All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (6 page)

“Is anyone going to explain what’s going on?” she asks.

Matt seems to finally remember a few other words. “What’s going on is that we’re in a car with the quarterback and running back for the Rusk football team.
And
the coach’s daughter. I feel like I’m in a reality TV show or something.”

Dylan looks up at me and she’s so close that her cheek brushes the inside of my arm. She tilts her chin up, bringing her lips a fraction closer to mine and surveys me. I wonder if this will help my chances. I wait for her to comment on my position on the team, but she doesn’t. Quietly she says, “Sorry. Matt is kind of obnoxiously school spirited.”

“Would it be weird for me to ask for an autograph?” he asks.

“Matt!” Dylan turns to smack him on the arm, and the move makes her shoulder slide against my chest.

“It’s weird. Got it. Forget I asked.”

Her shoulder is still against my chest, and she’s leaning back into me, and I want to drop my arm down and lock us together. I reach out to trail a finger along her braid again, and it wouldn’t take but a couple more inches to lay my arm across her shoulders.

I dip my mouth down to her ear and ask, “What’s your spirit level like?”

She starts to turn, but when she realizes how close I am, she sucks in a breath and only angles her head toward me.

“Minimal. I’m not really into sports.”

So, she’s playing it hard to get. I can deal with that. It’s not often that I care enough for the chase, but with her, I can make an exception.

Somehow, getting with her feels important, like it will prove I still fit here.

“You’re just into getting arrested,” I say.

She groans and throws her head back, and it leaves her leaning on my arm, so I drop it the rest of the way down to wrap around her shoulders. She lowers her head to stare down at her hands twisting in her lap. She stiffens a little, but she doesn’t move my arm, nor does she stop leaning against me.

It’s such a stupid thing. I’ve had my arm around more girls than I could possibly remember, but in this moment with
this
girl, who is so far above me I might as well be trying to scoop up the stars, it feels a little bit like a hard-earned first down.

Chapter 5

Dylan

I
’ve never hyperventilated before.

I’m not sure if this is what I’m doing, but I do know it’s like my brain has forgotten how to perform the simple task of taking in and expelling air. How is it that I’m more anxious now pressed up against him than I was with my wrists bound in plastic zip ties? This is worse because it’s not just nerves. It’s a jumble of things—good and bad, and they’re all fighting for dominance in me. And I have no idea which is going to win.

It doesn’t help calm me down when Matt catches sight of Silas’s arm around me and mouths
HOLY SHIT
another half a dozen times. I have only a second to be thankful that at least he didn’t say those words out loud before I feel Silas’s mouth at my ear again. “So what do you say? Come to the party at my place?”

I don’t know what I’m doing. This guy is not my type at all. I can see his bloody knuckles from the corner of my eye, and as a general rule, I’m not
really
a bloody knuckles kind of girl. In fact, I’m kind of all-around antiviolence. I date guys in button-downs and ties who are studying to be lawyers or doctors or politicians. I date guys who are as interested and invested in politics and current events as I am.

I have never in my life been one of those girls who go gaga for athletes or actors or musicians. I’ve always thought having a good head on your shoulders is more important. Talent, money, fame—none of that automatically measures up to a good life. And that’s all I’ve ever really wanted . . . a good life.

But then there’s Silas.

If Matt’s reaction is any indication, Silas has got the talent, and in sports, fame and fortune usually follow. But based on what I know of him so far, he’s not at all the steady, stand-up guy I normally look for. He might not have a good head on his shoulders, but he has good shoulders, so that’s close, right?

So he doesn’t tick any of my usual boxes, but there’s something in the way he looks at me. In his eyes, there’s this strange kind of appreciation that is part attraction, part something else that makes me feel rare and precious and . . .
seen.

Seriously, when did breathing get so hard?

“I should ask Matt,” I finally say, even though normally I would have turned down a party invite in a heartbeat. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.” Normal doesn’t appear to be on the agenda for the night.

Matt coughs next to me, and in his cough, I hear a not-so-subtle “YES.”

Silas picks up the end of my braid and curls the dark blonde strands around two large fingers. “Good.”

On a whim, I pick up his other hand, his right, and lightly run my finger across the back of it, just below his bloodied knuckles.

“And you’ll let me help with this?”

“Trying to fix me, too?”

Jesus. That low, teasing tone is like a punch straight to the chest. Or the babymaker. Both, really.

“I’m just not a big fan of blood.”

His lips are still at my ear, and he lowers his volume so that Matt won’t hear. “I promise not to get you dirty. Unless you ask real nice.”

I don’t even . . . I can’t . . . Oh my God.

I plant my elbow in his side and use it to pry myself a little space.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re gonna have to use smaller words with me, Pickle. Or better yet, no words at all.”

The girl driving snorts, and I shoot Silas a look. “Does that ever actually work?”

He leans close to me, and this time the words are only for me, soft and seductive and almost vulnerable in my ear. “Am I trying too hard?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I can’t tell if you’re even serious.”

His fingers tug on my braid, and his hazel eyes hold mine. He certainly
looks
serious. And I wish I hadn’t said anything because a serious Silas is so much more intimidating.

He is a dangerous,
dangerous
boy, and I might have been better off if they had left me handcuffed to that pole outside the shelter. Then I think about what a guy like Silas could do with handcuffs, and I’m just gone. I can feel my face heating up, and I’m leaning closer to him, and even though all we’re doing is touching, I feel . . . bad. Like I could do some terrible, irresponsible,
wicked
things.

And like them. A lot.

I stay silent the rest of the ride as Silas directs the girl up front to the bar where he’d left his vehicle. Every few minutes, Matt nudges me with a knee or a finger or an elbow, but I keep my eyes fixed forward because I’m scared that if I look at him, I’ll start thinking again. About how I still haven’t called my father. About the fact I’ve been single for oh, a whopping eight days. About all the ways in which this (like much of what I’ve done today) is an incredibly stupid idea.

Or a brilliant one. Still working on that.

But one thing is decided . . . I don’t feel like thinking.

A few minutes later, we pull up beside a beat-up truck that’s so rusted it looks as if it might crumble under the slightest pressure. In places it’s a dark maroon, but where the paint has chipped away, you can see a layer of gray underneath. Add the rust to that, and his truck is three colors. Four, if you count the mud that the tires have splashed up around the wheels. Silas opens the door, and then reaches down a hand to help me slide out. I hesitate when I catch sight of the unhappy look the driver is giving Silas. I wonder what we took her and her boyfriend away from.

I take his hand, but before I duck out of the car, I tell the girl driving, “Thank you so much for the ride.”

She sends me a smile that’s very sweet, but almost pitying.

“You’re welcome. Hope you get home safe.”

I smile and nod, my stomach tumbling with nerves, and then let Silas pull me out into the warm night air. He keeps hold of my hand as he leans down to the passenger window to talk to his friend.

“You guys coming back to the house or heading home?”

“Home,” the guy answers. “You’ll stay out of trouble? Torres is pretty gone already.”

Silas laughs. “What a lightweight.”

“That freshman that Brookes invited, Williams, is already passed out on your couch, too. Ryan is still there. He’ll try to make sure nothing crazy happens, but you know the guys will listen to you more than him.”

“I got it, McClain. You’ve done your QB duty for the night.” He shoots me a quick look over his shoulder and adds, “And then some. Thanks both of you. Sorry I dragged you out to take care of my ass.”

“It’s cool.”

The girl’s tight smile says otherwise, but I figure there’s some story there that I’m just not getting.

He pats a hand on the top of the car, and then stands back as they pull away. He turns toward his truck and then shrugs at me.

“Sorry it’s not much.” He opens the door, and there’s just one long bench seat, so it looks like I’ll be squeezed in the middle again. The truck is tall, and I pause before climbing in, looking for a place to grab where rust won’t rub off on my hand.

Two big hands settle on my waist, and Silas lifts me up and plops me behind the wheel. My heart turns over at the touch, but it’s gone just as fast as it started. I slide over to the middle section, and I have to put one foot on either side of the old-fashioned stick shift that goes all the way down to the floorboard. The passenger door swings open, and both Silas and Matt slide in at the same time, caging me in with their big bodies.

“You guys have a ride you want me to take you to?”

Matt answers, “Nah. We carpooled with friends.”

He looks at me then. “You still okay with coming to mine?”

I take a breath and hold it in for a few seconds. I wait for the flash of misgiving, the feeling in my gut that should tell me to go home, be reasonable, call my father. It doesn’t come. Quite the opposite, in fact. I look up at him, and I feel that same insistent pull that made me disobey the dispersal order at the shelter.

Finally, I nod. He turns over the key, the engine cranking loudly, and then reaches between my legs to shift into reverse. He pulls the stick down, and it comes much closer to the seat than I anticipated, which means Silas’s hand is between my thighs, his knuckles grazing my skin until I widen my legs another inch. He keeps his hand there as he backs out, and his forearm rests on my thigh. Goose bumps are popping up all around that point of contact, and I hope he doesn’t notice. His arm rubs against me as he shifts into various gears, and even when he could return his hand to the wheel, he doesn’t.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel my pulse from that touch because I swear I can feel it all over. But he doesn’t do anything else. Just that simple, maddening graze of his forearm over the top of my thigh.

He turns onto a residential street that skirts the edge of campus, and I can guess which house is his by the cars lined up on the sides of the street. The driveway is open, though, and he pulls right in. His house is wooden and small and painted a cheerful green that seems an odd fit for Silas. It appears haphazardly built, like it’s been added on to poorly over the years.

When he gets out of the truck, and I slide over to follow, I’m mortified to feel that not just my underwear, but my shorts are damp. If this is how my body reacts to a few touches, what will happen if he really touches me? Kisses me even?

I’m getting ahead of myself. Going to a party doesn’t mean anything is going to happen. I throw both legs over the side of the seat, and Silas is there, his hands at my waist again. But this time he lingers as he puts me on my feet. His thumb brushes back and forth over a tiny strip of skin between my shorts and my shirt, running along the bone of my hip.

“You’re sure it’s okay if we crash your party?”

He stops the brush of his thumb, and grips my hip instead.

“I’m sure, Pickle.”

Matt gives a whooping sort of laugh as he comes around the nose of the truck, like he’s just accomplished something by passing that atrocious nickname along to someone else. I’m still fuming when Silas loops an arm over my shoulder and starts maneuvering me toward the house.

And I proceed to
freak
out.

I have no idea what I’m heading into. I mean, Silas is on the football team, as was his friend Carson, who picked us up. So, I’m betting there are more players in the house, and what exactly do football player parties look like? Aren’t they like the gods of campus or something? And what does it mean that one such football player has his arm around me? Is that like a
thing
thing, or just a thing that guys like him do? And do I want it to be a
thing
thing or just a regular thing? And what would a
thing
thing entail exactly? And dear God I’m going to lose my mind before we ever get to the front door.

Breathe, Dylan. He’s just a guy. You’re just a girl. Sure, he saw you for the first time wearing police restraints, but that’s . . . whatever. Totally cool.

Totally not cool, and I might have a panic attack if I don’t stop thinking about this.

I hear Matt clomping up the porch steps behind me, and his presence calms me a little. I am an intelligent, resourceful, capable young woman. I can compartmentalize. I can put all the craziness aside and this weird intense attraction, and just have a normal night out. I can talk to these people without saying something that makes me want to swallow my own tongue. I
believe
I can do that.

Silas pushes the door open, and a cry goes up like he’s the freaking prodigal son returning to grace them all with his presence.

A handsome Hispanic guy stumbles forward, totally bare from the waist up. Just walking around a house full of people half naked like it’s a normal occurrence. The guy has muscles like I’ve never seen before, and my jaw might be hanging a little loose.

“Moore! Where have you been? And what the hell happened to your face?”

The guy reaches out a wobbly hand to touch Silas’s face, but in his drunken state, he can’t seem to pinpoint exactly where Silas’s face is and keeps missing. When he does come close, Silas bats his hand away and says, “Jesus, Torres. It’s not even midnight. If I come out in the morning to find you bare-assed naked on the living room floor again, we’re gonna have problems.”