All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (33 page)

“Shut up.”

“But—”

I kiss her.

I kiss her, and her breath mixes with mine as she gasps into my mouth, and I sink my fingers into her hair. And as always with her, I just want to take and take and take, but this time I want her to do the same.

I want to give her what she gives me. I want her to feel perfect. I want her to have the good life and the good home and everything she could ever want.

She wraps hers arms around my neck, and together we stumble up the last few steps to the second floor, laughing through the missteps because neither of us is willing to stop kissing long enough to climb four measly steps.

When we get on level floor, I grip her hips and pick her up. She wraps her legs around my waist, and I lock her in close to my body, and open the door to the bathroom. I slam the thing shut and pin her back against the door. It’s dark inside, and I reach out a hand to search for the light switch because all I can think about is that night in the bathroom at my place, and how badly I need to see her fall apart again. I lower my mouth to her neck, tasting and sucking and Jesus . . . how did I go two weeks without this?

“God, I missed you. So much, baby.”

I finally find the light switch and flip it on.

“Silas.” Her hands tug back on my hair, and I nip her collarbone in response.

But then her hands slide out of my hair, down to my shoulders, and she pushes, pushes me back.

“Oh my God, Silas. Stop.”

I do as she says, even though I feel like my bones will break if I make even the slightest move away from her. I loosen my hold on her hips, and she slides down out of my arms.

A mess of emotions I can’t even identify begins to swarm in my chest, then she darts around me, and it takes a second for me to hear what she’s saying over the roaring in my ears.

“Stella? Stella!”

I spin, and it takes me a moment to focus, to let my world expand past Dylan and the way she makes me feel. But I can’t make sense of anything because we’re not in a bathroom like I assumed, but a bedroom. And if Dylan asking me to stop was a shock to my system, this just turns everything off, shuts everything down.

My eyes go to the bed, and I take in information, but it’s all disjointed, fragmented, confused.

Bare, skinny legs. That’s what I register first. A pair of underwear around one ankle. The pieces come slow, too slow—displaced clothes, smudged makeup, closed eyes. I do my damnedest not to zone out and see the big picture because that’s not something I ever want to associate with the girl lying in that bed.

That girl is vibrant and friendly and . . . fuck.

Dylan is touching Stella’s face, talking to her, but she’s passed out cold. Finally, I get my feet to move, and I cross the room and pull a blanket over her so no one else will see her like that.

Then I only think in steps.

Step one. Take care of Stella.

Step two. Find Carter.

Nothing else matters right then.

I face Dylan, place a hand on her shoulder, and say, “Don’t leave her side.” I hand her my phone and say, “Call Dallas first. Then the police.”

I turn to go, and she chokes out over short, broken breaths, “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back.”

I don’t tell her where I’m going because she’ll only worry. But I’m positive this is the room Carter came out of when we were standing on the stairs, and I’d assumed he was fixing his jeans because this was a bathroom. My mind starts to piece together what must have happened before that, before he turned the lights out on Stella and just left her there, and I feel so goddamned angry and helpless.

I have to ask around for a few minutes, but when people see the look on my face, no one hesitates to tell me if they’ve seen Jake.

I find him out in the parking lot, trying to coax some other girl to go home with him, and fuck fair fighting. I haul off and slam him back into his truck.

I look over at the girl he’d been with, but she’s already stumbling away back in the direction of the party.

“What the hell, man?” Carter says.

“I knew you were a fucking prick, but I didn’t have any idea you’d go this low.”

Carter holds his hands up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He tries to shove me off, but I’m not fucking budging until I’m done. “I went in the room. The room you came out of. I found her. Stella. No fucking way I let you get away with this.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he swears, but this time he shoves me hard, and I stumble back a few feet.

“Did she go in that room with you?” I ask. “Was she even conscious or did you take her in there?”

“You can’t fucking prove anything,” Then he tries to leave, and I tackle him. He may be twice my size, but he goes down easy. We both scramble for a few seconds to get the upper hand, and he’s the first one to throw a punch. It lands hard just on the edge of my jaw, and my teeth bang together.

I throw my elbow back hard into his midsection, and he rolls off me, gasping. I take the opening to launch myself at him and get in another good hit to his face.

But he’s so much bigger than me, he shoves me off and I scramble to my feet.

“Just leave this shit alone,” Carter says. “You don’t want another fight on your record. We leave now, nobody gets hurt.”

Fucking asshole.

“Stella doesn’t count?”

“Come on, man. You know how she is.”

I’m done hearing this shit come out of his mouth. I lunge again, and then we’re locked together, both trying to ward off the other’s hits, while squeezing in a few of our own. I get a good one to his nose, and I feel it crunch under my fist. He pushes me away while he cups his nose with his hand. Blood coats his fingers.

Sirens wail in the distance, and I see the panicked look on Carter’s face.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, man. I swear she was awake.”

“Bullshit. Then why was she passed out when I got there? Why hadn’t she fixed her clothes? If you didn’t do anything wrong, why’d you leave her there like that? Why’d you turn off the lights?”

He doesn’t say anything, but I can see it all unraveling in his expression. The closer the sirens get, the more desperate he is. He stops talking with his mouth then, and switches to fists.

I swing a solid blow into his stomach, and he doubles over. But I underestimate his stamina, and he comes back fast, swinging. His fist plows into my jaw, and the world jerks out of focus for a few seconds. I stumble back. Carter tries to leave, and I hurl myself at his back, sending us both down to the concrete. I can’t take him in a fight like this. He’s too big. So I just concentrate on holding on. I take a punch to the ribs, but I don’t fucking care. He’s not leaving.

My head knocks hard against the concrete a few times, but I hold on, sneaking in a few hits of my own. And we’re both bloody by the time two cops pull us apart.

My mouth is busted up and it stings when I speak, but I say, “He did it. The girl upstairs . . . it was him.”

Then things go a little fuzzy, and I pass out.

O
NCE WHEN I
was sixteen, I got knocked unconscious in a game for a few seconds after a particularly hard tackle. I remember coming to on the field, feeling like I had done nothing more than blink, and I couldn’t understand why there were so many coaches gathered around me.

This is not at all like that.

I feel like I’ve been out forever, long enough for my body to decay, and my mouth to dry out, and the whole world to move on around me, but when I open my eyes, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because I’m propped up against a nearby car, and there’s a cop and a paramedic kneeling next to me.

“His eyes are open.”

Then, just like that time in high school, more faces appear above me.

McClain. Brookes. Torres.

And Dylan.

I try to stand, but the world goes sideways, and the paramedic claps a hand on my shoulder to hold me in place.

“Easy. I think you might have a concussion.”

“I do,” I answer. I’ve had a handful of those in my life, and this feels similar.

“Stella?” I ask.

“She’s awake,” Dylan answers. “There’s a cop with her, too. And a paramedic. She . . .” She hesitates, then finishes, “She doesn’t remember what happened.”

“Carter?”

It’s the cop who answers this time.

“Mr. Carter is seeing a paramedic, the same as you.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

The look the cop gives me makes me sick to my stomach. Or that could be the concussion.

“When both of you are cleared medically, we’ll get your statements and go from there.”

“He did it,” I say.

“Did you see him do it?”

“I saw him come out of the room.”

The cop just nods. “Okay then.” He nods at the paramedic and says to me, “Let this guy get you cleaned up and checked out, and we’ll talk about what you saw when he’s done.”

In all, it takes twenty minutes for the paramedic to clean me up. No stitches. Nothing broken. I have a mild concussion, but I decline the paramedic’s offer to take me to the hospital.

My statement for the police takes even less time, and when it’s over, I’m left with a sour taste in my mouth because no one mentions anything about arresting Carter. All I keep hearing is that Stella doesn’t remember, and Dylan and I didn’t
see
anything actually take place. I tell them what he said during our fight, about me not being able to prove anything, but they only nod and write it down. They don’t say he was wrong. The cops promise it’s all taken care of, but it doesn’t feel that way to me, not in the slightest.

Chapter 30

Silas

I
sit on the bed and hunch over my knees after my morning run. I didn’t sleep well. Not last night or the night before. The bed dips, and I feel Dylan scoot up behind me and lay her cheek against my back. I’m sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re talking to Coach this morning?”

I nod.

“Everything is going to be fine, Silas.”

I shrug. Because I don’t know that.

All I know is Carter is still walking free. Stella’s talking about it all like it’s not a big deal, like she’s fine. And I got in another fight with a teammate, the same day my last suspension for fighting ended.

She scoots closer, situating her thighs on the outside of mine, and presses herself against my back.

“Whatever happens . . . you’re not in the wrong here.”

I sigh and scrub my hands over my face.

“It’s all just so fucked-up. I thought he was a friend. He was in my house. Near you. I should have beat the shit out of him that night with the weed. I knew I should have.”

“If you’d fought him then, it’s entirely possible you and I might not have slept together that night. Besides, that would have been overreacting. This wasn’t.”

I reach for the arm she has wrapped around my stomach and lace our fingers together. “What if nothing happens to him? How could I ever play on the same team as him?”

“There are options,” she says. “We’ll find a way to fight it.”

“Not if the prosecutor doesn’t take the case.”

I’d spent all day yesterday researching the laws and past cases in Texas, and our chances don’t look good. Dallas said too many of the partygoers mentioned seeing Stella making out with random guys. That coupled with the fact she can’t remember anything, and they’re calling her an unreliable witness. She’s not the only one. I’m apparently unreliable, too. Everything Carter said in the fight is hearsay, and with my record and history, no one’s putting much stock in what I say.

“Even then,” Dylan answers. “We might not get anything done through the court system, but there are laws in place requiring universities to govern the safety of their students. Those have been used in the past to support victims of unprosecuted cases. Stella has options. And she has people who care about her enough to fight the uphill battle.”

Except she doesn’t even want to fight. I saw her yesterday, and she spent half the conversation trying to get me to talk about the next game, about how I felt about finally being able to play again.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that might not be the case. She just . . . it wasn’t anything she said or did, but something in her face told me that she
needed
to talk about that game. Needed to know that life would keep on going. She’s too much like me. She’d rather ignore it all, pretend it’s not there until the last possible moment.

And because I understand how she works, I let her do it. For now anyway. But I won’t let her be like me, won’t let it all build up around her until she’s trapped beneath it. She’ll have to talk to someone eventually. Dallas. Ryan. Me.
Someone.

Dylan kisses my shoulder, pulling me back to the present, and adds, “You’ve got people on your side, too, you know. Your coach cares about you. He’s not going to write you off over something like this.”

I turn my head and kiss her, soaking up a little of her certainty, and then I hop in the shower to get ready to head over to the school.

“C
OME IN,”
C
OACH’S
voice calls through the closed door.

I open it slowly, and poke my head in.

“Silas. I’ve been expecting you. Come on in.”

Shit. Here goes nothing.

I close the door behind me and cross to his desk. I take a seat in the chair on the left because the one on the right is where I was sitting when I first got suspended, and I’m really hoping this time turns out differently.

“I’ve heard a lot about what happened this weekend. Why don’t you tell me your version.”

I do, leaving out everything about Dylan, about the fact that I was pretty damn sure I loved that girl when we stumbled into that room, and now I’m certain. I stick to the facts, and even though it could get me in trouble, I mention the brownie incident, too. I try to remain stoic as I recount everything for him, but my hands are shaking.

Stella is a good person and a good friend, and if what Dylan has told me is true, she’s been working for the last two weeks to get us back together. I should have noticed when I saw Dylan sitting at that table with my friends that Stella wasn’t there. Someone should have watched out for her. We all should have.