Spinning Out (The Blackhawk Boy #1)

by Lexi Ryan

  I hate that game. It’s painful and pointless.

  Arrow

  The worst part of having a party at my house is that I can’t just leave when I’m done with it. I was done with this party about twenty minutes after everyone arrived. Not a party, I mentally correct. I’m not allowed to have parties. But the judge encouraged me to “keep company” with people he deems a good influence. Namely, the guys from the team. The ones I let down.

  I don’t even know how to be around people without being trashed anymore. House arrest comes with those fun little piss tests, though, so my using days are behind me. Drugs and booze never offered the oblivion I was looking for anyway. Some demons can’t be escaped.

  Keegan came back not long after I kicked him out, and I took his apology with a silent nod. “You can talk shit about any of us,” Chris told him, “but Mia’s off-limits.” And I was grateful he said it so I didn’t have to.

  “Lemme stay,” Trish says now in a drunken slur. She smells like whiskey and is dressed in a skimpy bikini top and a pair of jean shorts that show more ass than they cover. She’s always tried a little too hard around Brogan, but it’s like I’m her substitute now, and lately she uses any excuse she can to get close. Like tonight when she tagged along with Keegan, making him think it was a date until they arrived and she changed her tune.

  “Not a good idea,” I say, taking a half step back.

  She snakes her hand into my shirt and curls her lips into a smile as her fingers skim across my abs. “You won’t be sorry.” She lifts onto her toes and presses her mouth to my neck, and I want so badly to feel something, anything, that I knot my hand in her hair and yank her head back so I can press my mouth to hers.

  Moaning, she slides her tongue against mine and hitches one leg around my waist. She circles her hips in a way that promises just what would happen if I let her stay.

  The kiss is sloppy and reminds me of New Year’s Eve in a flash that brings on a wave of nausea I stomp down out of sheer determination.

  “Woodison!” Chris barks.

  I tear my mouth away from Trish’s just in time to see Mia at the foot of the stairs, hurt all over her face. It’s not there long. She lifts her chin and covers her face in a mask of disinterest. But I saw it, and I’m the world’s biggest asshole.

  I thought she’d gone to bed. Fuck.

  Because it wasn’t just any girl I kissed. It was Trish. Worst fucking choice possible. And it shouldn’t matter, but it does. What Mia thinks of me and how I make her feel will always matter. No hangover could change that, no high.

  Chris gives me a hard look. He doesn’t know what happened between me and Mia—no one does, unless you count us and Brogan, I guess. But Chris is a good guy, astute on a level these other guys wouldn’t get. He sees things. Always knows more than he has reason to.

  “Need a ride back to campus, Trish?” Chris asks.

  Her fingers slide under the waistband of my jeans. “Do I?” she asks. After seeing the look on Mia’s face when I pulled away, the nausea is back, and I just want Trish to stop fucking touching me. Now and forever. “Or should I stay so we can be alone?”

  “You need a ride,” I say, forcing a straight face. “Sorry. Sex is prohibited by my probation, and I’m afraid you’d be too much of a temptation.”

  Mason chokes on his beer, and Chris bites back a smile.

  Trish, however, buys it, and her hazy eyes go big. God, why did no one notice how much she was drinking? “That’s inhumane.”

  “I’ll have sex with you, Trish,” Keegan calls.

  She attempts a smile. “Nah. That’s okay.”

  Keegan sighs heavily. “Women never want guys from the O-line. They all want the men with the glory positions.”

  “Whatever,” Mason says. “I saw that girl doing the walk of shame from your door this morning.”

  “Oh. Right,” Keegan says, nodding. “Good point. Damn, she was hot.”

  “Come on, you guys,” Chris says. “Pile your drunk asses into my car. It’s time to head out.”

  I follow them and help Trish into the back seat. She’s really the only one who’s had too much to drink, but I’m still glad they carpooled tonight.

  “We’re planning to go to Indy to visit Brogan next week,” Chris says as I shut Trish’s door. “Want to come?”

  The sound of my best friend’s name brings my walls down, and any humor I felt earlier flees. “I can’t. House arrest, remember?” I lift my foot and tug on my jeans to show my ankle monitor.

  Grimacing, Chris shakes his head. “Right. Sorry. We’ll tell him you said hi.”

  Nausea crashes over me, threatening to break through my walls. I’ve gotta get away from this conversation, and Chris clearly feels the same. No doubt Mia was the one who guilted him into visiting Brogan. She primps and fusses before each visit up there as if she’s getting ready for a date.

  Mason climbs into the passenger seat, and I watch as Chris pulls out of the circle drive. When I head back in, I spot Mia through the French doors off the living room. She stacks the dirty dishes and throws away the beer bottles.

  I should go to my room and get away from her, but I hate the idea of her cleaning up after me and the guys, so instead of what I should do, I head back out there. “You don’t have to do that.”

  She hesitates for a beat before continuing to gather trash. “It’s no problem.”

  “From what I can tell, this job is all you do. Do you go out? Spend time with your friends?”

  She won’t look at me. “I’m not a hermit, if that’s what you’re asking. I get out plenty.” She heads to the other side of the pool, and I follow.

  “Visiting him doesn’t count as getting out.” The words scrape my throat, and I didn’t even say his name. I can’t say his name. The man she visits isn’t the Brogan I knew. He isn’t my best friend. Not anymore.

  Mia has gone still. It’s too dark out here, but I wish I could see her face. I want to know if talking about him hurts her as much as it hurts me, and then I want to wrap her in my arms and do anything I can to ease that pain away. “What do you want from me, Arrow?”

  I want the hope I feel when I look in your eyes. The feel of you in my arms. The forgiveness I don’t deserve.

  I want to go back to the day we met and kiss you—claim you before he can.

  Everything.

  I want everything.

  “Nothing. Go to bed. I’ll clean up the rest.”

  Part II. Before

  October, Fifteen Months Before the Accident

  Mia

  Something came up and I can’t meet to study with you tonight. Call me and we’ll reschedule.

  Hastily, I sign my name and add my number to the bottom of the note. Bailey lost her cell phone this morning and has been borrowing her roommate’s. I highly doubt she has my number memorized or written in a book somewhere. She’s not that organized.

  I pin the note to the corkboard on her dorm-room door, hoist my bag over my shoulder, and head to my car. I was supposed to help Bailey study for her calculus test tonight, but someone called needing a sitter, and I don’t like to pass up easy cash.

  My phone buzzes as I climb into my beat-up ’97 Escort. The screen shows a text message. It’s a local number, but not one I know.

  Unknown: Is this the girl who just left a note on Bailey’s door?

  I frown at my phone, running the number through my memory to see if it rings any bells. It doesn’t.

  Me: Yes. Is everything okay?

  I step out of my car and am halfway back to Bailey’s dorm when the next text comes through.

  Unknown: Not exactly.

  My heart surges into my throat.

  Me: What happened?

  In the few seconds it takes for the reply to come through, I imagine countless horrible scenarios involving Bailey. An accident at the crosswalk on the way to class; assault; alcohol poisoning. When the text comes through, I have to read it several times.

  Unknown: I fell.


  Fell? I blink at my screen and stop walking.

  Me: Who is this?

  Unknown: I’m a guy on Bailey’s floor. I’ve never met you before. I think we need to remedy this ASAP.

  Shaking my head, I sink down onto a bench and type out a reply.

  Me: I thought you said you fell?

  Him: For you. I mean, a little bit. I see you studying in the library. Not like in a creepy-stalker kind of way, but I noticed you—enough to text you and risk you thinking I’m desperate.

  I bite back a grin. I have to give him credit. He’s the first guy to come on to me through an anonymous text. Before I can decide whether or not to reply, my phone buzzes again.

  Him: I swear I’ve never done this before. You’re just . . . insanely beautiful. Please don’t think I’m a creep.

  The next text has my phone buzzing in my hand just as I finish reading.

  Him: That ship’s sailed, hasn’t it?

  I actually laugh out loud, and even as the rational part of my brain tells me I should ignore these texts, I find myself typing a reply.

  Me: Lil bit.

  My worries about Bailey put to rest, I head back to the car. My phone buzzes again as I walk.

  Him: Shit. I have no game. No, worse than that. I have so little game that I walk into a room, and every dude around me has less game just by my nearness. But I’m told I have a real nice personality.

  I can’t help but laugh. I’m entertained—as much as one can be by creepy texts from random guys. I’m still smiling when the next text message comes through.

  Him: Can you just erase this whole conversation and come to my party tomorrow night? We can pretend we’re meeting for the first time? Bailey will be there. She’s dating my roommate Mason.

  Bailey already invited me to that party, and I declined. This guy may think he wants me, but the truth is nobody wants a townie at their college party.

  Me: Thanks for the invitation.

  Him: That’s you turning the creep down nicely, isn’t it? Please, tell me you’re hideous under your clothes. Maybe you have a few extra nipples, and I don’t have to kick myself for blowing this?

  Me: No extra nipples, sorry.

  Him: That’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’d still think you were hot, even with a couple of extra nips. What about foot fungus?

  Me: Not last I checked. But seriously, foot fungus would be a deal-breaker for you?

  Him: You’re right. I’d just buy you some ointment. What about an incurable STD?

  Me: Not that I’m aware of.

  Him: Throw me a bone. There has to be something unappealing about you.

  Me: I’m an insomniac.

  Him: FAIL. Now I’m thinking of you lying in bed.

  Him: And now you’re thinking about me thinking about you lying in bed, and I’m at least twice the creep.

  Me: I’m afraid of geese. Like, irrationally so. They terrify me.

  Him: That’s a little weird. Okay. What else ya got?

  Me: I have to get to work. I’ll think about it and get back to you.

  Him: I look forward to it.

  I can’t help but grin on my way back to my car. Whoever this guy is, he makes me laugh. Creepy introduction aside, that appeals to me, and by the time I get the kids at my babysitting job in bed that night, I’m still thinking about him.

  I settle into the couch with a glass of water and grab my phone.

  Me: I’m just a townie. Thought you should know.

  Him: A Blackhawk Valley native?

  Me: Sorry to say.

  Him: Me too. Born and raised.

  I bite my lip. I didn’t expect that. Sure, a handful of Blackhawk Valley kids stick around and go to BHU, but it’s tough to get admitted, and most of us can’t afford it anyway. The dorms are full of East Coasters whose rich parents think the rural college will keep their kids out of trouble, and city kids who are here on athletic scholarships.

  Me: You never told me your name.

  Him: No way. When I meet you and sweep you off your feet, I refuse to have you connect me with the creep who stole your phone number and tried to pick you up with a text message.

  Me: So you’re going to meet me and never give me your number?

  Him: I’ll give you my number, but first you have to delete these messages. You haven’t done that yet, have you?

  Me: You’re pretty funny for a creep. I’ll give you that.

  Him: Here’s the deal. You come tomorrow, and I promise I’ll tell you my name. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

  I can’t believe I’m actually considering it, but I don’t reply. No need to get his hopes up only to disappoint him when I come to my senses.

  * * *

  Four days later . . .

  I find myself at Bailey’s side as we knock on the door to the suite down the hall. She said she left her books here and needs them to study. But Mason opens the door and doesn’t bother with a “hello” before he drags Bailey in the room and kisses her.

  “Books, Bailey,” I remind her firmly. “We’re here for books.”

  I’m not sure if they’re dating or just fucking. Bailey hasn’t specified. I’m not sure she cares. She isn’t looking for a meaningful relationship. Living down the hall from her with his hard body, dark skin, and seductive green eyes, Mason is exactly the kind of guy Bailey likes—readily available and sexy as sin. The first time I met him, I couldn’t look away.

  “We’ll be right back,” Bailey manages before dragging Mason to his room and shutting the door behind them.

  I groan and frown at the closed door for a minute. Rookie mistake. What did I think was going to happen if I followed her here?

  I head into the suite, plop down onto the couch in the shared living area, and pull out my English homework. All of BHU’s dorms are set up like this—two doubles sharing a bathroom and common living space. I’m green with envy that Bailey gets to live in a space like this while I’m stuck in the trailer with Dad, but it’s not like she doesn’t make sacrifices to live this life.

  I have my legs folded under me and my notebook in my lap when someone sighs dramatically.

  I look up and see a tall, broad-shouldered guy scowling at the red necktie hanging around Mason’s doorknob.

  “Jesus, Mason,” he mutters, and my mouth goes dry. Mason is hot, but this man is freaking divine. I can’t help but watch, transfixed, as he drags a hand through his dark hair and his biceps bulge against his fitted T-shirt.

  Mason’s roommate. I bite my lip, recalling our exchanged text messages. I haven’t thought about my mystery texter in a couple days. I should have prepared for this. Will he be mad that I blew him off? Will he even remember me?

  He turns into the living room. “Hey, I didn’t see you there.” He grins and slides his honey eyes over me. “I’m Arrow. Mason’s roommate.”

  Right. Didn’t he say he wanted to act like we hadn’t met? How do I even know it’s him? “How many of you are there?”

  He points a thumb toward the door. “I’m the only one lucky enough to be locked out of his room while Mason indulges in sex marathons, if that’s what you mean. Lucky me.”

  “I’m . . . Mia?” I smile awkwardly.

  Arrow lifts a brow. “Is that a question?”

  My gaze drifts down the length of him. I can’t help myself. Arrow is beautiful in the hard-bodied way of a man who pushes himself to the limits on a daily basis. When I lift my eyes back to his face, he’s frowning at Mason’s door again. For someone who was so eager to meet me a few days ago, he seems oddly uninterested now. Maybe he’s insulted by the way I blew him off. Or maybe I’m not as pretty to him this close.

  I shake my head, trying to make my insecurities scatter. It doesn’t matter what Mr. Adorable Texter thinks. I’m not interested.

  I’m also a liar.

  “Any idea how much longer I should expect to be locked out of my room?” he asks.

  “They just . . . um . . . got started.” I move my backpack from beside me on the cou
ch and slide my books into it. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  He turns back to me. “You don’t have to do that.” The sound of moaning comes through the walls, and Arrow drags his hand over his face. “In fact, please don’t go anywhere. I spend more time than I’d like to admit sitting here alone while they . . . do what they do. It’s starting to make me feel like a pervert.”

  I laugh softly. I know what he means. Bailey isn’t exactly quiet.

  “Want a drink?” He strolls over to the mini-fridge under the window and sinks to his haunches.

  I shake my head. “I don’t drink.”

  He grabs something out of the fridge and stands. Turning, he quirks a brow and tosses a bottle of water onto the couch beside me. “You must be pretty damn dehydrated.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Arrow takes a seat in the chair just as the rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of the headboard hitting the wall comes from his bedroom.

  I’m hypnotized by the movement of his throat as he drains his water. Hypnotized. By his throat. I’m so pathetic. Maybe I should have gone to that party.

  He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. “I can think of a lot of awkward scenarios for meeting a beautiful girl, but this one takes the cake.”

  My cheeks burn. Beautiful. He just called me a beautiful girl. My stomach is a mosh pit of butterflies flailing to the beat of my hammering heart. I search for a clever response but come up empty. God, he even smells good.