All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (22 page)

If I make Carter move, that’s calling her mine.

And holy fuck, just the word raises a hurricane in my chest. Terrifying and powerful and consuming. I want her with a fierceness I’ve never wanted anything.

Except football. Except getting out of my hometown.

And maybe that’s why she’s different. Maybe that’s why she’s the first girl who has ever tied me up in knots and unraveled me at the same time. She feels like a way out, a way to pull myself up a few more rungs on a never-ending ladder.

She’s the next big escape.

I don’t make Carter move. But rather than sitting down on the carpet or pulling in a chair from the kitchen like Torres did for himself and Katelyn, I make my way over beside her and sit on the armrest.

It puts me close enough that her shoulder touches my thigh, and the hand I brace on the back of the couch is in prime position to touch her hair when everyone stops fucking staring at us.

Not that that happens anytime soon.

For close to an hour, there’s always at least one or two people looking at us, and it’s driving me crazy. Enough that I’m ready to say screw it all and drag her up to my room, regardless of what people say.

I glare at Torres when he makes a lewd gesture and bounces his eyebrows. I’m about to go over there and snap him in half, but he looks away in a hurry.

He’s not always the dumbass he pretends to be for attention.

I shift, uncomfortable and annoyed, and Dylan giggles.

I raise my eyebrows in question, and she giggles harder.

“I’m sorry. You’re just so . . .” Then she does an impression of me that involves scowling and growling and flexing like a caveman, and she descends into laughter again.

“You’re weird, Captain Planet,” Torres calls from across the room.

I glower at him, and he turns and tries to start a conversation with Katelyn, who ignores him.

“This game is so slow,” Dylan whispers to me. But her whisper is loud enough for everyone to hear. Brookes and Carson look a little annoyed, but they can deal with it. “Like I swear I looked at the TV
forever
ago, and it was bottom of the fourth with two outs, and it’s
still
bottom of the fourth with two outs. I think time has stopped. Or is moving backward. Or it’s flip-flopping, and we’re in some weird time loop, and it just always is going to be the bottom of the fourth with two outs no matter what we do.”

Everyone in the room is watching, and it’s not with annoyance, but confusion.

This isn’t Dylan. Dylan is composed and intelligent, and makes me feel like a complete hack in comparison. She’s not really the giggly, ditzy type.

“Oh shit,” Stella says from the other side of the couch. “Did she have one of Carter’s brownies?”

Dylan lays her forehead against my thigh and rubs her nose back and forth a few times before settling down on one cheek and murmuring, “I’m tired.”

I pick up one of the brownies from the plate in front of Dylan. One good sniff and I know it’s chock full of pot. When Carter makes the shit, it’s usually crazy potent. I look at Carter and ask, “Did you see her eat one?”

“Relax, man. She just had one. She’ll be fine.”

I don’t like the way he shrugs. He’s always been that guy just on the fringe. With Levi and I, we always knew we could get Carter to do whatever we wanted because he was so desperate to be counted one of us. Because of that, he’s always doing stupid shit trying to prove he’s cool enough or whatever. But this . . . this is not fucking cool. I suck in a breath and try to stay calm. Relatively. “Did you tell her what it was?” He takes too long to answer. “Did you
fucking
tell her what it was?”

“She looked nervous. I figured I was doing her a favor, helping her loosen up.” He doesn’t say it, but I can see in his expression that he thought he was doing me a favor, too.
Goddamn it.

Sound disappears from my ears, like those moments of fuzzy silence after a loud noise, and I want to take that stupid thick neck of his and twist it around until his head snaps off. I want to bloody his face until my heart stops beating so fast and hard.

But Dylan’s head is on my leg. She’s playing with a long strand of her hair above her face with a childlike wonder that makes me want to smile even through my fury.

But I know she wouldn’t willingly do weed. I might have suggested it the night we met, but I know her better now. She’s not your typical good girl looking to get a little wild. She likes control and order too much to cloud her head with pot. That stuff breaks down the walls and barriers in your mind, just flushes it all out. It’s for people who want to let go of control, and when it’s out of her system, she’s going to be so furious.

Or sad. Or disappointed.

With me.

“Get out.” I don’t look at him as I say it. I watch Dylan playing with her hair because if I look at him, I’m going to hit him.

“What?”

“I said.
Get. Out.
”

Dylan lifts her head up, balancing her chin on my knee, and says, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“Silas, man,” Carter says. “If I had known—”

“Last warning. Get out of my house or I fucking throw you out bleeding.”

McClain is on his feet then, and he’s pulling Carter away, trying to talk him down. But still, the idiot tries to complain. He turns to Torres and Brookes trying to get them to let him stay.

When I stand, he shuts up fast. Then he’s on his way out the door, Carson following in his wake. I almost want to follow him. I’m scared this is going to fuck up everything with Dylan before it ever gets started. And I want to take that unfamiliar fear and put it in him.

But I don’t. I let the prick leave.

Dylan had flopped back against the couch when I moved, and I lean down to her now, curving my fingers over her shoulders. She squints up at me, her eyes already a little red, and she mimics my hold by placing one hand on each of my thighs.

She cracks up, like we’re playing some game.

“Dylan, you’re high.”

“No.” She scrambles up and stands on the couch cushions so that her head is a few inches above mine. Then she leans forward and rests her arms along my shoulders. “Now I’m high.”

The room lets out an uneasy laugh, and Dylan laughs with them. She’s so damn cute, but I don’t know how to navigate this conversation, especially not with all of these people watching me.

I take her hands and say, “Come in the kitchen with me.”

“Yes, food! I’m so hungry.”

A few more chuckles.

She climbs down and walks in front of me to the kitchen. She sways unpredictably, like her feet are heavier than the rest of her body, and she can’t seem to get all of herself to move at the same speed.

When we’re out of the room I let out a sigh of relief. She moves to the counter, still swaying, and then she hefts herself up on top of it.

“Remember when you kissed me here?”

I swallow and don’t cross to stand in front of her even though I want to.

“I do.”

“That was nice.”

I laugh. “Nice? I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, Pickle. I’m not nice.”

“You are, though. You have a nice smile. And nice arms. And your chest . . . it’s a very nice chest.”

I don’t want to like her like this, not when I know it wasn’t her choice, but I can’t help it. I like anything that makes her want me the way I want her.

“Listen, baby. You ate a brownie in the living room before I came down. It had marijuana in it, and that’s why you feel so weird right now.”

“Weird? I feel fantastic. My head is kinda heavy, but in a good way, I think? I can’t describe it but . . .” She smiles again, scrunching up her nose cutely. “I just . . . I feel so stinking good. Like happy. Are you happy?”

“I’m happy you’re here. Little worried you won’t want to be when you come down.”

“Come be happy with me.” She holds out her hands, and when I don’t budge she flails her arms a little and insists again, “Come here.”

I go. And I take her hands, determined that I won’t do anything more.

“Did you hear what I said? You’re high. There was pot in that brownie, and now you feel
happy
because you’re drugged.”

Her eyes go wide, and she pulls one hand out of mine to cover her hand as she laughs.

“Nooo. Really? Oh my God. Marijuana?”

She whispers it like it’s a bad word, and I assure her, “You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to seem really funny for the next hour or two, but then it should start to wear off and you’ll just be sleepy.”

“I can hear my heart beating.”

“That’s normal. It might even beat a little fast, but you’re okay. I promise.”

“Here,” she says. She lifts one of my hands up to her neck, and presses my palm flat against her throat. She swallows and says, “Can you feel it?”

I can. It’s steady and strong, if a little fast. And her skin is so damn warm. She has my hand practically wrapped around her throat, and it freaks me the hell out how much I like that. I want to push her back against that cabinet and devour that perfect mouth while I hold her there, feeling her pulse go wild against my palm.

I tear my hand back and put a few feet between us.

“Maybe I should take you home. Let you sleep this off there.”

She shakes her head hard, her hair dancing around her. “No. You can’t. My roommate will totally freak.”

“Tell me what to do that won’t make you hate me tomorrow. I don’t know how to handle this.”

“Let’s just go hang out with your friends. That’s what we were going to do anyway.”

“Are you sure? We can do whatever you want. You just tell me.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

She spreads her legs a little and leans back against the kitchen cabinet.

“Kiss me.”

Fuck.
Just . . . fuck.

“I can’t.”

God, if her lips weren’t tempting enough already, they fucking obliterate me when the lower one curls into a pout.

“Please? I feel so good, and I want to do other things that make me feel good. Kiss me.”

“If you still want that in a few hours, I’ll kiss you until you forget to breathe, but not now.”

She runs her hands up and down her thighs anxiously and presses her legs together. And God, it’s torture.

But I don’t want it to end, because I’m not sure what comes next.

I can’t kiss her. Or touch her. Or do any of the things that pouty lip is stirring in my imagination, but these might be the last moments I have with her.

And if she pulls me up, makes me better, her leaving might send me falling right back to the bottom.

But I’m going to enjoy being at the top with her while I can.

Chapter 19

Dylan

S
ilas makes me a sandwich, and I don’t know why that seems huge, but it does. I stand there holding the plate blinking up at him, and he’s so gorgeous.

That thought keeps popping up every few seconds like an announcement on loop.

Dear World . . . In case you missed it, Silas Moore is jaw-dropping, mind-blanking, word-fumbling gorgeous.

And he made me a sandwich.

I think that means I’m winning. At everything.

Or maybe that’s the marijuana. It makes me feel like everything I do is awesome.

Hopping off the counter? Someone give me an Olympic medal because that took talent! Walking without giggling? GENIUS. I would frame this sandwich (if sandwiches were frameable) as evidence of how amazing I am except that I’m so freaking hungry.

He asks me if I’m sure I want to go back in the living room, and I nod. I keep nodding until it gets too hard to nod and walk and carry my awesome sandwich at the same time. Everyone looks at us when we go back, but I’m having to focus so much on keeping my plate steady that I don’t care.

I do care when Silas goes to sit in the middle of the couch where the big guy had been. Because that puts him by Stella.

“Middle!” I call out. Then I put down my plate on the coffee table and squeeze past him to plop down on the middle cushion. He smiles and shakes his head at me, then sits on my other side.

I pull my feet up on the cushion next to me and lean my shoulder against Silas. I feel Stella watching me, so I go a step further and pull his arm up and around my shoulders.

It doesn’t even occur to me that he might not be fine with that until he tenses up. Maybe he doesn’t want his friends to know about whatever this thing is. Maybe this thing is all in my head. Maybe it’s just sex. Or talking about sex or whatever.

He leans forward, and I’m afraid he’s going to stand up and move somewhere else, but he just picks up my plate and balances it on my knees where they rest partially atop his thigh. He settles his arm fully across my shoulders, and I’m either seriously falling for this guy or I’ve got a really good idea why so many people become potheads.

My sandwich tastes so good I actually moan out loud. And I don’t even care that a few of his friends laugh. It’s that good. Silas’s hand tightens on my arm, but he doesn’t laugh. I demolish the whole thing and when I’m done, I don’t even remember chewing.

Silas puts the plate down on the coffee table, and when he sits back, I push myself a little closer to him, resting my head against his chest. I lay one arm across his stomach, and I feel his muscles contract and then release under my forearm. Fascinated, I place my palm flat on his abdomen, fanning out my fingers, and it happens again.

Something important must occur on the screen because there’s a cheer or maybe roar. All I really know is that everyone is talking, but my heart is beating loud enough that I can’t understand what they’re saying. I drag one finger through the grooves on his abdomen, across one side and over to the other. Then I move a little lower and do it again. On my third trip across, his hand stops mine, pressing it down into his stomach.

His breath is ragged against my ear and he says, “You’re not allowed to do that unless I can return the favor.”

I wiggle my hand out from beneath his and say, “Return away.”

“You still high?”

I shrug my shoulders and smile, and his head drops back against the couch with a groan. I ignore that and go back to my exploration, this time low on his belly and just a few inches above his waistband. I don’t even get halfway across before he’s plucked my hand away and closed his around it.