by Lexi Ryan
In the back of my mind, I hear my counselor from rehab. Don’t expect more from your willpower than it can handle. You’re human. You have weaknesses. Stay away from the things you crave, and you’ll never have to be stronger than those weaknesses.
Drugs were never my weakness. But Mia . . .
Her tongue darts out, leaving her bottom lip wet. I take another step forward and skim my knuckles against her waistband. “I want to slip my hand into these fucking mind-scrambling cotton shorts you sleep in and remind you that you’re still alive.”
“Arrow.” She breathes in my name like it’s air, and I want to be closer so she can breathe in all of me. I’d give her my last breath if it would fix this.
“I want to take off your clothes.” I grab a fistful of her shirt, then release it. Now that I’ve started, it’s like I can’t stop. “I want to spread your legs and see if being inside you could possibly be as incredible as I remember.”
She draws in a ragged breath and lifts her arms to the side. “Then do it.”
I flinch. She offers her body while her mind is full of sadness. “I can’t,” I say. “Because more than any of that”—I swallow hard—“I want to be worthy of half the attention you give a dead man.” But I’m not.
I step back, and she grabs my shirt in her fist before I can retreat another step. “Don’t,” she says.
“Mia . . .”
“Don’t say things like that to me and then walk away.”
“I shouldn’t say things like that at all. We both know it.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath, drawing in her sweet scent, leaning into her heat. “And I have to walk away. Just like I should have that night at the lake.”
She releases my shirt. “You are worthy,” she says, and rushes from the room.
You are worthy. I hold my breath because out of Mia’s mouth, the words feel true, and I want to cling to that feeling as long as I can.
“Where are your books?”
Bailey plops down on the couch next to me and leans her head against my shoulder. We used to sit like this all the time. For one semester, I kind of felt like a normal college student, living in this apartment with Bailey, attending classes at Terrace, going out with Brogan. But death is expensive, and any emergency fund I had was drained by Nic’s funeral, and then there was the issue of tending to Dad. The day after we buried my brother, Dad’s lights were turned off for nonpayment, and I found out he hadn’t paid rent on the trailer lot in almost a year.
I had to move out, and Bailey had to get a roommate who wasn’t panicked by the prospect of rent and utilities.
Bailey sighs. “I lied.”
“What?”
“There’s not a test I need help studying for. Finals were last week.”
My stomach sinks. The semester is over. A whole semester since the accident, and I’ve been hiding at the Woodisons’, marking time. Waiting for Brogan to wake up. “I should have known that, huh?”
“You have a few things going on.” She gives me a tentative smile. “I just wanted to see you, and the only way you make time for me is if you think you’re helping me out.”
I flinch. “Am I that bad?”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it. “I worry about you. You look more stressed than usual. What’s up?”
That’s a loaded question. What’s up is that I slept in Arrow’s arms last night. What’s up is that I can’t stop thinking about him since he told me he wants me. What’s up is that I offered myself to him, and he sent me away.
“Do you ever think about who was driving the car?” I ask. I don’t have to explain what car or when. The accident never strays far from either of our minds.
“I don’t believe Nic was dealing again,” she says. “It’s bullshit. And even if some of the thugs he used to run around with decided to get rid of him, how would they know to look for him on Deadman’s Curve in the middle of the night?” She shakes her head. “I don’t buy it.”
“Me neither.”
She lowers her gaze and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “I used to spend so much time thinking about who did it,” she says. “I couldn’t sleep. I’d sit in the parking lot of the Pretty Kitty and catalogue every man who climbed into a dark SUV. Turns out that’s a pretty fucking popular car choice around here.”
“Whoever it was hit two grown men,” I say.
“I know. And the fucker walked away.” She shakes her head. “It’s not right.”
“No, I mean, Brogan and Nic weren’t small guys. They had to have done damage to the car, right?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. I’m sure.” Then she sits up. “The list of folks around here driving dark SUVs might be impossibly long, but the ones driving banged-up, dark SUVs . . .”
I nod. “Or the ones who got body work done on their dark SUVs . . .”
“But surely the police already went through this?” she says.
“They say the investigation is ongoing, and they won’t tell me what they’ve done. But you know how the police work in this town.” I wrap my arms around my waist. I can’t stop thinking about what Arrow said about me acting like I died that night. Maybe if I had some answers, living my life wouldn’t feel like betraying Brogan. “What if they’re trying to protect someone? An officer, or the kid of an officer or something?”
“I’ve wondered about that myself.”
“I made some calls this morning,” I admit. “I called around to different body shops in the area to see if they’d give me some information on cars matching that description that had body work done.”
“Any luck?”
“I got a ‘Nice try, lady,’ a ‘Quit wasting my time,’ and a ‘Just who do you think you are?’ So I stopped calling.”
Bailey points at me. “That’s where you went wrong. You gotta do this shit in person. With cleavage.”
I arch a brow. “You really think boobs are going to make people give us answers?”
“We’re not talking about people. We’re talking about men.”
We start at the most popular body shop in town—Crowe’s Automotive. We walk in the front door and wait at the front desk. To the right of the waiting area is a glass wall that overlooks that shop. I remember when this place was built. Everyone thought it was the coolest thing they’d ever seen.
Bailey steals a mint from the bowl and pops it into her mouth before ringing the bell. “You know what’s sexy?” she asks around her candy.
“What?” I ask. I’m not really interested in her answer, but when she points, I have to look.
“That,” Bailey says with a sigh. “Him.”
There, standing on the other side of the glass in low-slung jeans and a tight white oil-stained T-shirt, is Sebastian Crowe.
“I know him,” I say.
She cocks her head and folds her arms. “I swear, you have some sort of muscle magnet embedded in you. The more muscle they have, the faster they come.” She snorts. “That sounded dirtier than I meant it, but that’s probably true, too.”
“I said I know him. Like, I met him once. He helped me get Dad inside after I picked him up from the Pretty Kitty a few weeks ago. I think he lives in the trailer park.”
“No shit? I thought mechanics were supposed to make good money.”
I shrug but don’t get the chance to answer because Sebastian pushes through the swinging glass door that separates the service bay from the waiting area.
His gaze lands on me first. “Mia. Are you okay? Does your dad need something?” He’s already grabbing a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind the counter.
“Muscle magnet,” Bailey murmurs beside me.
I nudge an elbow into her side. “Dad’s fine. Actually, we’re looking for some information about, um, the services you provide.”
Bailey gives me an exasperated look. “Amateur.” She tugs on the hem of her shirt, and the already-low scooping neckline falls an inch lower. Propping her elbows on the service counter, she leans forward and grins at Sebastian. “I’m doing re
search for my marketing class. We’re supposed to analyze local markets, and I chose body work.” She drags her gaze meaningfully down his chest. “You know, on cars.”
Sebastian grunts, and I can’t help but like him more for not being impressed by Bailey’s act. An older man with Sebastian’s dark hair and eyes pushes into the waiting area, and Sebastian’s eyes shift to me, questioning.
“We’re looking for information about the people who’ve gotten body work done here since the beginning of the year,” I explain. “Everything from a tiny dent to serious damage.”
The man I assume must be Mr. Crowe rolls his eyes. “Who sent you? Denny’s place? I told them we’re not sharing our info. These young business owners today with all this secret-shopper bullshit.”
“We’re not secret shoppers,” I assure him. “We just want the names of people who—”
“You want the names of my customers?” the man says. “Give me a fucking break. Denny sent you. Trying to poach my customers. What’s he gonna do? Call and tell them I did it wrong so he can redo it? You tell him that if he did good work, he wouldn’t have to have you girls in here lying in a pathetic attempt to get business.”
“No, really. I—”
Sebastian lifts a hand and holds my gaze. The warning is there loud and clear: Stop while you’re ahead. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. I’ll see if I can help the girls with their marketing project without sharing any of our customer information.” He comes out from around the counter and goes to the front door. “Come on,” he says, looking at us over his shoulder. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Thanks,” I say to his father. Bailey and I rush to the door, escaping the rapidly mounting awkwardness filling the waiting room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sebastian asks me when the door closes behind us. “And don’t give me that bullshit about a marketing project. The semester just ended, and you two don’t even go to the same school.”
Bailey props her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you creeptastically familiar with our lives, Mr. Muscles.”
Rolling his eyes, he drags a hand through his hair. “Please tell me this isn’t about the accident.”
Bailey shifts her gaze to me and drops her hands from her hips.
“It was an SUV,” I say, looking Sebastian in the eye. “Big and boxy, so probably not a recent model. It hit two grown men. There had to have been some damage.”
“What makes you think it was someone local?” he asks. “Or that they got the work done here? Could have been another body shop or, hell, if I was trying to cover something up I might go to a place in Indy or Louisville. Not the place the crime happened.”
“I know,” I say. “I know all of that. But I just have to do this, okay? I have to look.”
Sebastian shifts and glances over his shoulder toward the shop. “You want names?”
“Yes. I won’t tell anyone where I got the information.”
“I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
I fucking hate the treadmill. I love running. I love pushing my body and churning my legs so fast my lungs burn. But I hate being stuck on this treadmill. I want big sky, not ceiling. I want the give and take of a real hill and the rise and fall of the earth, not the whirring of the mechanical incline. After five miles, I do sprints, pushing my body and my legs until my heart pounds so hard and my breath comes so fast that there’s no more room for my thoughts.
It’s after ten by the time I leave the basement gym and climb up the stairs. The house is dark, but the patio lights are on. I grab a protein shake from the fridge and go outside. Even as humid as it is, the night air is refreshing. I take another step out to look up at the stars, but my eyes catch on the figure swimming in the pool and never find their way to the sky.
She’s in a modest black one-piece and doing laps, pulling her arms through the water, her dark hair streaming behind her. She looks like a goddess.
I don’t know how long I watch her. Ten laps. Twenty. Thirty. Her body and her movements hypnotize me. When she surfaces, she clings to the edge of the pool and takes desperate gulps of air. I’m not the only one running from my thoughts tonight.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asks without looking at me.
“Not long,” I lie.
She hoists herself out of the water, and for the two breaths it takes her to grab her waiting towel, I’m treated to the sight of her curves. Those tight, toned legs, her hips, the modestly covered round of her ass, the curve of her breasts. She wraps the towel under her arms in her best attempt to hide from me, but my mind remembers everything. So do my hands.
“It’s all yours,” she says with a nod toward the pool. “Enjoy.”
“Mia, I . . .” But she keeps her head down and disappears into the house, leaving me alone.
I hit the patio lights and stand in the darkness for a few minutes. When I head back to my room, the shower is running in the bathroom across the hall. My heart thuds and stumbles at the thought of Mia nude under the spray. She doesn’t have to hide her curves from me. Every inch of her skin is branded on my brain like the roadmap to salvation. I lean against the wall and wait my turn. There are other showers in the house, but I want to use this one. And I want to see Mia one more time before I climb into bed and surrender to my nightmares.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds inside the bathroom, but my plans are shattered when my cell rings and the name Coach Wright flashes on the screen.
I answer reluctantly. “Hello?”
“I’m at your door but don’t want to wake the baby with the bell. Come let me in.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to talk to anyone tonight, but especially not my football coach. We used to be close. He noticed my talent when I was young and made sure everyone who needed to along the way did, too. Then when it came time for college, he made sure I not only had a spot on the BHU team but that I actually got the chance to play. He’s always had my back and pushed me to be my best, but I can’t look him in the eye these days. I’ve let him down, just like everyone else. “On my way.”
I head downstairs and see the silhouette behind the front door. I open it, and Coach wraps me in a hug I don’t want. I stare at his black Cherokee parked in the circle drive instead of thinking about what his hug means, how worried he is about me.
When I pull back, I catch the disappointment in his green eyes before I turn to lead him down to the basement.
“I talked to the other coaches today,” he says as he sinks into one of the dark leather sofas in the rec room. He adjusts the collar of his polo and bows his head of gray hair to smooth invisible wrinkles in his jeans. “We agree there’s no reason you couldn’t train with the team again after your house arrest, assuming you pull your grades up during your online courses. Train with the team and then enter the draft next spring. Only one season out before you’re back in the game.”
I don’t sit. I cross to the opposite wall and study the collage of baby pictures Gwen has on display.
His face looks older suddenly, as if his wrinkles have deepened in the last few months. I did that to him. “You do want to play again, don’t you?” The hitch in his voice hints at exasperation, as if this is such a simple question.
I hang my head. Football has been part of my life since the day I was born. My dad’s NFL dreams were crushed by an early college injury, and he didn’t hope his son would have the career he’d missed—he expected it. And I never minded, because carrying a football was as natural to me as breathing. It’s just that since the moment I walked into the hospital and saw my best friend had become a vegetable, I haven’t much wanted to breathe, let alone play ball. They all expect me to follow my dreams while Brogan’s wither right alongside his body.
“It’s okay,” Coach says. “We’ll get you through this and back on track. In a couple of years, you’ll be playing professionally, and all this mess will be behind you.”
“I can’t do it,” I whis
per. It’s the first time I’ve said it. In our dozens of talks since New Year’s Eve, I’ve thought it a thousand times but I’ve never said it out loud. “I can’t do it anymore. It’s too much.”
“Arrow, don’t. We have to put the past in the past, focus on your future.”
I spin to face him. “And what about Brogan? Does he get to focus on his future?”
“Do you think this is what he’d want for you? Spinning out of control, self-destructing?” He pushes off the couch and stares at me for a long minute. When I don’t answer, he sighs and starts climbing the stairs. I watch him go, hating this new distance between us but needing it to defend myself from the sympathy in his eyes.
When he reaches the top, he stops. “You’re like a son to me, and I’d do anything to protect you. You can hate me if you want, but I only want what’s best. You deserve a good future, whether you believe that or not.”
The basement door clicks shut behind him, and I listen for his footsteps and the sound of the front door opening and then closing again. Vibrating with frustration turned rage, I swing, barely registering the pain that radiates up my arm when my fist shatters through the glass of a picture frame and into the wall. I scream. From the pain burning my hand, from the frustration of living this life, from the agony of enduring these secrets.
I sink to the floor, my fist drawn to my chest, and barely register the shuffle of feet on the stairs.
“Oh my God. What have you done?”
I blink up at Mia. Impotent rage clouds my eyes, and my fingers are hot and sticky with blood. “Don’t.” I pull away as she reaches for me, but it’s too late. The blood is already on her hands.
“You can’t play if you can’t hold a ball. Why are you trying to throw your life away?”
I shake my head and push myself up. Glass crunches under my feet. The world spins with the kind of pain I haven’t felt since I broke my collarbone in high school. I lean against the wall for support, and the world rights itself. “I don’t have a life. I’m just a fuck-up. Ask my dad. Ask Coach. Ask anyone.”