skull and crossbones on top.
“Stella.” Lane’s voice cuts through the white noise when we meet near the bar. He is dressed in a leather vest, white t-shirt and jeans, metal chains and boots. His hair is slicked back and one arm is a colorful sleeve of tattoos. My eyes get stuck on the vibrant ink spilling over each curve and dip of muscle. “I’m so glad you could come tonight.”
“Well, not yet, but I believe the night’s still young,” Marley mutters. I choke on my saliva. If Lane hears her remark, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
“We match,” I say, waving a hand between the two of us. “You are stalking me. I knew it.”
Lane’s smirk grows into a full smile. “I’ll admit nothing,” he says. “You look… wow.”
“You too,” I say, my stupid hands tugging at the skirt again. “Are your tattoos real?”
Lane looks down at his arm, flexing and turning it over so we can see all of the design. “Yeah. Been working on it for a while now. Eleven hours of work so far, about four more until it’s finished.”
Without thinking, my hand shoots out and my fingertips drag down his forearm over reds and blues and thick black lines. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “And not something I’d ever expect to see on a banker.”
“Yes, well, working from home has its advantages. And when I do have meetings, I’m always in a suit. All buttoned up with no one knowing what lurks beneath.” Lane’s expression is devious and sends a throbbing kind of need throughout my body. Now I’m picturing him in a suit and am barely able to stay focused on our conversation.
We glance back and forth between the three of us until it feels awkward and Marley has cleared her throat twice. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it then. Gotta work the room. See if anyone here needs a real estate agent or is willing to shag a lady in a hair net.”
Lane chuckles as Marley heads for another group of guests. I can’t help but laugh too as I watch her stuffed butt shuffle back and forth, moving independently from the rest of her body. She wedges herself between a scary clown and a pirate, and inserts herself right into their conversation.
“She’s colorful,” Lane finally says. My head whips back to him and I am struck by how gorgeous he is all over again. There’s a fake scar drawn down his left cheek and it reminds me of Nelson from The Skulls. A current shoots through my body and settles in my barely-existent panties at the thought of Lane on a motorcycle, purring sexy words into my ear as we fly down the highway. I force myself back into the real world and the very real man standing before me.
“That’s a good word for her,” I agree. The two-day scruff covering his jaw makes me imagine the feel of it in my most delicate areas. Just as I’m wondering if you can get brush burn between your thighs, Lane holds out his hand.
“Can I get you a drink and show you around?” I nod and slide my palm against his.
After a visit to the bar, I’ve got a glass of wine and he’s grabbed a beer. He plucks a leather jacket from a hook on the wall and pulls me through a set of open french doors. There are a few people chatting outside, some lounging in the comfy looking patio furniture while Fred and Velma from Scooby Doo sit on the wooden steps leading down to the dock. Torches light up the space and cobwebs stretch along the fence. Chap shoots past us, down the steps, and barks at one of the flickering shadows in the grass.
“Chap! Quiet, boy.”
The dog runs to us and rolls over, exposing his white belly. As dangerous as it may be in this costume, I can’t resist him. I squat down, keeping my knees together, because I am a damn lady, and give him the belly rub he’s looking for.
“So, you’re a biker dog, huh?” I ask him, scratching under his chin. His short little legs fold over and hang limply as he enjoys the attention. As soon as I stand, Chap flips over and takes off in search of the next person willing to play.
“This is the backyard. About the same as yours,” he says. “Nothing much to it, but the deck and firepit. My boat is stored next to the dock.” A shiver runs down my body and I lean into his side. “Are you okay?”
“Freezing,” I answer. “Too much cold and not enough costume.”
“You want to head back inside or over to the fire pit?” I notice the fire is free of other guests and motion to it. Lane guides me down the steps, making sure I’ve got my footing. Just when I’m thinking about how sweet he is, we step into the yard and my heels sink into the grass.
“Shit,” I say. Lane keeps moving, but when I don’t follow he stops and turns. “I’m stuck. My heels are literally stuck in the ground.” I try to yank my foot free, but it doesn’t budge. I slap a hand to my forehead before dragging it down my face in mortification.
He laughs, his smile momentarily making me forget my embarrassment. “Let me help.”
I close my eyes as he sets his beer on the ground and wraps two hands around one of my ankles. “Another rescue,” I say with a sigh, gripping my glass a little tighter to keep from spilling. “Maybe I am a damsel in distress.”
Lane pulls my foot free and I shift my weight to that leg, balancing on the toe of these boots made by Satan. He frees my second foot with a tug. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m always around for a rescue, huh?” As he stands, Lane runs his hands up my legs, pulling away right before he reaches my fishnets. I curse these boots again for being so tall.
I tiptoe over to the fire. He grabs his beer and takes a seat on one of the benches, pulling me down next to him.
“This may be the only quiet place at this party,” I say. Lane nods, half his face lit orange from the flames. I sip my wine and set it down next to me so I can cross my arms to keep warm. “Beyond quick rescues and smalltalk, we really haven’t had a chance to chat. So tell me all about yourself.”
He looks into my eyes and lifts one eyebrow higher than the other. “There’s not much to tell. I’m in banking, international investments and such. I keep strange hours. I ha
ve a dog and a boat and the hottest new neighbor who keeps teasing me with an insane amount of nudity.”
I look down to our joined hands resting on my lap, my face heating from the fire and his words. “Way to keep things vague, Mystery Man.”
“I’m not a mystery. Just a simple man trying to live his best life. Besides, I don’t know much about you either. But I know I want to know more. Like, where are you from? Do you like chocolate? What’s your favorite song? If you could meet any famous dead person, who would it be?”
I smile at the flickering flames a few feet away. “Savannah, Georgia. I like chocolate, but not necessarily chocolate cake or ice cream. Free Falling by Tom Petty. And Emily Brontë.”
“Well, that was easy. Does that mean you’ll answer anything I ask?”
I shake my head. “Lane, I don’t know if this is innocent flirting, or what you’re looking for, but my past is…complicated. And I’m not sure I can jump into anything serious. Hell, I’ve only ever been with one man my entire life.” I suck in a breath and press my lips together, not exactly meaning to say that out loud.
His eyes go wide and he fakes a cough to cover his gasp. “Your past is your past,” he says, using two fingers to lift my chin. Our eyes connect again. “Let’s abandon the serious talk and just have fun tonight.”
“Yeah. Fun.” I cross my legs and then uncross them, wiggling on the bench. “Well, as much fun as you can have with a thong sawing your ass in half.” Lane grins and I can almost see the thoughts playing out in his head. “Sorry. Marley keeps talking me into ‘trying new experiences’,” I say using air quotes, “and they don’t always work out.”
“Well, lesson learned, right? No thongs for Stella.”
“Lesson learned, indeed. But I know to at least wear something. My last social outing taught me that. Even if it’s a torture device, I will always have on underwear in public.”
Changing Lanes Page 8