“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.
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 h*ps and waist and br**sts 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 f**king 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 f**king 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 f**king 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 br**sts. 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.