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Spinning Out(The Blackhawk Boy #1)(36)

By:Lexi Ryan


"Is it true?" Nic asks.

"What?"

Nic squeezes the steering wheel and sighs. "Were you with Woodison last night? Is that who was in your apartment this morning?"

"No one was in my apartment this morning."

"Come on, Mee. I'm not an idiot. There were two sets of feet running  around before you answered the door." He studies me for a beat before  shaking his head. "You know what we are to people like them, don't you?  Worker bees. Drones. Whether we're fucking them or carving their swine.  They'll never see us as one of them."

The words hurt in part because they come from my brother, who's supposed  to believe I can rise above, and in part because they tap into the fear  I've carried ever since Arrow told me his last name. "Arrow's not like  that."                       
       
           



       

"And do you believe that enough to convince Dad?"

I bite my lip hard and dig my nails into my palms. "Dad doesn't need to  know. I don't have anything with Arrow. He's a friend. Last night he was  just . . ." Claiming my heart. Once and for all.

Nic snorts. "He was what? Comforting you? Isn't Brogan his boy? Jesus.  That's a Woodison for you. Take whatever they want. Fuck everybody  else."

I'm too tired to have this conversation, too unsure to defend Arrow to  my brother, so I open the door. "Thanks for coming for me this morning.  Let me know when Dad wakes up later."

"Will do."

I step out of the car and am about to close the door when Nic calls,  "Mia?" and I stop. "Don't sell yourself short. All those things Mom  taught us were worth believing in. Even if she wasn't."





Brogan came by. My best friend came by his girl's apartment to talk to  her. Knocked on the door. Pleaded through it. Begged for her forgiveness  when I was the only one here to listen.

I suck. Goddamn do I suck.

There's a guy code, and then there's just common fucking sense. I  crossed lines last night, and maybe crossing those lines was inevitable,  but it all happened too fast. Too soon. And now I have to find a way to  explain it to Brogan that won't make him hate my guts forever.

By the time Mia gets back to her apartment, I've mentally rehearsed ten  different ways to tell Brogan what happened, showered, dressed, made a  pot of coffee, and, after searching her cabinets for real food and  coming up empty, eaten a Pop-Tart.

When she closes the apartment door behind her, she's deflated. Every  piece of this morning's joy has fled, and the energy in the apartment  shifts from nervous to ominous.

"Everything okay?" I ask. Stupid fucking question, considering what had her running out the door.

"Yeah." She avoids my gaze and heads to the coffee pot. "Dad's asleep now. He'll be okay. Just a rough night."

"Brogan came over. I didn't answer the door, of course, but he was here. We need to talk about what we're going to tell him."

She dumps some of that powdered creamer junk into her coffee and stirs,  staring at her spoon as if this takes careful focus. "Nothing. We're not  going to tell him anything."

"Right. So you think we should wait a few weeks and keep this quiet for a  while?" My stomach knots at the idea. I don't keep secrets from Brogan.  And yet I did. I've kept my feelings for Mia a secret for nearly a  year. I nod. "You're right. We'll give it some time."

She turns slowly, abandoning her coffee on the counter and folding her  arms as she looks at me. Her face is blank, nothing like the woman in my  arms this morning. "We aren't going to tell him at all, Arrow. Not now  and not in a few weeks. I saw him at my dad's this morning, and he's  already a mess. There's no reason to hurt him more."

My breath leaves me. "You're going back to him. I thought . . ." I look  away. God, this hurts like hell, and I deserve it. I slept with her the  night they broke up. I knew better and I did it anyway. And now I'm  nothing but a mistake to her. A dirty secret.

"I'm not going back to him." My relief is short-lived. Her words are  cold, her face stony. All the passion and emotion from last night has  been hidden, locked away tight somewhere. "And that'll hurt him enough.  Please don't hurt him more by confessing our betrayal."

"You were broken up," I whisper, even though her description of what we  did is an echo of my own thoughts. "You can't betray someone you aren't  committed to."

"You and I both know that's not true."

"We can't keep this secret forever. I want to kiss you in public and  hold your hand, and I'm willing to wait a couple of weeks, a month even,  but eventually it needs to come out, and it's better if it comes from  us."

Her stony face falters, but then she closes her eyes and her walls go back up. "There is no us, Arrow. There can't be."

I feel like she punched me in the gut with a set of brass knuckles. I  fucked this up. "What happened? Did Brogan say something to you?  Something about me or . . ." Or is guilt gnawing at you the way it's  gnawed at me all morning?

She drops her head and studies the floor. "You were right last night.  You said that when I decided to date Brogan, I was choosing him. That I  did it knowing I couldn't date you. It was true then, and it's still  true now."

"So last night was . . ."                       
       
           



       

"I'd been drinking. I was emotional. It was a mistake."

"Right." Fuck. My first concussion was more enjoyable than this. I look  around for my keys, grab them off the counter, and head for the door,  where I have to stop because leaving her literally hurts. It tears me  apart from the inside.

"I'm sorry, Arrow. You're a good guy. I just . . ."

"You just made a mistake." I attempt a smile, but even I can feel it  twisted on my face-half plastic smile, half painful grimace. "For what  it's worth, last night wasn't a mistake on my side. Not even a little."





My apartment is on fire.

I rush to unlock the door when I see the flames flashing on the other  side of the glass. My hands shake and fumble the keys, and before I can  find the right one, someone pulls open the door.

Brogan.

And the apartment isn't on fire. Candles glow from every surface, flickering under the breeze created by the ceiling fan.

"Surprise," Brogan says, taking my bag from my arm.

"What?"

"This is a birthday redo," he says. "I shouldn't have missed it. Tonight I'm going to make up for that."

I don't relish celebrating my birthday. I find the whole idea  weird-people focusing on me and doing something just because I happened  to leave my mother's womb this day years ago. And frankly, I hate being  the center of attention.

Brogan told me he'd change that. He said he'd teach me to enjoy the  spotlight. And then he canceled our plans and left me at home while he  went out of town.

It's not even my birthday anymore, but here he is and I'm afraid I'm a  lost cause, because after the day I've had, I don't have the energy to  dodge his well-intentioned romantic advances.

"Brogan." I sigh. "I told you this morning I didn't want to talk to you. What are you doing here?"

He holds up a hand. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to see, but just hear me out."

"Fine." I fold my arms across my chest as he leads me into the apartment  and to the kitchen. It smells great in here, like chocolate and fresh  bread, and I realize I haven't eaten today. I don't usually forget, but  my mind is so crowded with everything that's happened, even remembering  to eat seems like too much.

I sit at the table, where he's laid out a feast in chocolate: chocolate  pastries, chocolate-covered strawberries, chocolate chunk cookies, and,  of course, in the center of it all, a three-tiered chocolate cake  already topped with flickering candles. "Why'd you do all this?" I shake  my head.

Brogan isn't like Arrow. He doesn't have an endless bank account at his  disposal. Sure, he grew up in a house nicer than mine, but as far as I  can tell, his parents are up to their eyeballs in debt-choosing to buy  their way into a higher social class even if they can't afford it. "You  didn't have to, Brogan. I don't need it."

"You deserve it." He takes the seat beside me but sits sideways on the  chair so he faces me. "Do you remember telling me that you wanted to  grow up and marry a guy who made you feel special every day?"

"Everyone wants that," I say. But maybe not as much as I do. Other girls  expect it. I, on the other hand, grew up watching the way my father  treated my mother-as if she was the hired help or expendable. For me,  it's not an expectation-it's something I only dare to hope can be.  Something I'm not sure I believe is real.