All Broke Down (Rusk University #2)

by Cora Carmack

  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 h
e 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.”

  “What if I’m just mostly naked?”

  Silas shakes his head, and nudges his friend toward a kitchen that opens up to our left. “Go drink some water and sober up a little before you embarrass yourself.”

  He holds his arms out, drawing my eyes to his toned body again, and says, “Who’s embarrassed? Your girl there doesn’t seem to mind my public display of perfection.”

  I flush, and resist the urge to duck my head when Silas looks at me.

  He pulls me a little closer and tells his friend, “I’d take off my shirt, but then we both know that wouldn’t be a fair fight. Besides, I wouldn’t want to steal all that attention you crave.” He gives Torres a joking push, and this time the guy turns and heads for the kitchen.

  I relax at his parting, only to freeze up when Silas leans down and brushes my ear with his lips. “If it’s a display you want, maybe we can have a private one later.”

  I push down my nerves and think of this like a debate, a verbal battle of wits.

  “Is being conceited a requirement to play football?”

  My answer doesn’t come from Silas, but from a petite Asian girl descending the stairs next to us.

  “More like a requirement to live in this house.”

  Silas shrugs. “Brookes isn’t that bad.”

  He doesn’t even try to deny it.

  The girl rolls her eyes. “Isaiah is plenty arrogant. You’re measuring him against you and Torres. Everyone is humble compared to you two.”

  Silas doesn’t reply, and the girl’s eyes shift to me, specifically to the arm around my shoulders. She’s petite and gorgeous with perfectly symmetrical features, and I feel like a mess in comparison. I haven’t even looked in a mirror since I was handcuffed and hauled off to the sheriff’s department.

  She holds out a hand and smiles. “I’m Stella. You’ll have to introduce yourself because Silas here wouldn’t know manners if they bit him in the ass.”

  “Dylan. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Cute,” she says. I don’t know if she means my name, or me, nor do I even know if it’s a compliment. She asks, “Do you go to Rusk?”

  “I do, actually. I’m a junior. Or I’ll be a junior when classes start back up. I’m a journalism major, um, with a sociology minor. Potentially pre-law.” Why am I still talking? Why am I telling this girl everything about myself? I grab hold of Matt and pull him up beside me. “This is my friend, Matt. He’s social work. Big football fan apparently.”

  She tilts her head to the side and raises her eyebrows at Silas, and I just want to bang something into my face. Repeatedly.

  “How do you all know each other?” Stella asks.

  Oh you know. PRISON. Or jail. Whatever you call it when you don’t actually leave the police station.

  “Um . . .” I fish for a suitable explanation. “We met at a thing.”

  A thing. Really smooth.

  Silas drops his arm from around my shoulder, and I’ve officially screwed this all up. Where is the nearest oven into which I can stick my head?

  It’s probably for the best. I’ll let Matt do his thing, and then we can get out of here.

  “You done with the third degree, Stell?”

  She stands up straighter and shrugs. “No third degree. I’m just wondering how you leave your own party after . . .” She trails off, but not before giving Silas a look. “How you leave your own party and come back home with two strangers and a bruised face.”

  His expression has gone hard, but his words are still light. “What can I say? I make friends everywhere I go.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Right. And what exactly did your face make friends with?”

  Silas drags a hand through his hair. “Jesus. We met at the police station after I got arrested for beating the shit out of Levi. So, if you don’t mind, I’m not really in the mood to rehash my terrible day. Take your gossip and go.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room.

  Stella calls after him, but he ignores her. A younger guy vacates a recliner, and between one breath and the next, Silas has sat down and pulled me straight onto his lap.

  Chapter 6

  Silas

  Spooked. That’s the look in her eye as I curl a hand over her bare knee and turn her sideways on my lap. She already has big eyes, but now they’re two wide blue oceans set in a heart-shaped face.

  “Um, I think I’ll find another seat.”

  I tighten my grip on her knee and say, “You see one?”

  A frown pulls at her lips as she looks around the packed room. “I’ll just . . .” She shifts like she’s going to stand, but I stop her. I’m fucking this all up. Coming on too strong, pushing her too much. I know it’s crazy. This one girl doesn’t define my place here, but I can’t take another moment today where my shortcomings are thrown in my face. I need this. Need her.

  “I’ll be good. I promise.”

  “I think we probably have very different definitions of good.”

  I laugh at having my own words thrown back at me. And I’m a little puzzled at why she’s still hanging in there with me. If she’s actually as uptight and serious as she seems, she probably wouldn’t have even climbed into my truck. The way she smiles at me from beneath her wild hair makes me feel like what I’m seeing is just what she wants me to see. Maybe I’m not the only one pretending.

  “What’s your last name?” I say.

  She’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes scanning the room uncomfortably as she answers, “Brenner.”

  Brenner. The name sounds familiar. Or maybe it’s just that it flows right in my head. Like she’s one of those people that you have to say their full name every time.

  I watch her fingers tang
ling in her lap for a few moments, and I can see her closing herself up. I grip her hips and shift her forward until she stands. I do the same, and then push her back down into the recliner alone. Then I balance myself on the edge of the end table next to her.

  “Tell me about yourself, Dylan Brenner.”

  She gifts me a smile that just might be grateful, and she shrugs. “You’ve already been party to my most mortifying experience—”

  “Are we talking your arrest or that weird verbal diarrhea back there?”

  “Oh God.” She covers her eyes with her hands so fast, I can actually hear her palms hit her face. Laughing, I reach out to tug on her braid again. I don’t know what the fuck my problem is, but I can’t stop touching her hair. I don’t want to stop.

  “I’m kidding. Besides, it gave me some info. You’re a junior, so that makes you what, twenty? Twenty-one?”

  I slip my fingers down her braid, the texture smooth and complicated. She lifts her head out of her hands. “Twenty-one. Just turned in June.”

  Reluctantly, I let go of her hair.

  “And what did the Dylan Brenner do for her twenty-first?”

  “The Dylan Brenner?”

  I shrug. “I figure people are going to call you that someday. After you’ve changed the world a few times. I’m just getting a head start.”

  She says, “I don’t know that it’s really possible to change the world.”

  “Then why go through all the trouble?”

  She pulls her feet up into the recliner and balances her arms atop her knees. She did that in the jail cell, too, and I swear to God it’s like she wants to torture me. I try not to stare at the gentle curve of her thighs, not while she’s got this far-off, contemplative look on her face. She gazes just above my head as she speaks, like she’s somewhere else entirely. Or like maybe she’s explaining it to herself more than me. “Because once upon a time, someone went through the trouble for me. And I want to be that kind of person. The kind of person who fights for what I believe in even if I’m already beat. I don’t think I can change the world, but I can change one person’s world at a time. And that’s something.”