Changing Lanes: A Creekwood Novel (Creekwood Series Book 2)

by A. Marie

  I just wish he’d take his sideshow somewhere else. Somewhere I can’t see it.

  Several songs later though and I’m back to being alone. Alone in a crowd of thousands. This time I don’t let the loneliness creep back in. Instead I welcome the freedom to move without limitations, to speak a language nobody else can decipher using only my mind and body. The two work in perfect harmony until everything else is blocked out and it’s just me and the music and the music and me.

  An up-and-coming rapper named, Julez, takes the stage along with the well-known pop singer, Collette. He’s playing a guitar and belting lyrics while she croons into their shared mic. Their chemistry is palpable even from here and if they’re not sleeping together already, they should be. I can’t take my eyes off them and neither can Cynthia and Angela. Not until an arm snakes around Angela’s exposed midriff. She’s rocking a strappy halter top, a cut off skirt, and Continentals—the girl has a different pair of shoes every time I see her—but my eyebrows nosedive when the guy’s face comes into view.

  Soon Angela realizes it’s not her man dancing so intimately with her and tries to throw the unfamiliar arm off but to no avail as it only tightens that much more.

  With my arms in the air, winding above my head, I start to lower them when they’re suddenly captured by two unrecognizable hands and held in place as I’m yanked back into an unyielding chest.

  Hot breath trickles out like air in a deflating balloon on my neck. “Chill, babe. They’ll be gentle.”

  Cynthia, in high-waisted pants, a short tube top, and Converse, tries to move closer to help out but is stopped when a guy steps in front of her. Her wide eyes fly to mine as she’s guided backward, away from our trio.

  What’s happening? Divide and conquer? Survival of the fittest? Is that really a method for getting girls? We’re not cattle.

  Cracked lips that make my skin crawl touch my ear, whispering, “I can’t say the same for me though.”

  Yeah, we’re done here.

  “Neither can I.”

  Just as teeth clamp down on the shell of my ear, I shove my ass as hard as I can into the disgusting groin plastered to my backside, freeing my hands in the same instant but nicking my ear in the process.

  Worth it.

  Swinging around, my elbow lances the side of his face making him sink to the ground.

  “Rough enough for you?” I taunt as he tries to cradle his cheek and balls at the same time.

  Angela, eyes locked on mine, jerks her head back, nailing the guy behind her square in the nose.

  With a howl and some colorful words, he releases her, dropping to his knees all while blood rushes down his face. She winces briefly but it’s hard to tell if it’s from the headbutt or if his hold was that painful.

  What assholes.

  Luckily, she’s able to shake it off and we turn together to see the tips of Cynthia’s nails digging into the broad shoulders blocking the rest of her from view. As one, we surge forward only to be cut off by three menacing figures, one taller than the rest.

  Only using one hand, Marc grips Cynthia’s aggressor by the throat, tearing him away and tossing him like he weighs nothing. All three shout obscenities from the ground but what do they have to complain about? We’re the ones being felt up without consent.

  Yeah, my body’s a wonderland but for who I choose to give a ride to. And when. That’s the clause some people skip over in their haste to get past the gates. One ticket doesn’t equal an entire wristband. Each one is earned. Every single time. Nobody gets unlimited free rides.

  Cynthia manages to keep her shit together long enough to stand alongside us in a unified front and looking both girls over, I know we’re all thinking the same thing.

  Knocking Angela’s attacker to his back, Coty mashes the toe of his boot against the guy’s throat while his friends squirm in abrupt silence beside him. Marc hovers like a drone with a low battery, just waiting to fucking drop, and the hulk formerly known as Beckett towers over the guy still cradling his nuts.

  Nobody says a word as the music plays on, the tempo building like the sexual tension coming from the stage. Other concert goers look over, trying to catch a piece of the action but none dare to interrupt.

  The three men standing over the three pieces of shit currently contaminating the grass are fuming with barely contained rage but honestly, it’s getting kind of ridiculous. This isn’t the 1800s and we’re not damsels in distress. We handled it. Well, we would’ve if it weren’t for Coty and my roommates stepping in like superheroes straight out of boot camp—all pomp and no follow-through.

  Cruz appears out of nowhere to join us and Cynthia turns into his shoulder, accepting the support he’s offering in his own way. Not the other shitheads though. Nope. They’d rather plunder ahead in their testosterone-soaked mission than check to see if we’re actually okay. As much as I appreciate their protection, this whole thing appears to be more about them than us.

  “Thanks for your help but we got it.” I nod at Angela rubbing the back of her head as she watches the scene unfold through narrowed eyes. Cynthia lifts hers in agreement and even though I know all she wants to do is collapse into herself right now, I respect her for trying, for putting on a tough air when it’s taking everything out of her. She deserves better than being preyed on by someone with no concept of boundaries. We all do.

  Beckett snaps out of his untamed fury, meeting my death stare with one of his own. “The fuck does that mean? These assholes were all over you. You’re bleeding for fuck’s sake!”

  Instinctively, I reach for my earlobe and, sure enough, pull away a lone bloodied fingertip. Fantastic. Just as one injury heals, another pops up right behind it.

  “No shit! But in case you hadn’t noticed, we took care of it. We didn’t need you riding in like some kind of fucking mod squad. If we needed help, we would’ve asked for it.”

  Beckett rocks side to side, adjusting his hat while Coty and Marc give nearly identical reactions—no remorse whatsoever.

  Angela gives her man a flat look with a hint of a promise to it. Marc’s off the hook since he didn’t technically have a reason to step in. If anything, I would’ve expected Cruz to come to Cynthia’s rescue. And Beckett, he can kiss my ass.

  Wasn’t he just getting his ass kissed? By lots of willing participants. It’s a miracle he even noticed anything other than the bright flashes being thrust in his face every few minutes.

  I cock an eyebrow, watching him shift from one foot to the other like he’s got somewhere to be. And maybe he does. Maybe he already secured another tent to stay in tonight.

  That would be just phenomenal. Spectacular even. The very reason I came here—to see Beckett with someone else.

  Why did I come here?

  With everyone distracted, one of the guys on the ground tries for a quick escape and the matter gets forgotten along with the self-control the boys were practicing because fists start flying while threats start sounding.

  “You fucked up touching my girl.”

  Coty.

  “All you pieces of shit are the same.”

  Marc?

  “Bitch likes it rough, man. Look at her!”

  When exactly has the “she was asking for it” excuse ever applied? Is never definitive enough of an answer? Unfortunately not, apparently.

  “Motherfucker, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Beckett.

  A bone-splintering crunch causes a gasp somewhere from my left but I can’t tear my eyes off Beckett as he lays into the writhing mess below him. His anger is palpable, his intent clear. He will end him.

  At some point I stop viewing the fight as an interested spectator and start watching as an invested member of the group. Beckett maintains most of my concentration but the others aren’t far behind in my worry for their well-being. I may have something to lose here, too.

  Or do I?

  “Cruz, get them before someone gets killed,” I order with a quiver in my voice.

  Beckett’s doing
something to me.

  I look over the others, one by one, landing on Angela last.

  They all are.

  Cruz works to separate the two groups but only one trio is left standing—mine.

  Where did that come from?

  I do a quick scan of each of them, checking for injuries, but they appear minimal, allowing me to finally take a full breath.

  So, the pretty boys can fight after all. My brothers were scrappers, too. I think Jesse’s first step was taken as he was landing his first punch actually. My dad was the one to show us how to take care of ourselves and each other. He knew that having four older brothers could make me soft, always relying on my siblings to stick up for me, but he didn’t want that for his only girl. I was never Daddy’s little princess. I was brought up just like the boys, learning to fight my way out of any situation that called for it, even against said brothers on certain occasions. And in a family with five kids, there was no shortage of scrapes. Ever.

  His tutelage may have stopped when he died but my rebellious streak never did. I was taught not to cower to anyone, least of all some prick with grab hands, and that’s not about to change because of one eye-opening concert.

  Beckett catches my eye again but I don’t break the spell, staring right back as his chest rises and falls with purpose and mine swells with…gratitude? I don’t know what else to call it but it’s warm and strong and threatens to consume me. All of me.

  Just like Beckett.

  Leaving the heaps of sad excuses of men on the ground, Cynthia, Angela, and I start walking before security can bust us. Our guys will catch up—if they know what’s good for them.

  CHAPTER 26

  Paige

  We make it back to the outdoor food court without incident and immediately start seeking out an open misting station. We’re all hot and sticky, but more importantly fired up. The girls from the altercation, the boys from their fights, and everyone from the hormones provoked by that last one. It could just be me, but the hungry gazes being tossed around like smoke bombs during battle say otherwise.

  Shots fired.

  And now we wait for the chaos to ensue.

  The high temps aren’t showing any signs of dropping even without the sun’s notorious presence and every one of the misters is crowded. Some are packed with actual overheated faces while others are full of influencer-types looking for a noteworthy shot. There are lots of those circle lights and people lying on the ground to get the best angle to make the overhead sprinkler look trendy. Or sexy or whatever. I just want to cool off.

  Once a group finally leaves, we gather under the mist, getting just wet enough to feel relief but not enough to ruin our makeup. Our faces are caked in makeup and glitter, mainly because none of us are very good at applying either.

  The boys, hot on our heels, join but forgo the same reservations about getting wet. All four stand in the middle of the fine mist, making me wish there was a higher setting option.

  Holy. Hotness.

  It’s like watching four ripped—okay, three and one mildly average—firemen get drenched by the spray-back from putting out a nearby fire, except they’re not extinguishing anything. Not really. Judging from the needy looks from other females around the edges, they’re igniting much more than they realize. If they so much as lose their shirts, we won’t even be able to stop the masses from swarming. It’ll be apocalyptic—every woman, and probably some men, for themselves.

  My eyes travel over Beckett, his damp shirt glued to his tense body like a second skin and I know without a shadow of a doubt I’d join the horde. I’ve not only seen what all of Beckett’s rippled, glistening muscles look like up close, but I’ve felt them, so I understand what the others circling our personal watering hole are thirsting for. And Beckett’s body, it goes on for miles.

  Clenching my thighs together, I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply.

  Shit.

  When I reopen them, Beckett’s watching me with something unidentifiable prowling in his gaze. Something primal. Something urgent and not open for debate. Whatever it is, I’m almost positive my eyes are its mirror image right now.

  Coty hooks an arm around Angela’s neck, keeping her secure in the crook of his elbow as he whispers in her ear. With a shaky exhale, he kisses her with a need so bright it forces some to look away. Angela relaxes into his chest, swaying seamlessly to the song in the distance and, noticing the way her face lights up when she closes her eyes, breathing in his nearly visible love for her, I can’t help but wonder what that must feel like. To trust someone with your heart that’s not even pumping the same blood in theirs?

  I know from experience family betrayal can cause the worst pain imaginable but Angela’s somehow found the one makeshift family that won’t break hers.

  They talk in hushed tones while Cruz busies himself checking over Cynthia like she couldn’t out-nurse his ass if she wanted to. Some, if not all, healthcare professionals have a nasty habit of putting their own needs last and Cynthia’s one of them. She could use someone fawning over her for a while.

  It helps. Helps remind us of our own humanity. Helps remind us we matter, too.

  It definitely helps.

  “I’m out.” Marc backs out from underneath the water, droplets falling from his furrowed brow, and says, “Hit me up if any more shit goes down. I’ll be around.”

  I consider my secretive roommate as his lithe body saunters toward a Cuban food truck, hands in his pockets, probably digging for a cigarette. If anyone needs to let loose, it’s him. I’m not sure what he actually does for fun aside from disappearing to unknown locations whenever the mood strikes but I imagine it involves scaring small children or winning staring contests with pit bulls. Although, he didn’t scare off those kids at the park last weekend. Not in the slightest.

  “I couldn’t get there in time.”

  Beckett gives up his pseudo shower to press into my back, getting me wet, too. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  Probably won’t be the last either.

  I shake my head at myself and Beckett. Mostly Beckett.

  “I told you we had it covered, so just stop already. I don’t buy the prince act and you’re not charming.” Maybe a little. Sometimes.

  “I don’t give a baker’s fuck if you had it covered,” he growls, his voice skating over my skin like a wintry morning draft.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, I turn to peek at him over my shoulder bringing our mouths inches apart.

  “I didn’t like his hands on you. I hated him touching you.”

  Finally, Beckett and I agree on something.

  “You do know we didn’t want that, right? I didn’t want him.”

  Beckett’s large hand spread wide on my stomach, he yanks me back into his toned middle, dropping his lips to the shell of my ear.

  The tips of colorful wings dancing closer to our mister catch my eye.

  “You’re wanted though,” I tell him with a nod that he ignores, grazing his lips along the sensitive skin that was just mistreated by another’s. Shots are in order after this. Medical, alcohol, I’ll take one of each.

  “So are you,” he whispers.

  The poke to my backside proves he’s telling the truth, but so was I. Splashes of color fill my peripheral as I turn in Beckett’s arms coming face-to-face with him and essentially killing the sarcastic response on my tongue. It’s been almost a week since he was wrapped around me like this and I forgot how imperfectly perfect he is.

  I take a moment to run my gaze along his achingly beautiful face. How can someone that looks the exact same from only a short while ago appear so different all of a sudden?

  His eyebrows almost meet in the middle. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to you in time. I thought he was going to try to take you.”

  Away. He thought I was going to be taken away.

  I study his eyes, dropping my voice for his ears only. “I’m not like your mom. I’m not going anywhere.” And surprisingly, I mean it.

  “Why’s that? Who
am I to you for you not to leave?” He frowns at the words, watching them stumble around between us, looking for somewhere safe to land.

  “You’re just-”

  “Don’t say just your roommate.”

  “You’re…Beckett.”

  How am I supposed to label him? How am I supposed to label this? I don’t even know. But he’s right, he’s not just my roommate. I don’t know if he’s ever been just my roommate. No matter how hard I tried to act like he was, the title never really fit.

  “Hey, see you guys back at the site. We’re out of here. Make sure you ditch the stringers first.” Coty gestures to the pesky insects infringing on all of my personal space—even from ten feet away.

  Without breaking our connection, Beckett nods easily at his friends as they pass.

  When they’re gone, I openly wave at the butterflies, saying, “They’re waiting for you.”

  Neither of us blink for a minute then Beckett finally tears his tightened gaze from mine, lingering on the fluttering duo a little too long. His mouth once again sours every last bit of my mood by sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes roam the half-naked pair.

  A snarl rips from my throat before I can swallow it fully.

  Beckett bows his head, his grip seizing the middle of my back to bring me in as close as our bodies will allow. Still focused on the dancing girls, he says, “if something’s bothering you, all you gotta do is say it,” repeating what he told me the last time I was upset.

  My response building—snowballing, really—into an epic spat dies in its tracks when Beckett brings his gaze back to mine making everything else fade away. Harmonic convergence, I think it’s called when all the planets are aligned. There is nothing else in front or behind or even beside me. Nothing but him. He’s all I see.

  He’s all I want.

  Lips parting, his eyes bore into mine. “Just tell me.”

  Tell him what exactly? Tell him I don’t want him to disappear either? That the mere thought of him slinking off with anyone else literally makes my stomach cramp?