Going Under (The Blackhawk Boys Book 3)

by Lexi Ryan

  “And now you’re ready to be back?” he asks.

  “Have you ever seen Saving Private Ryan?”

  “The war movie?”

  I nod. “Yeah. So his brothers have died and they’re supposed to pull him out of the war and send him home. They go through hell, and all these people die in their attempts to rescue Private Ryan from the war and send him home safely. At the end, Tom Hanks’ character is dying. In his final breath, he tells Private Ryan, ‘Earn this.’ I don’t know if I was ready to jump into college or not, but I knew I wasn’t earning anything doing what I was. I want my life to have some sort of purpose. But it’s almost as if the wish itself paralyzes me. What if I was spared from the fire but I don’t ever make anything of my life? What if I’m just a girl who has a meaningless job and leads a meaningless life? I was given a second chance, and it feels like I should do something profound with it. But what? I don’t know if I’m ready for anything.” It’s never felt more true than tonight. “I just realized there are some things you can’t run away from.”

  He draws in a ragged breath and ducks his head so I can’t see his face. “True.”

  “What about you? You said you took a penalty for your transfer to BHU, but are you glad to be back?”

  “Mostly.” He clears his throat, and I can tell that whatever he wants to say is important. “When I left, it wasn’t just about football. My dad and I have a complicated relationship, and I felt like I couldn’t be my own person with him looking over my shoulder.”

  “And now here you are, working for him. That must not be easy.”

  He studies the row of books in front of him, running his fingers along the stiff spines. “I love my dad. I’m proud of the hard work he’s done, and I know he’s made a lot of sacrifices for his family, but…” He drops his hand, turning away from the books and meeting my eyes. “Sometimes I hate him just as much as I love him. Is that even possible? And what kind of son admits that out loud?”

  My heart twists for him. “No one said family was easy or that love wasn’t complicated.”

  “I don’t want love to be complicated,” he says. “I just want it to be. No fears. No doubts. No fucking regrets.” His eyes stay on mine as he says this, and I wonder if we’re still talking about his dad. When he looks away, his shoulders tense. “I should go.”

  “Are we still on for Sunday, driving to New Hope?”

  “Definitely,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “We can be home by five, right?”

  “Sure. Why? Hot date?” he asks, and when I just look at him, his grin falls away and I see that he remembers. “I’ll have you back by five.”

  * * *

  Martina’s Journal

  One of the things I’ve learned about Mr. Bedroom Eyes is that he is insanely private. The rare times he goes to parties, he stays in the shadows. He keeps his hands clean for the sake of public appearance and doesn’t like people looking at him. He’s a businessman, you see. Gotta have a front or everyone might think your money comes from—gasp—drugs or something. He seems to have everyone around at his beck and call, and yet he doesn’t want any attention.

  I found out he’s married, which came as quite the shock. His wife must be completely clueless, but when I asked about her, he got angry. No personal questions. Fine. I get it.

  I skipped school a few times last week to be with him. One day he took me to his apartment in Indianapolis. He bought me this ridiculously expensive lingerie, and when I modeled it for him, we got high and drank champagne and he fucked me from behind while I looked out over the city.

  I don’t understand why I have to stay in school. He’s loaded and could totally take care of me. But he insists that I carry on with my normal life.

  “Be a good little girl,” he said when he dropped me off, and it would have pissed me off, except then he smacked my ass and whispered some really dirty promises into my ear, so I let it slide.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sebastian

  Alex is so close, it hurts. Except for our intense conversation on Thursday night, we’ve hardly spoken in the last month. She’s avoided me at the shop, and in women’s studies she’s taken seats across the room from me. If she’s been by the apartment to see Bailey, I wasn’t there. And now we’re in my truck on the way to the art exhibition in New Hope, Indiana. I can’t decide if I want to go back in time and thank twenty-year-old me for buying this truck that’s too damn small inside or if I want to punch him in the face for it.

  Because with Alex in the passenger seat, it’s torture. Her short black dress inches up her thighs every time she shifts. Her smell invaded my senses the moment she slid into the cab, and I can’t stop thinking about having her propped up on the edge of the pool and the sweet sounds she made when I kissed between her legs.

  “Thanks again for driving today. I would have driven myself if my car didn’t act like it’s on its last breath.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t say that out loud. If people in Blackhawk Valley find out one of the mechanics at Crowe’s can’t fix her own car, you’ll lose so much business.”

  “You said it’s the transmission?”

  “I’m sure of it, but I’ve been in denial. It’ll cost more in parts to fix than I paid for the thing to begin with.”

  “There’s no reason for us to take two cars anyway, especially since Cheech and Chong dropped the class.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel her watching me. The truth is, I can’t believe she’s here. I can’t believe she’s willing to be this close to me after what a dick I was about the whole Logan situation. I just hate thinking about her going out with him. I hate that he bought her a fucking scarf when she’s finally found the courage to go without them. And I hate that he gets to be with her without guilt over his mistakes eating him alive.

  My knuckles turn white as I clench the steering wheel. I signal to take the next exit, and after pulling into an abandoned gas station, I climb out of the truck. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere, and the air is fresh and clear. It smells like cut grass and blue skies and not at all like her. Maybe that should be a relief, but it’s not. Nothing about stepping away from her has ever felt like a relief. Keeping my distance is the burden I’ve carried for five years, and I’m fucking exhausted.

  Leaning against the truck, I tilt my face up to the wispy white clouds floating across the bright blue sky. The day they buried Martina wasn’t too different than this one. The bright, happy sky mocked the storm brewing in my chest. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine those years of my life never happened. Guilt thrives in darkness. It shrivels in the light, and this sunny day seems to promise a new beginning I’m not convinced I deserve.

  I focus on the feel of the sun on my face, and I’m not surprised when I hear her door snap closed or when her hand slides over my bicep.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “What’s wrong?”

  I open my eyes. I don’t know if it’s the relief of finally believing Dad’s clean or the ache of staying away from her, but I don’t want to dodge the truth. “Honestly? I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

  “I’m right here, Bash.” She squeezes my arm. “Just because I had a crush on you doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”

  I swallow hard. “Sometimes I wish I’d been someone else when we met. A good guy. Someone who deserved you.”

  “But then you wouldn’t have been you.” She gives a sad smile, and the words pull at something in my chest, a thread threatening to unravel. For once, the idea of unraveling doesn’t terrify me. Today, the idea I find so frightening is shoring up all this shit inside me. I’m sick of holding back. I’m sick of casting my emotions in solid steel until they suffocate.

  “Are you looking forward to your date tonight?”

  She bites her bottom lip. “I’m nervous. I haven’t dated much since the fire. When I was in Colorado, I went out with this guy a few times. He was nice, but on our last date, he stroked his thumb over the side of my mouth,
shook his head, and said, ‘This kills me, because you’d be so fucking beautiful without it.’ I knew then that I had to end it. I think he meant it as a compliment, but I couldn’t see having a relationship with someone who constantly thought about how I’d be without my scars.”

  My body tenses. “He was a fucking idiot.”

  She smiles. “You’re always good for the ego boost, Crowe.”

  “Nah. I just don’t understand how there are guys who don’t recognize real beauty when it’s staring them in the face. At least I can give Logan credit for that. He loves looking at you. I see it in his eyes.”

  “He makes me feel pretty.” She looks up to the clouds and sighs. “I really want to give him a chance, but it’s scary.”

  I swallow hard, realizing just what road we’ve detoured onto and where it leads. Pulling a hand over my face, I draw in a ragged breath. “Alex, what we did in the pool…”

  Her cheeks blossom red. “Oh, so we’re going to go there?”

  There was something about the way she reacted when I parted her legs, something about the way she moved when I pressed my face between them. “Are you a virgin?”

  “I— What?”

  I know she heard me.

  Maybe it’s Neanderthal. An old-fashioned idea that the first time a woman is with a guy it should mean something and should be headed somewhere. Maybe it’s just something else I can beat myself up over—the idea of her first time being with Logan, when every cell in my body screams it should be with me. I don’t fucking know why I care. Just that I do.

  “It’s none of my business, but I want to know,” I say.

  “Yes and no.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and heads to the car, away from me.

  “Yes and no?” What the fuck? She’s already opening her door. “What does that mean?”

  She gives me a sad smile. “It’s complicated, Sebastian. Would another answer change anything between us? Would it mean you’d be sleeping with me tonight? Would it make you stop apologizing for kissing me?”

  I blink at her. Would it? If she confirmed my suspicions and told me she was a virgin, would I back away? Or would I push Logan out of the picture as fast as I could?

  She climbs into the car, leaving me confused about her answer and my own thoughts.

  * * *

  Alexandra

  New Hope has to be one of the cutest freaking towns I’ve ever seen. It sits right off the highway and along the widest point of the New Hope River. Sebastian parked on the street downtown, and we’re walking along the wide sidewalks that showcase adorable storefronts.

  Since we’re a few minutes early despite our unplanned stop, we wander down the street side by side.

  “I have to turn in my proposal for my photography project tomorrow,” he says, his eyes finding mine.

  “Oh, how long does it have to be?”

  “Not long.” He takes a step closer and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I wasn’t sure until today exactly what I wanted to do.”

  “And you know now?”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to need some help. It’s okay if you don’t want to, but I…”

  “I’ll help you any way I can. What do you need? What’s the subject matter?”

  “You.”

  I freeze. I’ve never felt comfortable in photos, but even less so since the fire. I made the woman who did my senior pictures take them in profile on my good side so my scars wouldn’t show. More often than not, when I’m out with friends and they pull out their phones to take pictures, I duck my head to disguise the scarring visible on my face. Sebastian’s asking to take photos of me, and I’m guessing they’d show my scars.

  “You’re so beautiful, Alex. And not despite your scarring. To me, your scars are evidence of how deeply you love.” His voice and eyes are soft as he leans toward me. “And when you told me about that guy you dated in Colorado, I started thinking about showing that. I promise you, if you let me do this, I won’t submit anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

  “If I’m in the pictures at all, I’m probably not going to be comfortable with them.”

  His chest rises with his deep inhale. “Maybe you could finally see you the way I see you.” His eyes lock on mine, and they’re full of tenderness and sincerity. It’s as if he has no idea that the things he says to me are so much at odds with his refusal to take our relationship beyond friendship.

  “Do you remember what that girl at the party said to you?” I ask.

  He frowns. “What girl?”

  “The girl who called me Freddy Krueger. She asked you why you’d want to be with someone like me, someone whose skin is disgusting when you could be with someone beautiful. I have to admit, when you touch me, I wonder the same thing.”

  “Do you remember what I told her?”

  I take a breath. “You told her she’d just shown everyone how ugly she was.”

  “Alex, who made you believe that you weren’t beautiful? I know you blame it on your scars, but I knew you before the fire, remember? You’ve always been insecure.”

  I can’t answer that question. I’m not sure any woman can. I’m pretty sure ninety percent of girls my age walk around believing they’re ugly—with or without scars, with or without makeup, with or without the extra ten pounds we gained during freshman year. We all believe ourselves to be ugly ducklings who spend every day hiding our flaws so we can try to pass for swans.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. “I trust you. So I’ll do it.”

  He grins. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to take pictures of you. This is definitely something to look forward to.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the screen. “Our meeting’s in five minutes. We should probably go.”

  I nod and fall into step beside him as he leads the way.

  A minute later, we’re stepping up to the most beautiful art gallery I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen many. Inside the glass doors, we’re greeted by the view of the river through the picture windows on the far wall. Even in this simple space in this tiny town, the building is as much a piece of art as the works it houses.

  A woman with curly red hair and a wide smile greets us when we enter. “Are you the BHU students?”

  “We are,” I say. “Are you Maggie Thompson?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s great to meet you,” I say. “We did a little research, and your achievements are so impressive for someone so young.”

  She chuckles softly. “I have to be honest, it’s a little bizarre imagining myself as an option for a research project on any college curriculum. I can’t say this has ever happened to me before.”

  “Your gallery is amazing,” Sebastian says, waving a hand. “I’m not surprised our professor respects your work so much.”

  “This isn’t my gallery. It belongs to William Bailey.”

  “Yes, we’ve met before,” Sebastian says. “We talked photography.”

  “Oh, great. I’m sorry he’s not here right now. His wife just had a baby, and he’s taking some time off. I can answer any questions you have about the collection, as I’m the one who curated it. We’re incredibly lucky to have a collection of this value in our little town.”

  “Is it pottery?” I step forward to examine a piece on a pedestal under a glass dome.

  “Yes,” Maggie says. “It’s called Kintsukuroi.”

  I dip my head to get a better look at the urn. There’s a huge crack up one side and a few smaller cracks branching out at the top, but cracks are now an almost-shimmering gold from whatever was used to repair the broken urn, and it adds a dimension and interest to the piece that makes me take a moment longer to examine it. A simple, unbroken urn, and I’d keep walking. “Kintsukuroi?” I ask. “Does that mean pottery?”

  “This is Japanese pottery, and it’s a classic example of Kintsukuroi, but the word itself means something that is more beautiful for having been broken. I’ve named the whole collection with that term, though it’s not all the traditional pottery.”r />
  “It’s incredible,” Sebastian says, ducking his head to study the piece.

  “I’m a little obsessed with concept, to be honest,” Maggie says. “I did my undergraduate thesis on mosaic work, which I like to think shares some of the same principles as Kintsukuroi. I’ve included some mosaic in this collection as well as some decoupage, and you can see those over here.”

  I follow her to the other side of the gallery, examining the pieces as she speaks about them and talks about why each is so special. With each she shares with us, something fills my chest—a heavy emotion I don’t want to feel today but can’t block out. By the time she’s shown us the whole collection, my throat is thick and I don’t trust myself to speak. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through my half of the interview questions we’ve prepared for her.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. She puts her arm on my shoulder and squeezes.

  I nod. “I didn’t expect…” I swallow, but it’s too late. A tear slips from my eye. Shit.

  Maggie gives me a sad smile. “Don’t be embarrassed. Art can and should evoke emotion. Maybe that’s why this collection is one of my favorites.” She nods to the stairway in the center of the gallery that leads to a lofted area above. “Can we talk upstairs? I have some fresh coffee and chocolate croissants from my sister’s bakery.”

  I wipe my cheeks and look to Sebastian. “Actually, we have interview questions for you if that’s okay.”

  Maggie nods. “We’ll get there. Come on.” She leads us upstairs to the loft area, where there’s a kitchenette and a small but cozy-looking seating area. Before we can protest, she pours us coffee and gives us each a plate with a croissant.