[The Blackhawk Boys 01.0] Spinning Out

by Lexi Ryan

  “What happened with her? The girl Brogan liked?”

  I lift my head and meet her soft brown eyes. “I realized later she only wanted me because I’m a Woodison. Brogan’s family never had enough money for her to give him a second glance.”

  Something changes in her expression. Her eyes seem to harden, and she leans back in her chair as she stiffens. “You’re a Woodison? As in Woodison Pork. Woodison Farms?”

  Figures. She doesn’t recognize me as the star football player, but she knows of my dad. “Guilty.” That’s the worst part about going to college here. Everyone knows my dad’s business, or at least knows of it. You can’t miss an empire that powerful in a place as small as Blackhawk Valley.

  She shoves her book into her bag and shakes her head as she stands. “Don’t worry about this, Arrow. I’m not going to ruin a friendship just so I can be the townie who got to go on a few dates with a football player.”

  She starts to walk away, and I stop her with a hand on her shoulder. “What just happened?”

  She shrugs. “I won’t be choosing between you and Brogan. I don’t want anyone. I don’t have time for that in my life right now.”

  When she steps out from my grasp, I let her. I watch her walk away, and even though my brain is telling me it’s for the best, that getting involved with her would be a mistake, my stomach plummets, and it’s all I can do to trap the word on my tongue: Stay.

  I wander around the trailer park under the light of the street lamps, one hand in my pocket where my knuckles brush the leaf Arrow gave me. “It matches your sweater.”

  “Hey, sexy!”

  I spin around to the sound of Bailey’s voice and manage a smile for my friend.

  “So did you talk to your boy, Brogan?” She cocks her head, and a lock of her long blond hair falls across her forehead. “Or is it Arrow?”

  Sighing, I roll my eyes. “It’s neither.”

  She slings an arm over my shoulders and bumps her hip against mine as we walk down the gravel lane. “Do you want to talk about it? Or do you want to pretend that having two insanely sexy men drool over you is no big?”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “No one was drooling. It was a big misunderstanding.”

  The gravel crunches under our feet as we walk. “Brogan told me about your texts over dinner. He’s so cute when he talks about you. If you can call any guy with shoulders that broad cute. Damn, girl, will you just hit that and tell me about it?”

  Cutting my eyes to her, I shake my head. “The last thing I need right now is a relationship with a BHU jock.”

  “Who said anything about a relationship? Use him for his body. You’re young.”

  “You’re sick.”

  She gapes at me. “Using an acquaintance for sex is a rite of passage! A time-honored tradition men have participated in since going off to college became a thing. Hell, probably before that.” Her smile falls from her face, and she sighs. “I went back to Mason’s room after dinner hoping to get something out of Arrow, but he was studying and tight-lipped, and moodier than my mom was when she was going through menopause. I wanted to ask him about your little walk, but Brogan was there, so I decided not to.”

  “I appreciate your restraint.”

  “Come on, Mee. Spill. I’m dying here only knowing half the story.”

  I shrug and rub my leaf between my fingers. “I thought Arrow was the guy who’d been texting me. Like I said, it was a big misunderstanding, and now it’s cleared up.”

  “There was something in your eyes when you came back from that walk. Will you please admit you like him?”

  I fold my arms. “For one, I hardly know him, so any feelings I may or may not have had today were completely superficial.”

  “Whatever. Insta-love’s a thing. I’ve watched Disney movies.”

  “Two,” I say, ignoring her objection, “he’s a Woodison. Uriah Woodison’s son. He’s literally the son of my father’s worst enemy.”

  “Like Romeo and Juliet!” She throws her arms in the air. “So flipping romantic.”

  “Why does everyone think those idiots were romantic? Shakespeare wasn’t writing a romance. He was writing a tragedy. Do you remember how it ended?”

  She cocks her head thoughtfully. “Something about et tu, Brute?”

  “Dork,” I mutter. She tries to pretend she’s dumb, but I know better. And I also know how much she hated the ending of Romeo and Juliet when we read it in high school. I had to listen to her rant for a solid twenty minutes about what a selfish, immature idiot Juliet was. That might not seem like a long time, but it’s probably the longest single block of time I’ve ever witnessed Bailey focus on anything that doesn’t involve a hot guy.

  “This isn’t Shakespeare,” she says, her voice softening. “It’s your life.”

  “Exactly. And I’m not stupid, selfish, immature Juliet.”

  “So that leaves Brogan. The sexy, goofy, charming Adonis.”

  “And Arrow’s best friend.”

  “Fair enough.” She sighs. “So does this mean neither Blackhawk boy will be initiating you to the pleasures of being a young woman?”

  “Sorry to say, but I really appreciate your concern for my sexual health.”

  She bumps my hip with hers again, and I giggle.

  “Speaking of sexual health and relationships . . .” I clear my throat. “You want to talk about what’s happening between you and Mason?”

  She arches a brow. “I think you already know what’s happening between us. We weren’t, um, quiet about it, as you and Arrow pointed out.”

  “What’s going on other than the hot monkey sex?”

  “It’s just fun. He knows that.”

  “Bail.”

  She kicks a piece of gravel with her purple Chuck Taylor. “What?”

  “This isn’t about Nic, is it?” I shake my head. “Don’t throw away a chance with a great guy because you’re waiting for my loser brother to get out of prison.”

  “I didn’t say anything about waiting for Nic.”

  “You didn’t have to,” I whisper. I find her hand at her side and squeeze it. “I love my brother, but he’s made his own choices, and they weren’t good.”

  “I know.” Her jaw has gone tight, just like it does every time we talk about Nic.

  “I don’t want to see his bad decisions drag you down.”

  She tilts her chin and studies the sky. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the three-quarter moon. “I know, Mee. And I’m trying to move on. I promise.”

  Two weeks later . . .

  When I park the car at the quarry south of town, I can already hear the laughter on the other side of the rocks. The sound makes me tense, but I promised Bailey I’d come if she got an A on her calc test. Because she’s way freaking smarter than her grades would indicate, I knew she could do it if she put her mind to it. So here I am.

  It’s not that I’m antisocial. I actually love hanging with Bailey. But since she started going to BHU this fall, I cringe at the thought of her group gatherings. I don’t fit in with her friends from the university. While she might not care how they view a townie from the trailer park, I can’t ever get past what different worlds we come from. I tried to bring it up with Bail once, and she suggested—very politely, because she is my best friend—that I get over myself.

  With a deep breath, I tuck my phone in my pocket, climb from the car, and begin navigating the rocky mound that separates the gravel lot from the old quarry. An autumn chill hangs in the air, and I’m glad I dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. Because of the water and privacy, this spot is an old favorite for parties anytime the temp’s above freezing. Bailey said she and Mason are building a bonfire by the water tonight. It should be nice, actually. Assuming I can get over myself.

  “Oh. Hey.”

  I look up toward the deep voice and see Brogan standing on a rocky ledge that overlooks the lake. He’s dressed in a BHU Football sweatshirt and jeans that hug his narrow hips, and his smile falters as he takes me in. />
  “You didn’t know I’d be here, did you?” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I told Bailey to let it go, but she’s . . . determined. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known. I don’t want to make you feel awkward.”

  “No, I didn’t, but . . .” I glance around to take in the group and recognize Mason, Chris, and a couple of girls I’ve seen hanging out on Bailey’s floor in her dorm. He belongs here more than I do. “I’m not avoiding you. I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

  He grins, showing off his straight white teeth. He really is handsome. “Can I get you anything to drink? We’ve got beer and vodka, and some fruit that’s been soaking long enough that it’d probably knock you on your ass.”

  I shake my head. “I’m driving.”

  His grin mellows to a softer smile. “Bailey said you were very responsible.”

  I arch a brow. “Is that a bad thing?” Well, crap. Now I sound defensive.

  “Do you have any idea how many drunk girls I see on campus every weekend? And that’s fine. We’re young. I get it. But I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s refreshing, honestly, to meet a girl who doesn’t think she has to drink half a bottle of cheap vodka to make friends.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  He opens his mouth, but his reply is cut off by Bailey’s scream from the other side of the fire. “She’s here!” She hustles over and wraps her arms around me, squeezing. “I’m so glad you’re here. Brogan’s here, too, but I see you already saw that.”

  “Are you trying to play matchmaker, Bail?”

  She grins and shimmies back toward the fire. “No idea what you’re talking about.” Mason grabs her from behind and wraps her up in his arms. Squealing, she spins and kisses him in that long, open-mouthed way that makes you wish you weren’t watching.

  Sighing, I look to Brogan. “Are they like that all the time?”

  He makes a face. “Pretty much. I mean, we’ve all started walking around the dorm room with our eyes closed and earplugs in, so I can’t tell you for sure.”

  I laugh. “God, no one could blame you.” We walk toward the fire, and I take a seat on the grass close enough to hear the crackling of the burning wood and feel the heat, but not so close that I’ll feel like I have a sunburn. I pat the patch of grass beside me and look up at Brogan. “Wanna keep me company? Looks like Bailey might be otherwise occupied tonight.”

  He grins and drops down to sit by my side. “It would be my pleasure.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “Thanks for being nice to me.”

  He frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I’ve kind of been a bitch to you.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches as he bites back a smile.

  “What?” I ask. “What’s that look for?”

  “No offense, Mia, but I don’t think you know how to be a bitch. And besides, there’s nothing bitchy about turning down a guy who doesn’t interest you.”

  I frown. “Who said you didn’t interest me?”

  He lies back on the grass and threads his fingers through his hair as he stares up at the sky. “This conversation is awkward. You know that, right?”

  Sighing, I lie beside him, shivering a little when my shoulders hit the cold grass. “Totally awkward.”

  “Tell me something about yourself.” He rolls his head to the side so he’s looking at me. “Anything.”

  “Is this you asking about foot fungus again?”

  He chuckles. “No. It doesn’t have to be something bad. Just something I don’t know.”

  “I sing.” The words take me by surprise, and I bite my lip while I try to figure out how much I want to say about it. “It’s not a secret or anything. I go to open-mic night at the Vortex a couple of times a month. I’ve always loved it. I don’t remember a time it wasn’t something I looked forward to.”

  He turns onto his side and studies my face. “I bet you’re amazing. Are you going to school for music?”

  “Terrace doesn’t exactly have a music department.” I shake my head, suddenly embarrassed that I shared this much. “It’s just a hobby. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  He grunts. “I know all about that lie, Mia. It’s like when I tell people football isn’t a big deal to me, that it’s just a way to get part of my tuition paid while having fun. But nobody works this hard for something they don’t care about.”

  “It’s your thing.”

  He grins, and my stomach does a little flip-flop at what a good smile he has and how it feels to have that smile directed at me. “Yeah. It’s totally my thing. And singing is yours, but I’m not going to be that guy who tells you to go after the dream. I know it’s more complicated than inspirational posters make it out to be.”

  After talking to Arrow and seeing the intensity in his eyes when he talked about his thing, it’s a relief that Brogan understands. As a Woodison, I’m sure Arrow’s never given a second thought to whether or not he should chase his dreams. We’re not all that lucky.

  “My high school brought in this motivational speaker my senior year,” I tell Brogan. “He was all about walking the tightrope without a safety net. He said if you have a net, you’ll need it. You’ll use it. But if you want to make yourself reach your dream, you have to take away the net so you have no other choice.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a metaphor for bravery or suicide,” Brogan says.

  “Exactly! I kept thinking only someone who’s always had a safety net would preach something like that. Maybe he didn’t have a career to fall back on, but he had family who would step up. Some place to sleep when he didn’t have money for rent, food when there’s no money for groceries. No one relying on him to keep the lights on.”

  “So you sing,” he says. He reaches out and toys with a lock of my hair. “But you’re majoring in something practical.”

  “I don’t know about practical. Criminology. I want to go to law school. That’s enough of a stretch, I think.”

  “Ah, the money path. Not a bad plan. Then you can be the safety net for your kids, and they can grow up to believe they pursued their dreams without one.”

  The butterflies in my stomach swoon. “That’s pretty much the plan,” I admit.

  “Law school.” He nods as if he’s mulling the idea over. “You’re smart enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m the creepy guy who watched you tutor kids at the library, remember?”

  “Right. I forgot about that.” I grin and he grins back, and we lie there in the cool grass with the sounds of the party carrying on around us. “Turns out you have some game after all, Brogan.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I shrug and scoot closer. There’s a connection between us I can’t deny. It might not be that sizzling attraction I felt with Arrow, but maybe it’s safer than that. Warmth without the fire. “Because I’m lying here thinking about how much I like you.”

  “I’m told I’m a very likeable guy. It’s a curse. I’m intimately familiar with the friend zone.”

  “Hmm, and yet I’m wondering how I can get you to kiss me.”

  He props himself up on one elbow and scans my face before his gaze drops to my mouth. “For real?”

  The butterflies recover from their swoon to flutter wildly. “Oh, yeah.”

  Slowly, he leans over me and sweeps his lips against mine. Once, then twice. I’ve been kissed before, but Brogan’s kiss is different. Most boys kiss like they’re trying to rush to the next event. The kiss is nothing more than an irritating prerequisite to the activities they’re truly interested in. Brogan’s kisses are an effort to slow down time, to memorize the shape and taste of my lips. Under his mouth, I’m not some townie crashing the college kids’ party. I’m something to be cherished.

  He doesn’t climb on top of me or try to snake his hand up my shirt. And when I part my lips, he only briefly touches his tongue to mine before pulling away and drawing in a ragged breath. “I’d love to hear you sing sometime,” he says, and I bli
nk at him for a minute before my eyes can focus on his blue ones. “Would you mind?”

  “I think I’d like that.”

  Grinning, he finds my hand and laces our fingers together. “It’s a date.”

  May, four months after the accident

  Mrs. Barrett meets me at the door and wraps me into her arms before I have a chance to say hello. She’s a large woman—as tall and as broad as her son, and her hugs bring my face right into her bosom. “Have you been praying for a miracle, Mia?”

  “Every day,” I whisper. “Every single day.”

  When she pulls back, her eyes are filled with tears, but a hopeful smile covers her face. “He’s having a good day today,” she says, leading me to the back of the house. “You know how much he loves sunny days.”

  “Spring is his favorite.”

  The click of her heels against the dull hardwood floors echoes off the ceiling. Mrs. Barrett and I don’t talk about the past. We don’t talk about the fact that before the accident, she wouldn’t acknowledge me as Brogan’s girlfriend—that she objected to his dating someone she deemed so beneath him, and regularly thwarted his attempts to be with me. We don’t talk about the nasty things she once said to me.

  We’re bonded by this tragedy and our love of Brogan. If she blames me for being there that night, she’s never said so. And if she doesn’t blame me . . . well, I’m sure she’d be the only one.

  She opens the doors to the three-season room and motions me toward the big, sunny space where Brogan sits during the day. He’s strapped into his wheelchair, eyes at half-mast, mouth hanging open.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she says, before leaving and pulling the doors closed behind her.

  I walk over to him and touch his face. It’s swollen from the edema, distorting the features I once loved so much. His body is gaunt after months of muscle atrophy have eaten away at the solid mass of a man he once was.

  “Good morning, handsome.” I press a kiss to his cheek before picking up his hand and holding it in both of mine. “I saw Arrow this morning.” Hanging my head, I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering my argument with Brogan on New Year’s Eve, the betrayal in his eyes. “You think I don’t see the way you look at him?” But even as angry as he was with his best friend, I know Brogan wouldn’t want to see Arrow destroy his life. He’d want better for him. “It’s good. His house arrest will keep him out of trouble. It’ll help him get his head on straight.”