Going Under (The Blackhawk Boys Book 3)

by Lexi Ryan

  He steps forward, close enough that I can feel his heat. “Do what?”

  “Spend time with me. Come to my rescue. Make sure I make it home safely.” I wave a hand. “All of it. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “You think I’m here out of a sense of obligation?” He laughs. “Fuck, that’s insane.”

  “Is it? Can we just talk about the elephant in the room?” I ask him.

  He’s staring at me, and it takes a few beats for him to process that I’ve spoken. I’d laugh if seeing him drunk didn’t also unsettle something deep inside me, some old part of me that still wants Sebastian to be my rock. But I’m not the girl recovering in the hospital anymore. I’m not the girl crying at her sister’s grave. Those experiences are part of who I am now, but I’m more, too. I’m stronger. I don’t need Sebastian’s strength to hold me steady. Or I shouldn’t.

  I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Two years ago, the night before I left for Colorado…” He goes still, and I can’t make myself finish the sentence.

  “I crossed a line,” he says.

  I snort. God, the problem isn’t that he crossed a line—it’s that he didn’t. “Are you serious right now?”

  He cuts his eyes to me again, the muscle ticking in his jaw. “It was a mistake, and you’re obviously still angry with me about it.”

  I step away from him and wrap my hands around the porch rail. If I let myself look at him, I’ll overanalyze every expression that crosses his face. I realize I’m holding my breath and exhale. “It was a shitty thing for you to do.”

  He’s silent for several heavy beats of my heart. When I can’t stand the silence anymore, I release the railing and turn to face him. “Let me make sure I understand,” he says. “Since I almost kissed you two years ago, I can’t walk you home anymore?”

  “I don’t want…” I take a breath as I search for the words to explain how this makes me feel. “I don’t want a pity friendship.”

  “What the fuck is a pity friendship?”

  “It’s when you spend time with someone because you don’t want them to be alone.”

  “You’re an expert on what I want now?”

  “I think you made it perfectly clear what you do and don’t want from me two years ago.”

  He takes half a step forward, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Can you feel someone looking at your lips? Because his gaze is so intense on my mouth right now that I’m sure I could close my eyes and still feel it as distinctly as a touch. “Dammit, Alex, if I’d have known you’d hold such a grudge for thirty seconds of weakness, I would have kissed you that night. Fuck my better judgment. At least then I’d know how you taste.”

  I swallow hard and tell my pounding heart not to make more of this than it is. “You’re drunk, Sebastian.”

  Stepping back, he drags a hand over his face. “Yeah.” He takes another step back. “Good night, Alex.”

  I unlock the door and go inside, shutting it behind me without looking at him again. Slowly, I take the stairs up to my old room, close the door behind me, and lean against it. Only then do I allow myself to squeeze my eyes shut and take a long, deep breath to calm my racing heart.

  His words replay in my head, making the muscles in my stomach grow tight. Just once I’d like Sebastian Crowe to make good on one of the fantasies he inspires. Just once I’d like him to follow me into this room and lock the door before pushing me against it and lowering his mouth to mine. I’d like to feel those rough hands slide under my shirt to unbutton my jeans…

  I pull out my phone and text Bailey, letting her know I made it home okay. Then, without washing my face or changing my clothes, I fall into bed, close my eyes, and break a promise to myself by fantasizing about Sebastian Crowe.

  “At least then I’d know how you taste.”

  Chapter Five

  Sebastian

  Alex didn’t work today, thank God. I’m going to have to face her eventually, but if we’re going to talk about the things I said last night, I’d rather not do it at the shop. Or in front of Dante.

  Last night, I set out to get my mind off Alex, but ended up on her porch looking at her mouth and thinking about how much I wanted to kiss her. At least then I’d know how you taste.

  Jesus. I don’t think I meant to say it out loud. Or maybe I did. Maybe part of my mind wanted the excuse of the buzz to allow me to speak the truth. Maybe I want her to push me away.

  I’m not sure I can handle being her friend. I’m not some Neanderthal who doesn’t believe guys and girls can be friends. I was her friend throughout high school, as best I could be, but back then my reasons for not asking for more were fresher, my mistakes so close their bitter taste lingered on my tongue. Friendship requires a certain amount of contentment in the relationship, and with Alex I can’t imagine ever not wanting more.

  In sober retrospect, I know I said too much. And clearly Alex agrees. I’ll just text her and apologize. I try to imagine what that text would look like.

  Sorry I said I wish I’d kissed you. To be honest, I’m sure knowing how you taste would only make me want you more.

  Right. That’s not going to work, but I’ll figure out something.

  I expect the back lot to be empty except for my car and Dad’s, so I’m surprised to see Dante still here. He’s standing by his beat-up Jeep and frowning into his wallet.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, folds his wallet shut, and slides it into his back pocket. “Nothing. It’s all good.” He’s such a shitty liar.

  “Do you need money?”

  “Nah. I was just making sure I had enough to get gas. I’ve got it covered.”

  I start to reach for my wallet before I remember I used the last of my own cash to gas up the truck this morning. “Good thing today’s payday, right?” I say, but he shifts his eyes away. Fuck. “Tell me Dad paid you today.”

  “Sebastian, it’s no big deal.”

  “It fucking is a big deal. You worked like anybody else, and you should be paid.” This is why I came back here over a year ago. Before I left for my freshman year at Purdue, we found out Mom’s cancer was back. Between all her appointments and Dad spending more time with her, the business we’d worked so hard to make viable and honest was falling apart. Dante would go sometimes a couple of months without a paycheck. People think that when you’re a small business owner, you rake in the cash, but the opposite is often true. When times are tough, the owner is the last one to draw a check, and in the case of Crowe’s Automotive circa “the breast cancer years,” Dad and Dante both took the hit.

  I came home to save the business and be closer to Mom. Dad was so tied up in his grief over her illness that he didn’t give a damn about anything else. I knew Mom would beat it and he’d be glad the body shop was still around to support the family. And I was right. She fought and beat that evil shit, and Crowe’s Automotive still stands and people get paid what they’re owed. Or they did.

  “Sebastian,” Dante says. “I’m fine. I have savings. I’ll just dip into that until your dad has the cash to pay me.”

  I set my jaw and grit my teeth so I won’t say more than I should. Business has been steady. The money should be there. And Dante’s no fool. He knows that. Fuck, he’s responsible for well over half of our accounted billable hours.

  “Don’t do that,” he says.

  “Do what?”

  He arches a brow. “Don’t assume the worst. It’s one paycheck.”

  “I’m going to figure this out,” I tell him, and the gnawing in my gut demands that I do it soon.

  “It’s fine.” Dante combs his jaw-length hair out of his face and draws in a deep breath. “Actually, I do need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “It’s Alex.”

  Anything but that.

  “She’s nervous about starting at BHU. I was hoping you could introduce her to your friends. You know, some nice girls she could study with or something.”

  I want to tell Dante that
I don’t have a lot of friends outside of the guys on the team, but that’s not entirely true. I could introduce Alex to Bailey and Mia—I have no doubt they’d love her. The problem with that plan is that then I wouldn’t just be seeing Alex at work and possibly on campus—she’d be around my friends off campus, too. Hell, even without introducing her to any of my friends, I ran into her at that party last night.

  But I can’t tell Dante that I’d prefer to keep my distance from his little sister because I can’t stop fantasizing about her. I don’t think he—or any of her three other brothers, for that matter—would appreciate that very much.

  I have no doubt that Alex could hold her own against any unwanted advances, but with four older brothers playing guard dog, she’s never had to. The DeLuca boys have one rule for their friends when it comes to their baby sister, and it’s a simple one: Alex is off-limits. You don’t check her out. You don’t come on to her. And you sure as fuck don’t touch her. I think it’s always been that way, but when her twin died four years ago, the DeLuca brother protectiveness kicked up a few notches.

  If a few hotheaded brothers were all that stood between us now, I’d happily take a few punches. Hell, if I met Alex today, I’d only need one word to describe her: mine. But I didn’t meet her today. I met her five years ago when I was a different person, and the choices I made are unforgivable. So she can’t be mine. I forfeited that right before I had any idea what I was losing.

  “I’m not asking you to move her in with them,” Dante says, mistaking my silence for hesitation. “Just include her every once in a while. For me?”

  I nod. “You’ve got it.”

  He grins. “But tell the guys to keep their distance, will ya? She’s…” He grimaces, looking for the word, and I think innocent. “She’s not like other girls her age.”

  “I know,” I assure him. “I’ll watch out for her.”

  We both climb into our cars, and I head to my apartment, where I’m greeted with a pile of dirty dishes and a coffee table covered in pizza boxes and empty cans of beer. I just cleaned this place up yesterday, and it already looks as if it’s been ransacked.

  “I’m not cleaning up his mess this time,” I mutter to myself. Suddenly I’m exhausted, so I head to the kitchen for some caffeine.

  When I move aside a stack of papers so I can get to the coffee pot, something catches my eye. The copy of our new lease that I gave my roommate two weeks ago is still sitting on the counter unsigned.

  “Doug!” I call. I shove the coffee pot under the faucet and turn on the tap. “Don’t forget to sign this lease before you head out today. They need it by this weekend.”

  Doug comes out of his room as I’m measuring the coffee grounds. “Didn’t we talk about that?” he asks. His eyes are only half opened and his hair is sleep-mussed. It’s five fucking thirty at night.

  I press the brew button on the coffee pot. “Didn’t we talk about what?”

  “About the lease.” He yawns. “Change of plans, man.”

  My stomach sinks, because I know that look on his face. Doug is four years older than me and should, by all conventional standards, already have his shit together. I moved in with him last year when I started at BHU and didn’t want to pay for dorm living but couldn’t handle living with my parents. “What do you mean, change of plans?”

  “Moving back in with my folks. I need to take some time to find myself, ya know? Don’t worry about me. I’ll move out, and you can have one of your college buddies move in here with you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nah, man. I’m serious. I gotta do me, but you’ll be fine.”

  “That’s fucking presumptuous of you, Doug.” I want to throw something. Even if a small fraction of my brain is relieved that I won’t have to live in his filth anymore, the rest of my brain understands that no Doug means no apartment. All of my friends have their living arrangements in place for the semester, and the week and a half left in our lease doesn’t give me enough time to vet strangers as potential roommates. “Thanks for the notice.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome, bro,” he says, completely missing my sarcasm. He grabs a mug from the cabinet and fills it with coffee from my fresh pot. “Thanks for the brew.”

  * * *

  Alexandra

  Martina’s bed is piled with boxes of Mom’s scrapbooking supplies. Every time I look in that direction, I have to push down the knee-jerk reaction to clear them away so Martina can just climb under her covers when she gets home. I used to do that when we were in high school. She’d go out with her friends, and I’d be stuck at home looking at her laundry-covered bed. I’d put it away for her so she wouldn’t have to do it when she got back…and so Mom wouldn’t know Martina had blown off her chores again.

  But she’s not coming home, and sleeping in this room we shared for so many years makes my chest ache. I can’t wait to move tomorrow. I planned on spending my evening packing my bags, but since I’ve only been home two nights, it turns out that task only took me fifteen minutes.

  “Looks like it’s time for another night hanging with Mom,” I mutter, but then, as if on cue, my phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Sebastian.

  Sebastian: Are you free tonight?

  I scan the words three times before I’m convinced that I’m not misreading them. First, I’m surprised he still has my number. But then, he’s still programmed into my phone. Second, he’s asking me about my plans. Why does my heart do this? It’s as if it decided years ago that Sebastian was my one and only, and my brain’s opinion doesn’t count. His words from last night are definitely not helping the situation.

  Me: No plans.

  Sebastian: My friends are having an end-of-summer cookout. Want to come? I thought you might want to meet some people from BHU.

  His friends are having a party and he wants me to go with him? Like, with him with him, or just as the buddy tagging along? It would be awesome if I could just say yes without analyzing every word, but I’m not built that way.

  Sebastian: It’s okay if you don’t want to.

  Me: No, it sounds good. Thanks for the invitation.

  Sebastian: I’ll pick you up at seven.

  My eyes go wide as I look at the clock. Seven past six. He’s going to pick me up in less than an hour.

  Let the panicking commence.

  Chapter Six

  Alexandra

  Fifty minutes later, I’m staring into the mirror and wishing I’d declined his invitation. I’d like to say I didn’t change my outfit fifteen times and that I didn’t spend extra time on my makeup, but that would be a big fat lie. I’d have changed my clothes another five times if I thought it would make Sebastian look at me tonight the way he did in that one moment two years ago.

  And for a minute last night.

  But he was drunk, so that doesn’t count. Does it?

  Obviously, Operation Forget About Sebastian Crowe is going just great.

  I stare at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door and try to focus on the good things. I look kind of fashionable. I settled on a pair of jeans Aunt Phyllis bought me, some black ballet flats, and an off-the-shoulder shirt that was also a gift from my aunt. The shoes are comfortable but cute, and the jeans say I’m not trying too hard.

  My problem is with the shirt. My hand settles on the puckered skin that marks the left side of my neck and collarbone. This shirt shows way more of my scar than I’m comfortable with, so even though I’m trying to push myself to embrace my body and its scars for what they are, I grab a scarf at the last minute and wrap it around my neck. After putting on some hoop earrings and a light coat of lip gloss, I feel almost pretty.

  I spent my last two years of high school in high-necked shirts and scarves, but there was no hiding the scarring on my face. People would stare and ask questions I didn’t want to answer. It’s been almost four years since the fire, so you’d think I’d be getting to the point where I’m comfortable with both the scars and the questions, but I�
��m not that Zen.

  I tear myself from my critical self-inspection in front of the mirror and go down to the kitchen. Mom’s cooking chicken at the stove, and Dante is setting the table. My brothers are all good about making sure they come home for dinner at least once a week, though they rarely manage to make it on the same night.

  “Mr. Patterson dropped off the keys and security code while you were in the shower,” Mom says. She sprinkles some crushed red pepper on the chicken. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay staying alone in that big house?”

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.” Mom’s old boss owns a gorgeous house in the historic district by campus, and while he spends the next nine months in Europe, I’m going to housesit for him. In other words, I’m going to live in a gorgeous home rent-free instead of trying to spread my wings from the confines of my childhood bedroom. The arrangement doesn’t suck.

  “Well, you tell me if you get lonely. I’ll stay with you if you need.”

  “I’m twenty-one,” I remind her. I celebrated my birthday before I left Boulder, and in truth I was glad to do it there—away from the memories and the hollow ache of thinking about how Martina and I should have celebrated turning twenty-one together.

  Mom looks at the calendar on the fridge and points to the date. “But you shouldn’t be twenty-one for another six weeks.”

  I shake my head. Martina and I were born almost eight weeks premature, and Mom always insists that I’m not as old as I think because I shouldn’t have been born so soon. She did that with Martina, too. “Either way,” I say, “I think I can handle housesitting half a mile away, but I promise I’ll invite you for a sleepover if I get too lonely.”

  “Or I could come by for a Murder, She Wrote marathon.”

  “Okay,” I promise. “It’s a plan.”

  “Are you joining us for dinner?”