All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) Read online

  The female police officer is finishing up my paperwork, while my friend Matt is being escorted away to the holding cell by another officer. He meets my eyes and makes a ridiculous face. I don’t know how he’s so calm. With his massive russet beard, he looks more scary than silly. He’s got a good six inches on the guy who arrested us, and I don’t blame the cop for looking nervous. Matty looks like he could go Sasquatch on everyone and bust his way out of here.

  “Miss Brenner?” Officer Tribble stands in front of me. She’s in her mid-thirties, dark hair, and frown lines around her mouth. She knows my father. Everyone knows my father. It’s probably naive to think he’s not already aware I’m here. My stomach twists again, and I hunch over in my chair, hoping it will make the aching worry go away. But I don’t get much time to see if it works. She takes my elbow, her grip soft, and helps me stand, and then we’re walking in the direction Matt was taken.

  At the end of a hallway are two holding cells, one across from the other. Lined with metal benches bolted to the floor, the cell on the left contains three men. A middle-aged man in a ratty T-shirt lays passed out on a bench in the corner. On the other side of the cell, I see Matt in all his bearded glory. Despite the fact that there are several empty benches, he’s seated on the one containing the third occupant of the cell. He’s talking, but his cellmate appears to be ignoring him, which doesn’t faze my friend in the slightest. He sends me a wink as Officer Tribble parades me past and stops in front of the empty cell across from Matt’s. I breathe a sigh of relief. Despite my fear, when Matt tilts his head toward his cellmate and waggles his eyebrows suggestively, I laugh. The guy next to Matt looks up, and the laugh dies in my throat.

  He sports a bruised jaw, bloomed purple over stubbled skin. His messy hair is somewhere between blond and brown and tumbles over his forehead, leading me to a set of hazel eyes that are astoundingly pretty and at odds with the rest of his hard appearance. His knuckles, too, look ripped up, and his eyes follow my progress with an intensity that has my stomach twisting with a fear that is altogether different from what I’ve been feeling for the last hour. Even so, I continue watching him . . . watching him watch me, really, as Officer Tribble cuts off my plastic binds and locks me in the empty cell.

  I move to sit at the same end as Matt, so we can talk to each other quietly, but the intense-eyed stranger sits closer to the bars, blocking all but the wave of red hair that adds an extra two inches to Matt’s already tall frame.

  The guy is young, around my age, I would guess, and I wonder if the bruises have something to do with why he’s in here or if they’re just a separate part of his bad-boy mystique. Like oops, I forgot to put on leather before I left the house today, better get a little bloody instead.

  Matt doesn’t seem concerned that he might be dangerous. Then again, Matt is rarely concerned about anything. When he leans his bulky frame around his cellmate, I finally manage to tear my gaze away.

  “You okay, Pickle?” he asks.

  I’m going to thump him for using that nickname later. That is not a nickname to be used in front of beautiful people, even potentially criminal ones.

  “Fine, Matty.”

  That’s what I tell him, but I hunch over again. The worry is a physical weight in my belly, a stone that presses down on my gut, and I wonder how quickly one can develop a stomach ulcer.

  “You don’t look fine,” my friend says. “You look like you’re going to vom everywhere.”

  Lovely. As if I weren’t mortified enough already by my actions today. But I can’t be mad at Matt. If he hadn’t stuck with me, I’d be here alone, which would be infinitely worse. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I feel terrible that you stayed with me, and I got you into this.”

  He shrugs. “No harm, no foul.”

  Only Matt would call being arrested no harm. The guy is so laid-back, he’s like the human equivalent of Xanax. I want that. I need that. All I can think about is what my father might say, and whether or not this will go on my record, and if it will affect my scholarship, and what Henry will say.

  I stop myself there. I don’t have to worry about what Henry will say because we’re over. That should bother me. We broke up a week ago, and after four years together, I should be devastated. I should be moving right past shock and denial into the never-wears-anything-but-sweatpants stage.

  I don’t know what it says about me that I’m not. That I only think of him out of habit, nothing else.

  I keep going, berating myself the way I wish Matt would. “We make plans for a reason, and I didn’t stick to it. I should have walked away as soon as they gave the dispersal order. Next time I do something this stupid, don’t you dare come after me.”

  “Nah. Next time I’ll just clobber you over the head. Save us both the trouble.”

  I roll my eyes because we both know that would never happen. Matt’s one of those guys who will always put themselves on the line for a friend. He could pretty much pass for a real-life Disney prince . . . if Disney made bearded, bisexual princes.

  “Still . . . it wasn’t cool of me. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just so frustrated, and tired of chanting while they ignored us. It made sense at the time.”

  “Yeah, well. You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

  I shoot him a glare. He thinks I’m behaving irrationally because of the breakup, but that’s ridiculous. I’m not crazy. Matt, my mother, my roommate Nell—everyone keeps waiting for me to snap, to fold in on myself and just lose it because my boyfriend and I are no more. And maybe they’re right. Maybe this is some weird emotional shock, and in a few weeks the hurt will hit me out of nowhere. But right now? The tiptoeing around the subject just makes me want to scream. “This had nothing to do with that.”

  Sure my life plan has taken a nosedive. And it wouldn’t be unreasonable to freak out that the future I’ve been envisioning since Henry and I started dating four years ago has been blasted to bits.

  But my boyfriend (or lack thereof) can’t be the most important thing about me. So screw plans and futures and heartache and all of that. For the moment, I just need to focus on me.

  Or I could keep doing crazy things like ignoring a direct order from police after a day of being ignored and derided for daring to stand up for the homeless population in town, which is about to lose one of only two shelters within twenty miles. Well . . . maybe I went a little further than just ignoring a direct order. I might have handcuffed myself to a pole outside the shelter.

  “Then what was it about? Why’d you do it?” Matt asks.

  “Because I couldn’t not do it.”

  “Yeaaaah . . . that explanation is going to hold up really well against your father.”

  “Next time I promise not to let my emotions get the better of me when handcuffs are involved.”

  The attractive potential criminal shifts, and when I look at him, his eyebrows are raised in interest. His eyes really are far too pretty for a guy like him. Dudes who look dangerous should just be dangerous. Period. The end. They should not be dangerous and beautiful all at the same time. It leaves the universe out of balance, and it makes me do stupid things like stare. At a guy behind bars. If ever there were a kind of guy I should not stare at, someone potentially going to prison definitely has to rank in the top three.

  Matt stretches out his long legs and says, “Next time, just tell me you want to get arrested ahead of time. That way I can make sure we’re prepared. Javier is going to be pissed. Unless, of course, you want to call daddy dearest to get us out.”

  I don’t even have to glare before he’s holding up his hands in surrender.

  “Why would you want to get arrested?” The dangerous one speaks. His voice is low and smooth with a slight Texas drawl that stretches out his words and draws my eyes to his lips.

  “Handcuff fetish,” Matt says, and I go bright red.

  I am going to thump him so many times.

  I glare and clear my throat. “Getting arrested can sometimes be the most powe
rful way to draw attention to a cause.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “A cause?”

  “A political one.” That eyebrow drops, and he nods, crossing his arms and turning his attention away from me.

  I must still be cracked in the head because his complete dismissal reminds me of our protest today, of the way the city can just take away a sanctuary for people who have no other place to go, and not even bat an eye. It makes me want to do some more stupid things. I stand and grip the bars in front of me and say, “You know, it’s youth like you that give our whole generation a bad name.”

  He leans back and surveys me with annoyance. “Youth? How old are you?”

  I wave a hand. “Young people. Whatever. My point is everyone thinks that we’re these ignorant kids who are more concerned with our phones than the state of the world, and it’s because of people like you turning up your nose at the slightest mention of politics.”

  He stands to mimic me, only he’s so much taller, and his shoulders are broad, and his arms too muscled to slip completely through the bars like mine do. “People like me? What the fuck does that mean? Poor? Uneducated? Trash?”

  I jerk back. “What? No. I didn’t say any of those things. I just mean the stereotypical young adults who—”

  “Only care about their phones. Yeah, I heard that part. I’d rather be that stereotype than the pampered little rich girl who thinks it’s fun to get arrested, to burn money so she can throw a temper tantrum about whatever thing in the world is bothering her this week.”

  “Temper tantrum?” I’m aware even as I speak that I’m practically yelling, and I sound just like the spoiled girl he’s painted me as. “I’m not throwing a temper tantrum.”

  Matty, ever the pacifist, says, “Maybe we should all just take a couple of breaths.”

  I storm on, desperate to win at least one argument today.

  “I am so sick of people thinking what we do is a waste of time. At least we’re doing something, instead of sticking our heads in the sand while the rest of the world goes to hell around us.”

  “The rest of the world has been hell all along for some of us, princess.”

  That stops me mid-rant, and I’m staring again, opening and closing my mouth in a way that definitely isn’t doing anything to prove my point.

  Finally, I huff out a breath and some of my desperation breaks through. I’m not even sure if it’s desperation for his approval or just for someone, anyone, to listen. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something that everyone tells you is impossible or pointless? Haven’t you ever cared about something enough to sacrifice for it? Regardless of how stupid or unlikely it seems. Haven’t you ever just wanted things to be different?”

  He studies me for a few moments, his large hands lifting to curl around the bars. And when I expect him to make another crack about me being spoiled or naive, he surprises me.

  “What exactly are you hoping to change?”

  Matt snorts. “Congratulations, man. You’ve officially found a way to occupy however many hours you have left here. This girl wants to fix the whole world.”

  An officer comes then and takes Matt away to make his phone call. He glances at me and mouths, “Javi?”

  I nod, and watch him leave.

  I know he’s prodding, hoping I’ll give in and say we can call my dad instead. But I just can’t. I know he could get us out faster, but I can’t see him yet. Not until I’ve figured out some excuse. Not until I’ve figured out what crack in my brain made me behave so rashly tonight.

  It’s not because I’m upset over Henry, but I can’t help but think it’s all connected. My emotions are all out of whack, and the only thing I know is that today at that protest, I felt invisible.

  And I didn’t realize until I clicked those handcuffs into place that I’d felt that way long before we set up camp in front of that homeless shelter.

  “So what were you trying to change?” he asks.

  I feel weirdly shy now that Matt is gone, and I no longer feel the need to go into my ten-minute rant about the state of politics in this country.

  I turn away from him so that I don’t have to make eye contact, kind of like that whole don’t look directly at the sun or you’ll risk visual impairment thing. This was just a different kind of impairment. Like my ability to think straight. I wave a hand and explain: “The city is cutting funding for the homeless shelter downtown. They’re claiming budget problems, but really they just don’t want their historic downtown blemished with the less fortunate.”

  He nods, but doesn’t reply, and why am I so damn self-conscious? We stay silent for a while, and I wish Officer Tribble hadn’t taken my watch because it feels like Matt has been gone a lot longer than the couple of minutes it should take for a phone call. And I can feel his eyes on me, ramping up my already frayed nerves. I’ve just given in to the urge to pace when he speaks again.

  “So . . . Pickle?”

  I spin and look at the cell across from me. The guy is staring, and I blanch. “Uh . . . no. I’m Dylan. That’s just a Matt thing. Dyl Pickle. It’s stupid.”

  “Dylan,” he repeats. And I have never felt less invisible than I do in that moment with him looking at me.

  “And you are?”

  He grips the bar and leans back slightly, and he must be some kind of workout junkie because even with clothes on, his body is unreal.

  “Silas.”

  I take a seat back on the bench and pull my knees up to my chest. “Sorry for yelling at you, Silas. I’m a little wound up.”

  “Getting arrested will do that to you.”

  So will a complete mental breakdown. Which I may or may not be having.

  “Yeah,” I answer absently, anxiety sweeping through me again. I lay my head down on my knees and try not to think.

  Yeah, right. Like that’s possible.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine. It’s not like you did anything too bad.”

  I wince.

  “Did you?”

  “Define bad.”

  He laughs. “I think our definitions of bad are probably very different.”

  If I wrote the dictionary, bad would just have a picture of him under it.

  “Why are you in here?”

  I don’t really think through the question until the words are already out of my mouth, and his gorgeous eyes are narrowed on me. I’m pretty sure that there’s some unwritten rule about not asking people why they’re in jail while they’re still in jail. And this may just be a holding cell, but the rule probably applies here, too. His tongue peeks out to worry at his swollen, busted lip, and I feel a wave of heat curl up my spine.

  Totally inappropriate. Totally psychotic because he is way out of my league. Or I’m way out of his league, I don’t know. Either way, someone is out of someone’s league.

  And more important . . . he’s so not my type. At all. So, I’m not sure why I’m still staring at his swollen lip, wondering if he’d flinch if I touched it.

  I rein in my thoughts. “Sorry. That’s none of my business, I—”

  “I got in a bar fight with a friend.” He pauses and looks away. “Or someone who used to be my friend. Or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really thinking.”

  I laugh. “Me either. Must be something in the water.”

  I want to ask what he fought over with his friend. Or his former friend. I want to know what makes a guy like him tick, what he cares enough about to bleed for. Because it sounds personal, not just the mindless, Neanderthal slugfest that I’d been picturing.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  A flash of a smile has a field of goose bumps sprouting along my arms. “You worried about me, Pickle?”

  I throw my head back and groan.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  Officer Tribble returns then with Matt, and she gives me a look at overhearing my last words.

  I lift my hands and say, “Hyperbole. I promise. No actual plans to kill anyone.”

  As she lets Matt
back into the men’s holding cell, he raises an eyebrow.

  “Who are we killing?”

  “You,” Silas answers.

  Matt holds a hand to his heart and gives me a pathetic look. “I thought we promised to look out for each other on the inside? And now you turn on me for the first pretty face.” Silas frowns at the assessment of him as a pretty face, and I wonder what expression he’d make if he knew Matt really did find him attractive. Though I’m willing to bet if you go through life every day looking the way Silas does, you probably get used to all kinds of people finding you attractive. “You’re a hardened criminal already, Pickle.”

  Silas’s frown is swept away by a low laugh at the name, and I drop my feet off the bench and stand. I’m getting restless, and maybe walking around again will help me.

  “Since you’re already going to kill me, I guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you that I couldn’t get a hold of Javi. You can only call landlines, and I guess he hasn’t gotten back to the dorm yet. I left a message, but I bet he’s already working on getting us out.”

  Javier is the president of our student activism group, Voice for Tomorrow. And Matt is right that he’s likely to be pissed with me. Today was supposed to be a preliminary protest just to raise awareness. We were hoping that it combined with the petition we’re compiling might be enough to at least get them to postpone the closing. Now I’ve made us look reckless and impulsive. Like troublemakers instead of informed citizens.

  Maybe Javi is already working to get us out. Or maybe he’s pissed enough to let us stew for a little while. I wouldn’t be surprised.

  I sigh. “I could leave a message for Antonella at the apartment, but I don’t think she gets off work until midnight.” I’m not exactly sure what time it is, but a ways off from midnight for sure.

  “What about Henry?” Matt asks. “He’d come if you asked.”

  “I am not calling my ex, Matt. That’s almost worse than calling my father.”

  “Then we might be in here until morning because if we have to wait for Antonella to come after midnight, I’m betting they won’t get us processed until daytime.”

  I was almost willing to risk staying overnight. If it were just me, I would have, but I’d caused Matt enough hassle for the night. For the whole year actually.