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 he 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 na**d 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 na**d 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.