I whimper, and I don't know if it's in objection to his words or because they make something tighten in my belly.

"Come on. Move for me."

I kiss him. Maybe to shut him up. Maybe for courage.

As soon as his tongue slides against mine, I'm reacting on instinct, doing exactly as he asked. His other hand is out of my shirt, and digging into my braid, undoing it until hair starts to fall around my face and swing around me as I rock into his palm.

"God, yes. You're gorgeous like this. Keep going, baby."

Every time I tilt my hips, he pushes in sync, curling his fingers and hitting a spot that makes my arms and legs shake in anticipation. He pushes up my oversized shirt and his lips close over the tip of my breast through my camisole. He sucks hard, and my hips jerk, seeking more. I throw my head back because I'm so close.

So, so close.

He lets my shirt drop down and clamps his hand around the back of my neck. His grip is hard enough that it almost hurts. Almost. Instead it just adds to the frenzied pace of my blood rushing beneath my skin. With his hand at my nape, I have no choice but to look at him. His hair is mussed and wild, and I wonder when I ran my hands through it because I don't remember. I sink my fingers through the strands now, though, because that's something I want to remember, how it feels to hold on to him like that.

His hazel eyes are so dark and piercing, and that look alone brings me a breath closer to the edge. He pulls me into him, so that his hand is wedged between us with no extra space. I'm still moving against his palm, but when I rock hard enough, I'm pushing against his erection, too. I know when I've done that because I can feel his heavy exhale against my lips.

"I'm going to watch you, Dylan. Just like this. I'm going to watch you come apart around my fingers, and it might just be the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."

My eyelids start to fall under the pleasure, and he twists his fingers inside me. I pull his hair on accident, and he growls in approval.

"Look at me, Dylan. Don't close your eyes. I want to see it. I want to watch you come for me. Can you give me that?"

"Si-Silas."

His grin is so wicked, so gorgeous. I just stare at him. I could stare at him all day.

"Feel free to say that while you come, too."

And that's it for me. I feel it building the second before it hits, like I can almost see the shadow of a wave cresting just behind me, and then it crashes over my head and I am . . .

drowning and dying and breathing and perfect . . .

Everything is absolutely perfect.

Silas's lips touch mine, surprisingly soft, and I sink into him, boneless and exhausted and too undone to be embarrassed. My skin is buzzing, and my hearing is off, like I'm underwater. I can feel the delay between my thoughts and my movements, like my body short-circuited and is still trying to reboot.

"I was right," he breathes against my lips. "Hottest fucking thing I've ever seen."

He kisses me again, and that's when I realize . . . this isn't over. I've just had an incredibly intimate, incredibly vulnerable encounter with a relative stranger, in a bathroom, of all places, and though I had a (rather wonderful) moment, he didn't. And this was all just prelude.

Which is terrifying because that prelude was the scariest and most erotic moment of my life, and I might not survive more. And though I definitely wanted what just happened, my brain is still too fuzzy and disjointed for me to figure out what else I want.

He slides his hand out from under me, and I realize that we're both still fully clothed. Other than my soaked panties and unbuttoned shorts, you can't tell we've been doing anything more than kissing.

There's something even sexier about that, but at the same time, it wakes me up to a twisting sensation in my gut, something I recognize all too easily as guilt.

It's not like I'm against sex or anything.

But like this? When it's this . . . impersonal? I have no clue what I'm doing. It's as if I woke up today and completely forgot who I was, who I've spent my whole life becoming. And I don't know whether to be angry at myself for that or for feeling guilty about doing what I want. What feels right.

When is it okay for want to overpower common sense? And how do I know if this is just some phase, some rebellion? Or if it's me finally waking up, letting go of expectations and responsibilities and rules?

How do I know what to trust-what I feel or what I think?

I'm scared that whatever I decide, I'll end up regretting it.

I'm still straddling Silas when I ask, "You said you and Stella hooked up last year. That's what this is . . . right?"

He kisses me on the shoulder and helps me stand. "My room is right across the hall. Let's go over there."

He pulls open the door, but I plant my feet.

"This is just a hookup."

I don't phrase it like a question, but from the wary look he shoots me, we both know it is.

"What do you want it to be?"

I frown. "I'm not sure." I'm not really the one-night-stand kind of person, but I also can't picture myself having a relationship with Silas. I like him and the way he makes me feel, but that's not near enough to build a relationship on.

A holding cell meet-up and a few hot minutes in the bathroom is not exactly how I pictured my next romantic encounter.

"Can't we just leave it at that? Figure it out later?"

"No. I can't."

He leaves the door to cross over to me. He scoops my thick hair up and pulls it over one shoulder. Then he trails a finger down my cheek, and I'm relieved to note it's not the hand he recently had buried in my shorts.

"I think you're great, Dylan." He doesn't use any stupid nicknames. I guess that's another perk of the activity we've just done. "I like you. I like making you come. That's all I know right now."

I will not blush. I will not blush. I will not- Damn that cocky smile.

I wish that were enough. I wish I could be fine with just worrying about right now.

"I don't ask questions to be a pain, Silas. I ask questions because I'm the kind of person who needs answers. I just am."

"What answer do you want? A relationship? Because that's not really something I do."

I don't think that's what I want. But I don't like that it's not even a consideration.

"How do you know? Do you have trust issues? Or you get bored easily? Or you've just never tried?"

He drops his hand away from my face.

"Dylan, I'm not sure what I want from you, but it isn't to be my shrink."

"I'm not trying to be your shrink. I'm just trying to get us on the same page."

"We were on the same page when you were straddling me. Let's go back to that."

"Silas." I know even as I say it that I sound like I'm reprimanding him. Like I'm already some angry girlfriend. And it's ridiculous because I'm actually tempted. God, as frustrated and wary as I feel, I'm so tempted.

"Okay. Here are the answers I have for you, Dylan. Yes, I like you . . . enough to bail you out of jail when I knew next to nothing about you. Maybe it's just a hookup. Maybe we'll see each other again. I don't know. I don't make promises because I'm not good at keeping them. You're either okay with that or you're not. And if you're not, that's whatever . . . fine. But I can't guarantee you anything. And if you're thinking of me as some project you can fix or change . . . don't. That's what I know."

"Thank you. That, um . . . that helps." And makes me feel a little sick to my stomach all at the same time. It's all well and good to act impulsively, to live in the moment, but I don't exactly have any experience dealing with what comes after.

"Should I go find Matt and take you two home?"

"No." I shake my head, my lips pursed tightly together. His eyebrows arch, and he curls a hand around the back of my neck. His mouth dips down close to mine, but I sidestep him and move toward the door. "I don't need you to take me home. But I think it's probably not a good idea for me to go into your bedroom. I'm in a weird place mentally right now, and I'm not sure I trust my decision making at the moment."

In fact, I don't trust myself at all. I haven't since I went out with Henry thinking he might be about to propose and got a breakup instead. Because . . . I think, I can't be sure, but I think when he ended it . . . I was relieved. And only minutes before I'd been prepared with the word yes on the tip of my tongue.

And that scares the holy hell out of me because I should know myself better than that . . . right? I should know who I am and what I think and how I feel . . . but I don't.

I don't know myself at all.

He swallows, and he must be gritting his teeth because his jaw is tight. He looks down at his feet and bobs his head in a nod. "I get it."

He looks up and asks, "You sure you don't need a ride home? It's not a big deal." But even though he's looking at me, he's not looking at me. His eyes are unfocused and just off to the side, and his expression is locked up tight.

And I feel so guilty, not just for what I did, but because this isn't fair to him. He's the collateral damage of my own indecision.

"Thanks. That's really nice, but we can walk. It's not far."

"Okay."

"Okay," I reply. I stand there stupidly for a few more seconds and then walk out the door.

I turn to say one last thing, and he's right behind me. He's looking at me now, and I can't read his expression.

"Sorry." I mean it to be an apology for all of it, but I'm scared he thinks it's just about nearly bumping into him, so I continue, "I'm sorry for being weird about all this. And thank you. For everything, not for . . ." I gesture in the general direction of where he gave me an orgasm. "That. But thanks for that also. Oh God. I'm going to go. Sorry. Thanks."

STOP SAYING THANK YOU.

I can feel his presence behind me as I flee, and I'm wondering whether it's worse to stay silent or to make some horrible, awkward small talk on our way down the stairs. Then I hear the door across the hall, his bedroom, click shut.

And I'm alone.

And I still have no idea what I want.

Chapter 8.

Silas I find a joint in my room, and kill the whole thing in a few minutes.

Bad decision.

She didn't say it, but that's what she was thinking. She wanted to avoid bad decisions, and always, no matter what I do, no matter how far away I get from the trailer park and that shack of Granny's, I've got that written all over me.

The high comes on fast and hard, and I spend the next half hour, maybe more, staring at my ceiling. I'm fucking blank, barely even there. And it's perfect.

But when I start to level out, it all gets worse.

I'm horny as hell, and the weed only amplifies it.

Instead of clearing my head and relaxing me like normal, my thoughts turn dark, and I get stuck thinking about the past. I start thinking that there's no point. To football or classes or friendship or anything. I know where I came from, and I know where I'm gonna end up, and the longer I lie here, baked out of my mind, the more it starts to feel like those two things aren't as far apart or as different as I want them to be.

I start laughing, and I'm not even really sure why. Only that this all feels like some script I'm playing directly into. Like these first couple years at Rusk were just the setup, letting me believe I'd moved on, created something better for myself, only to have it all start falling apart, or rather falling back into familiar territory.

I laugh even though it's not funny, but what the fuck ever. I stumble down the stairs, and I must have been staring at my ceiling for much longer than half an hour because the party is over.

Torres is indeed passed out naked on the floor, and someone has balanced a throw pillow on his bare ass, and that seems so damn funny to me that I forget how to breathe through my laughing.

Torres doesn't stir. Neither does the new recruit asleep on the couch.

I make my way to the kitchen, but it feels like ages before I get there. Time never makes sense when I'm high. I blink, and it somehow feels like my eyes have been closed for centuries and seconds all at the same time. I load up on snacks, more weed, and a couple of beers. With my arms full, I turn to head back to my room only to find Torres standing at the entrance to the kitchen. He's pulled the throw pillow around front to block his junk, and he's looking at me through squinted eyes.

"Is it morning?" he asks me.

My chest bounces on a silent laugh, and I shake my head. He rubs a hand over his face and says, "What the fuck happened last night?"

He's the one laughing now, and my mood turns on a dime. All of a sudden things don't really seem that funny.

I can't shake the feeling that last night was the beginning of the end, and everything is downhill from here.

"Nothing good," I answer. "Nothing good at all."

Torres groans in agreement, and stumbles off in the direction of his room, while I head up to mine. I only eat a couple of handfuls of chips before I pass out for the night. Perfect oblivion.

I keep chasing that nothingness through the rest of the weekend, switching to alcohol when I'm out of weed and too lazy to go buy more.

Brookes comes in Sunday evening. He's the most stable in the house. He and Torres are best friends . . . both receivers. They're the jokers on the team, but really couldn't be more different. Torres clowns around for the attention. Brookes does it to put people at ease. He's also a fast motherfucker, which is why I barely have time to raise my hands before he's by my bed stripping back the sheets.

He's holding one of those jugs of water you buy at the grocery store. Throwing it on my bed, he says, "You've had your final weekend of fun or whatever the hell this was. Take a shower. Drink some water. Get it the fuck together. Practice starts tomorrow."

I groan, but I grab the water because he's right. I don't know what I was thinking.

Scratch that. I know exactly what happened. I've been trying my damnedest not to think at all.

It's not about Dylan. She's just a girl. A girl who is nothing like any other girl I've ever known, but still just a girl. It's all of it. All the things that have happened, and all the things that haven't, but inevitably will.