Going Under (The Blackhawk Boys Book 3)

by Lexi Ryan

  “Mom!”

  It was Alex who stopped Mom’s diarrhea of the mouth. Poor girl looked awful. She was in a pair of black yoga pants and a tank top and her nose was bright red, her cheeks flushed from her fever, but the way Sebastian’s eyes fell on her, you’d think she was dressed in a ball gown with a slit up to there.

  No. The way Sebastian looked at her was more predatory than that. It was as if he was suddenly famished for the dinner Mom offered, and it was right in front of him.

  Remember when I said I’ve never been jealous of my sister? Maybe I’ve never had reason to be. Maybe she’s never had something I wanted. Right in that moment, I wanted Sebastian Crowe to look at me the way he was looking at her. There wasn’t a single buzz or high I would take over that.

  “Thanks for bringing these over,” Alex said.

  He stepped forward and handed her the stack of papers, and when their fingers brushed I could practically see the electricity popping between them. “I have to get going,” he said, apology in his voice. He looked at Mom. “Thank you for the invitation for dinner. I’m sure it’ll be delicious, but I can’t stay.”

  Mom was all smiles when he left. “He is such a nice boy.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  Alex frowned at me. “Why would you say that?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to have that conversation in front of Mom, but I had to do something. I don’t want Alex giving her heart to a guy who wouldn’t have the first clue how to protect it.

  Does that make me a hypocrite? Maybe. But I’m not going to get my heart broken by Sebastian Crowe because I’m not planning to give him my heart at all. I’ve never been looking for a guy to sweep me off my feet. I just want to have a good time…and maybe a little sizzle.

  Alex excused herself to do her homework, and I followed her into our bedroom, and I’m sure this was one of many moments she wished we didn’t share. With us and our four older brothers, this house is bursting at the seams. Two kids to a room. It’s what you do when you have a big family but not a million dollars to spend on a seven-bedroom home.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I told her, and she glared at me, knowing full well I did. “I just know how much you like him and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Why do you assume I’m going to get hurt? He’s just a friend. It’s not like he’s even interested in me.”

  It’s like she can’t even see the way he looks at her.

  “He parties, Alex,” I said. I tried to be gentle, but she didn’t even look fazed. “Like, he parties hard.”

  She snapped her head up and her eyes narrowed. “Sebastian?”

  “Yeah.” I bit the inside of my cheek. “You know what I mean, right?”

  She shook her head. “He’s on the football team. Don’t they do drug testing?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I just know he parties.”

  “And how exactly do you know that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Kill me for listening when people talk.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Martina. I know you look for trouble. I just don’t understand why.”

  “Don’t make this about me. Sebastian isn’t the good guy you deserve. Got it?”

  “Yeah. Message received.” She looked down to her open textbook. “Now go away so I can study. Some of us aren’t natural brainiacs.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sebastian

  When I get to women’s studies on Monday morning, Alex is ready for class with a pen in her hand and her notebook in front of her.

  She smiles up at me when I take my seat. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” My voice comes out a little rough, as if I just woke up, when in reality I’ve been up for four hours already. I wonder if she got the journal I shipped to her parents’ house. Judging by her grin, I’m guessing she hasn’t read it.

  “Congratulations on the W Saturday,” she says. “It was good to see the Blackhawks deliver such a beat-down as the underdogs.”

  I draw back, impressed. Saturday’s game was in Ohio against a big-name team, and it didn’t cross my mind that Alex might watch it. “Thanks. It was a tough win.”

  She cocks her head. “You didn’t make it look tough.”

  Last week, after I kissed her and our awkward morning after, she barely spoke to me. I’m relieved she’s over it. Maybe she’s decided our friendship is important to her too. I draw in a deep breath. “What about you? Did you have a good night with Logan?” I can’t believe I don’t choke on the words.

  “I did. He’s really nice.” That smile on her face when she talks about him? Yeah, that’s a special kind of torture. “He took me for ice cream.”

  Did you let him kiss you? Did he take you home? “I’m glad you had a good time.” I open my mouth to ask her if she plans to see him again, but Alex has turned her attention to the front of the room.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Scheck calls from behind the podium. “I hope you all had a great weekend. Today I’m going to give you a brief overview of the history of feminism, and then I’ll introduce your first group project.”

  I pull out my notebook and a pen as Dr. Scheck dives into an explanation of first-wave feminism. Sitting next to Alex while trying to absorb a fifty-minute lecture is equal parts heaven and hell. Her hair’s swept over one shoulder into a low ponytail, and she fiddles with it through the whole lecture. Every once in a while she cuts her gaze to me and smiles.

  This isn’t anything new. We sat next to each other in classes in high school, and I always found it hard to focus on the class material when Alex was nearby. But I managed then. I’ll manage now.

  In the middle of the lecture, she pulls a page out of the back of her notebook, scribbles something on it, and passes it to me. I love how her handwriting slants to the right and she left a smudge of ink on the paper from writing with her left hand.

  The blonde on the other side of you can’t stop staring at you.

  I turn, and sure enough, there’s a petite blonde right next to me. When I meet her gaze, she grins at me and shifts in her seat so her foot is against mine. I’ve been so focused on Alex, I honestly didn’t realize there was a pretty girl anywhere in the vicinity, let alone one who was trying to play footsie with me.

  I shift my foot away and poise my pen to write a response. I’m pretty sure she’s staring at you, actually. You look amazing today. I like your hair like that.

  I slide the note onto her desk before I think better of it. Her cheeks blossom into a pretty pink that matches her lips. She’s dating Logan, right, so what does it hurt if I give her a compliment now and then? And anyway, “I like your hair like that” is pretty tame when I want to tell her how it makes me think of wrapping it around my fist while I…

  The blonde puts a piece of paper in front of me, and I reluctantly pull my gaze off Alex to read it. The blonde’s handwriting is a loopy cursive with hearts dotting her i’s.

  Is that your girlfriend? She’s pretty.

  I stare at the note, not sure how to respond. If I say no, it opens a door I’m not interested in opening. Before I can answer, Alex puts her paper back on my desk.

  She’s looking at you, dork. Your redhead would be jealous.

  My redhead? Oh, fuck. Yeah. Lacey, the girl from Trent’s party. She’s pretty, but I thought we were both after the same thing that night. It turns out I was wrong. When I saw her on campus the first day of classes, she threw herself at me, told me she was looking forward to the football game, and promised to let me do some pretty dirty shit to her if I won. I let her down easy, but not before Alex walked away.

  I take a deep breath and write a response to the blonde first. Thanks. Yeah, she’s gorgeous. I’m a lucky guy.

  She frowns as she reads it then lifts her palms in a gesture that says, Can’t blame me for trying.

  Now to let Alex in on it. I told her you’re my girlfriend. Be a pal and play along. I’m trying to spare the girl’s feelings.

  When Alex reads the
note, her jaw drops. She scowls at me. I just grin and scoot my desk a little closer to hers. Her pink cheeks turn a shade closer to red, and she keeps her eyes fixed on the front of the room. Being her friend might actually be a lot of fun.

  “For your first group project, I’m putting you into groups randomly,” Dr. Scheck says. She hands a basket to the first person in the front row. “Take a number from the basket, and that’s your group number. Each group will research a local contemporary woman who I believe is making an impact in her field. Some of the women are based out of Blackhawk Valley, and some are a short drive away. The options will be posted on the online discussion board tonight at five p.m.”

  When the basket makes its way back to us, Alex pulls out a number and passes it to me. I grab my folded paper from the basket before passing it on to the blonde. The lecture hall erupts in chatter while everyone tries to find their groups.

  “What’s your number?” I ask Alex.

  She holds up her paper to show me a seven. “What about you?”

  I unfold mine. Four. That’s disappointing.

  The blonde nudges me. “Here,” she says in a whisper. “Trade me.”

  “You’re a peach.” I grin at her and hold up my new number for Alex. “Lucky number seven.”

  “Cheater,” she whispers, but those bubblegum-pink lips are smiling. Fuck yes.

  “Did we hear number seven?” a guy asks, walking up the aisle toward us. He has a beanie and bloodshot eyes and smells like he’s smoked weed for a week straight without showering.

  “That’s us,” Alex says.

  “Cool,” the stoner says, pointing to his similarly attired stoner buddy. “Us too.”

  “They’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” the blonde says as she gathers her things. “Isn’t that sweet?”

  Cheech and Chong nod with something that almost passes for enthusiasm. “So sweet.”

  The blonde winks at Alex. “Nice catch.”

  Alex opens her mouth to reply, but the girl’s already on her way to the front of the class, where the rest of group four is calling for their missing member. When the blonde is gone, Alex turns to me. “You’re the worst.”

  * * *

  Alexandra

  “You’re a local contemporary woman,” Sebastian says. “Why can’t we do this project on you?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You really think I want to do a presentation in front of the class about myself?” I extend a hand as if to shake his. “Maybe we haven’t met before. My name’s Alexandra.”

  He grins. “It would be my first college presentation where I wanted to study the subject matter as much as humanly possible.”

  My cheeks heat and I look away. I love and hate it when he says things like that. Love it because oh my God, it feels so good. And hate it because I’m a little embarrassed by how I can’t take it for the casual flirting it is.

  We’re waiting in the Commons for the other members of our group to show, but we’ve been here fifteen minutes and sent a few unanswered texts. Clearly, our group members have decided to spend this time doing something else. If I got two guesses what, I’d probably get it right in one.

  “Should we get started without them?” I ask Sebastian.

  Sighing, he opens his laptop. “If it were up to me, we’d do the whole project without them. I swear they only make you do group projects in college because they want to prepare you for the deadweight coworkers you’ll have to deal with in the real world.”

  “Paul said he’d pick the subject since he was going to be available when she put the topics on the discussion board.” I scoot my chair closer to Sebastian’s and watch as he pulls up the platform for BHU’s classes.

  “He never did it,” he says, pointing to the screen. All the other groups have claimed a topic, but group seven still shows undecided.

  I sigh. “Is there anything good left?”

  “The other groups picked the stuff that’s closest.” He thrums his fingers against the tabletop. “Look at this. Maggie Thompson, New Hope, Indiana. That’s not a bad drive. Maybe a little over two hours.”

  “New Hope? Why have I never heard of this place? Should I know where that is?”

  He shrugs. “There’s a college there that was trying to recruit me to play ball. Nice place about halfway between here and Lafayette.”

  “Why didn’t you go there?”

  “Their football team wasn’t going anywhere.” He shrugs. “Small school.”

  “Who is this lady? What will we be writing about?” I’m open-minded, but if Sebastian and I are going to do this project together, I’m really not up for writing about some obscure sex toy creator.

  “Looks like she’s an artist and curator. New Hope Art Gallery.” He nods. “I stopped in there when I was visiting Sinclair.”

  “So we’d be presenting about art,” I say. “I could do that.”

  “Me too. The owner of this gallery is pretty cool. He’s a photographer. Amazing talent. I talked to him about…” He shakes his head and looks away. “Never mind.”

  I bite my lip and almost let it drop, but I decide I’m too curious. “Finish what you were going to say. I want to know. You’re into photography?”

  “It’s an outlet more than anything,” he says. “I don’t know whether I’m any good at it, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s just something I do for fun.”

  “Have you taken any classes?”

  “A couple. I’m in one now.”

  “Maybe we can do something cool with that when we get to the dreaded creative project part of this group work.”

  “Why, yes, I’ll just take pictures of our stoner group members being useless and title it: Millennials. Subtitle: Don’t Worry, Gen X, Your Jobs Are Safe.”

  I laugh. “Maybe Maggie Thompson can give us some ideas. I don’t mind a road trip.”

  “I imagine our group members might, though.”

  I shake my head and groan. “You’re right. We’d be better off if we didn’t have to do this with them.”

  “A man can dream,” he mutters.

  “Well, they’re not here and we are. I say we pick what works for us and make our plans. If the other guys can’t come, too bad. They should have showed up today.” I smile. “What do you say? Are you up for a road trip?”

  “We’ll take my truck so the guys will have to drive separately. If they’re in the same car as us for two hours, I don’t know if I’d pass my next drug test.”

  I clap and do a little bounce in my seat. “It’s a plan.”

  “Listen, about what happened at the party…” His gaze holds mine, and my stomach flips over. “I handled everything terribly—from kissing you at the party to the way I apologized the next morning. I don’t want to screw this up.”

  He sounds so sincere, and it tugs on my heart. “I’m over it.” I paste on a smile. “It’s not like we’d be any good together anyway, right?”

  He laughs, but it sounds as forced as my smile feels. “Right.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sebastian

  What kind of son follows his father? What kind of son thinks the worst of the man who raised him?

  I turn my key in the ignition and start my truck. Dad said he wouldn’t be at the shop today. Again. I want to believe he has good reasons, or hell, even lazy reasons, but it’s not like he’s going to spend the day golfing or chatting it up with the guys at the country club. That’s not my dad.

  Dante opens the passenger door and climbs into my truck. “Where are we going?” he asks, buckling.

  Dad’s old Jeep rattles down the street.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Dante turns toward the road where Dad is stopped at a light before turning back to me. “Go ahead and follow him. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “As if I didn’t feel shitty enough about doing this, now I have an audience,” I mutter.

  “You have a friend,” Dante says. “And I’m telling you, you’re worried for no reason. Your dad is clea
n. Follow him. You’ll see.”

  I let Dad get a block or so ahead before I pull out to follow.

  Yesterday, when I walked into the shop and saw Alex standing at the counter, I had such a clear and sudden vision of her stuck in that fire. Panic filled my chest until there wasn’t room for air. If Dad is dealing again, I want Alex as far away from it as possible.

  Dad turns onto Center Street and parks in front of Tully’s Tulips. He climbs out of the car and feeds the meter. I turn onto Fifth and park in a loading zone, where I see Dad walking into the shop.

  Dante arches a brow. “Think Tully’s is a front for a meth operation? Wait, no, maybe heroin.”

  I grunt. Tully is an old woman who wears loud clothes and likes to hand out meditation guides to all of her customers. “If Tully were in the drug business, I think she’d deal weed, not meth.”

  We both stare at the storefront, and in less than three minutes, Dad’s climbing back into his Jeep with a bouquet of red roses—the kind he always gets Mom. I don’t know if those are Mom’s favorite or if Dad just isn’t creative enough to get her anything else.

  “Even if he just bought a joint from an old lady, you have bigger things to worry about,” Dante says. “Do you want to tell me why you think your dad might be dealing again? Other than my paychecks?”

  I rub the back of my neck. Dante and I didn’t become close until after Martina died and Dad and I cleaned up, but Dad hired him when we were in the thick of the hardest change we’ve ever had to make. Dante got a front-row seat as we figured out how to run a clean business and did the sticky work of disentangling ourselves from the people in our old life. Maybe Dad wouldn’t forgive me if he knew I’d confided in Dante, but I can’t regret telling him—not despite the fact that he’s Martina’s brother, but because. His ability to accept what I did and how it impacted his sister was instrumental in helping me move on.