"Thank you. I don't really know what to say."

I shrug. It's not in me to play the chivalrous 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.

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?

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.