All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) Read online

  Officer Tribble returns about twenty minutes later, and I move toward the cell door, expecting it’s time for my phone call, resigned to contacting my father, but instead she turns her back to me and addresses Silas.

  “Mr. Moore, you’re good to go. Mr. Abrams has declined to press assault charges, and he’s offering to cover the damages at the bar, so they’re willing to let it go, too.”

  Silas scowls. “And what if I want to press charges? I told you guys that I didn’t start it.”

  Officer Tribble fixes him with a no-nonsense look. “Both witnesses and Mr. Abrams say you threw the first punch.”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “And you can choose to press charges, but then Mr. Abrams is likely to consider doing the same to you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he says, but he looks relieved when she opens the cell and ushers him out.

  Matt pouts as he watches his eye candy removed from the cell, and there might be a similar expression on my face. I sigh and lean into the bars, and the events of the day swallow me again. I don’t know what worries me more—the consequences or the cause. As Silas exits, he comes within a few feet of me where I’m standing at the cell door, and I get my first up-close look at him.

  I don’t feel like all the breath is knocked out of me. I absolutely don’t.

  He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, and his eyes dip down, starting at my feet and sliding up my legs. He lingers on my hips and waist and breasts for what feels like eternity, but in reality must be only the few seconds it takes for Officer Tribble to lock the cell door.

  He still looks dangerous, but not nearly as dangerous as the effect his gaze has on me.

  He turns away, hesitates, and then faces me again. His expression is inscrutable, but he leans a little closer and says, “Don’t call your dad. I’ll figure something out.”

  And then he’s gone, and I’m so shocked that I wonder if I imagined his words, if it’s just another symptom of whatever meltdown I’m having.

  Because a guy like that going out of his way to help us? Definitely crazy.

  Chapter 4

  Silas

  The cop returns my belongings to me—my cell phone and my wallet and my keys—and I’m still not sure why I told that girl I’d help her. She was just standing there with that oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder and these short fucking shorts, and she looked so completely out of place in that cell. She looked like she belonged on some beach or in some fancy European city or something—somewhere I’ve never been and probably never will be. Maybe it was all that bare skin. Or maybe it was the long, wavy hair that was too easy to picture skimming over my chest as she rode me.

  That has to be it.

  I’ve had a shitty day, and my dick did my thinking.

  Sighing, I ask the police officer, “What’s going to happen to those two?”

  She shuffles through a pile of papers and says, “They’ll get cited and released.”

  “How much is the citation?”

  “One hundred and fifty for the girl. Fifty for the guy. Cash only.”

  Fuck. Am I really considering coughing up that much money for the possibility of hooking up with her? If the girl is even half as uptight as she appears, she’ll probably spend the night preaching at me about the dangers of alcohol or something, trying to save me.

  I’m suddenly in the mood to punch something again. I should just leave, but I don’t. Something about that girl has gotten under my skin, and she doesn’t deserve to sit in there for trying to help people.

  “There an ATM near here?” I ask.

  “Gas station across the street.”

  As I head out into the night, I don’t let myself think about the fact that I’m about to do serious damage to my bank account. I don’t work during football season. There’s not enough time between that and school. Instead, I just bust my ass in the off-season and during the summer to save up enough to last me. I’ve already resigned from the landscaping job I worked this summer since camp starts on Monday, so there’s no making this money back.

  I punch my PIN number into the ATM and mumble under my breath, “She better be fucking worth it.”

  I could really go for a joint right about now . . . something to cloud my head and keep me from thinking about money and football and fights and Levi and home. There are so many fucking things I don’t want to think about that it’s impossible to block them all out.

  Sex or pot. Those are my best options.

  The party should still be going at my place. Maybe I can squeeze in both tonight. I think for a little while, and eventually decide to ask Carson if he can come pick me up and give me a lift to my truck at the bar. He answers on the second ring, and says that he and Dallas will come.

  Yet another thing for the coach’s daughter to hold against me.

  Back at the police station, I tell the cop that I want to pay the citation for Dylan and her friend.

  She gives me a skeptical look.

  “You know them?” she says.

  I shrug. “Nope. Just full of good deeds.”

  She looks around like maybe she’s being punked, but in the end she takes the money and finishes processing their paperwork. I don’t blame her for being skeptical. Hell, I’m skeptical. I spent the occasional night in a local shelter as a kid whenever one of Mom’s relationships blew up and lost us our place to stay. So maybe that’s part of it. Most of it is her, though.

  Dylan is the kind of girl who would never fit in my old world. Maybe a night with her will pull me back where I’m supposed to be, anchor me here in this life.

  The red-haired dude comes out first, and Dylan shuffles behind him, her head down. When she looks up and meets my gaze, she freezes. Her jaw drops a little, and I realize she didn’t believe me when I said I would figure it out.

  I don’t know whether to feel satisfied or disappointed at her shock. The two of them talk to the cop a bit, are given a slip of paper each and their confiscated belongings, and then allowed into the general lobby, where I’m waiting.

  Then she’s standing in front of me, and that shirt is hanging off her shoulder again, and she’s woven her hair into a long, thick braid that drapes over her shoulder and falls into the valley between her breasts. I can’t decide whether I liked her hair better how it was before, or like this, where I can wrap the whole length of it around my hand to tug her head back.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she says.

  “And be labeled a stereotypical, uncaring youth again? No thanks.”

  She scrunches up her nose and her lips twist to the side. “God, I was kind of a jerk tonight. I’m sorry.”

  I run a hand over the tender place on my jaw where Levi got me and shrug. “It happens. To some of us more often than others. I’ve got a friend on his way to pick me up. You two need a ride?”

  The guy answers, “That would be great, thanks. I’m Matt, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”

  He reaches out his hand, and I shake it. When I go to reply, Dylan beats me to it. “His name is Silas.”

  Her friend gives her a look, and she swallows and casts her eyes at the floor.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Silas. We’ll pay you back the cash for the citations.”

  I shrug. I should probably be all polite and shit and tell them not to worry about it, but I don’t exactly have money to throw around. I nod toward the door and say, “Let’s go wait for my friend outside.”

  Matt goes first, and I hold the door open for Dylan. I catch the scent of her hair as she moves past me, and it smells so damn sweet that I want to bury my face in it, to breathe her in. I wonder where else she smells that sweet.

  Matt offers to call their friend Javier to fill him in, and he tells Dylan to call her father. But when Matt walks a few paces away to talk, she doesn’t reach for her own phone. Instead she looks up at me.

  “Thank you. I don’t really know what to say.”

  I shrug. It’s not in me to play the chivalro
us good guy, even to pretend. Instead, I tip my chin toward where her red-haired friend paces as he talks on the phone, and I get right to the point. “You two together?”

  She’d mentioned an ex in the holding cell, and it sounded recent, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t already hopped to the next guy.

  She laughs. “Me and Matt? Seriously?”

  From a few yards away, Matt covers the mouthpiece on his phone and shouts, “Hey, I heard that! Could you at least try to sound a little less incredulous?”

  The two share a strange smile, and then Dylan looks up at me.

  “No. Matt and I are not together.”

  Well, that certainly makes things easier.

  “Good,” I say.

  She lifts her eyebrows in question. When I only smile, she dips her head, and her long hair falls across her face.

  “What are you doing for the rest of the night?” I ask. A quick glance at my phone reveals we’re just coming up on midnight.

  She tilts her head to the side, and looks up at me from behind the veil of her hair. She shoots me a sly smile that I can picture her giving me in a number of other . . . dirtier scenarios.

  “I’m not really interested in witnessing a bar fight,” she says. “If that’s how you spend your evenings. Not really my scene.”

  “No bars,” I promise. “There’s actually a party going on at my place. You and Matt are welcome to come.”

  Her head tilts even farther, and she’s confused rather than coy now.

  “Why were you at a bar if there’s a party going on at your house?”

  I shrug. “Was having kind of a shitty night and needed to get away.”

  “Doesn’t sound like getting away helped on that front.”

  I look into her eyes and say, “Things didn’t turn out so bad.”

  She laughs and smiles down at the ground again, and I’m feeling good about my chances.

  “You’re really hitting on me? After we just met in jail?”

  “Is it working?”

  She tries to look stern, but I can see the smile curling at the corners of her lips. I’m about to move in for the kill when Carson and Dallas pull up in Dallas’s tiny little car. She’s driving, and he leans over to kiss her quickly on the mouth before he opens the passenger door and jumps out to greet me.

  “You okay?” he asks, eyeing the remnants of the fight that show on my face and hands.

  I nod. “Fine.”

  “Levi look worse than you do?” he asks.

  “A hell of a lot worse.”

  He bobs his head in a nod and says, “Good.”

  McClain might be the closest thing I’ve ever met to a saint, but the guy doesn’t have an ounce of compassion for Levi. Too much history with Dallas for him to keep a clear head where our former quarterback is concerned. I’m still a little shocked that he’s been as cool to me as he has. Dallas still hates my guts, which I guess I can live with.

  “This is Dylan. We, uh, got acquainted in the holding cell.”

  Carson lifts an eyebrow, and I can see he’s trying not to laugh. But he stays in control and holds out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Dylan. I’m Carson. I’m a . . . friend of Silas.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever really used the word friend in reference to me, and I think he might be doing it just for appearance’s sake. But then again . . . he did come get me. He could have blown me off. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had.

  Matt returns then. He starts to say something, but stutters to a halt.

  “Holy shit.” He looks at Carson, squints, and then looks back at me. He repeats the process a few times, and then says even louder, “Holy fucking shit.”

  Carson scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably, and I add, “That’s Dylan’s friend Matt.”

  He’s still staring, and he’s begun shaking his head back and forth slowly. “Oh my shit.”

  I look at Dylan, and she’s gaping at her friend. “Hey Matt, why don’t you try saying hi instead of cursing out strangers?”

  “That’s Carson McClain . . .” He turns to me. “Which means you’re probably Silas Moore. I am such an idiot.”

  Damn. This isn’t going to help with the question I need to ask. I turn to Carson. “You mind giving them a ride, too? Just to my truck, and then I’ll take care of the rest.”

  McClain looks like he’d rather eat dirt, but he smiles, always the Boy Scout. “Sure thing. Might be a bit of a tight squeeze in the back.”

  Matt says quickly, “I don’t mind.”

  And the hero worship has officially crossed over into creepy territory.

  Dylan coughs lightly, but I’m pretty sure she’s hiding a laugh. “I’ll sit in the middle. I’m small.”

  She coughs again, harder, when she sees the look on my face. Hell-fucking-yeah, she’s sitting in the middle. If she tried to stick me by Carrot Top, I would flip my shit.

  Carson leads us back to Dallas’s ride, and I’m disappointed when Dylan goes to the opposite side of the car with Matt. Before McClain climbs in, he whispers, “Only you would pick up a girl in jail.”

  “Only I could.”

  Or I hope I can anyway.

  I pull my door open and sit behind where Carson is in the passenger seat. If I’d been thinking, I would have gone for the space behind Dallas because my knees are shoved right up against the back of Carson’s chair. I put that out of mind, though, when Dylan slides in from the opposite side of the car. She moves in right beside me, less than an inch between us. Her friend is a big guy, though, and when he sits down she’s pressed all the way up against me. Matt struggles to get his door closed well, and I shift, placing my arm along the bench seat behind Dylan’s head to make more room.

  The heat of her singes my side, and this close I’m drowning in her scent.

  I don’t mind. Not at all.

  Matt whispers another “Holy shit,” and Dylan shoots me a quizzical look.

  I shrug, and use the movement to run a finger over her braided hair.

  “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.
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br />   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?