"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.

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.