A few weeks ago, my street team organized an awesome All Played Out Read-a-thon, and I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to revisit some of my favorite Rusk couples! I started out with a bonus scene about Carson and Dallas, which you can read HERE. Next up: Silas and Dylan!
This scene is in Dylan’s POV, and it takes place after the events of All Played Out (not really any spoilers though). In it, I reintroduce a “character” that’s going to play a bigger role in the series moving forward.
Note: This scene is unedited. So any mistakes are my bad.
As I walk up the steps to Silas’s house, I hear a crash inside, people yelling, and then something shatters. My heart turns over in my chest, and I take the last few steps at a run.
Within the space of a few heartbeats, my mind conjures up all the likely causes of that crash. Silas is fighting again… but with who? Or maybe one of the guys was hurt in practice, and it made him clumsy. Or maybe it’s a burglar. I don’t bother knocking before I push my way inside, and then my heart doesn’t just turn over. It drops into my stomach like it’s been tied to an anchor.
The house is in shambles. Chairs overturned. The stuffing has been ripped out of one of the cushions on the couch. A lamp has been knocked off a table, and the glass from the broken light bulb surrounds it in a halo that glitters when the sunlight from the open door hits it. It reminds me of the scenes in movies where someone’s house is ripped apart because the bad guy is looking for something. And for a moment, I think of last week when Torres jokingly accused Brookes of working for the CIA for like the third time. That *was* a joke, right? Surely.
Dozens of scenarios run through my head, each one more elaborate and unlikely than the one before.
“Damn it, Moore! Grab him!” That was Brookes.
I turn toward the source of the noise in the kitchen, and catch sight of Torres sitting on the dining room table, laughing his ass off. And when I step through the archway into the room, I see why.
No CIA nonsense. No fighting. No injuries.
Nope. Just my incredibly gorgeous boyfriend, wrestling on the floor with an extremely hyper dog. The dog, a brown and gray Labrador/Cattle dog mix that I recognize from our local shelter, can’t seem to decide whether it wants to escape Silas’s grasp or lick his face, so he alternates between the two. If I remember correctly, this was the dog Silas named Bo Jackson the first time he helped out at the shelter with me. I watch as my boyfriend lays there, eyes and mouth tightly shut, hands pre-occupied with a squirming body, while the dog slobbers all over his face. I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up in my throat, and then all attention snaps toward me.
A slobbery Silas on the ground, laughing Torres on the table, and a stern Brookes, who was picking up the larger glass pieces of whatever it was that had broken before I entered the house.
“Uhh… hey baby.”
I’m not used to seeing Silas look ridiculous. Intimidating? Always. Sexy? Enough to give me heart palpitations. But the expression he wears now—part embarrassment, part little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar—is an entirely new Silas for me.
I cross the kitchen and kneel down beside him, and the dog goes wild, panting and wagging his tail, pushing his paws against Silas’s stomach to try and reach me. I scratch behind his ears, and he makes this adorable mewling sound in appreciation. After about a minute of scratching and petting, he settles down enough that he relaxes against Silas, laying his head down on his chest.
“Who knew Captain Planet could work miracles?” Torres says. “Should make that whole saving the world thing easier.”
I ignore him and focus on Silas. “Want to tell me why Bo Jackson is here tearing up your house instead of at the shelter?”
“I can’t get anyone to take him,” he says, and he’s strangely adorable in his defensiveness. “I keep trying to push him on people, but everything thinks he’s too big or too hyper.”
“That’s because he is too hyper,” Brookes mutters under his breath.
“I couldn’t stand looking at him in that cage anymore. And… this dog… he’s a part of our story, you know? He was just a puppy when I went to the shelter with you the first time. He reminds me of what it was like to fall for you, and I can’t just let him rot away in that place.”
“Awwww!” Torres says behind me, swinging his legs back and forth beneath the table like a child. “Did you hear that Brookes? That monster is part of their story. Who knew Moore was such a softy?”
“Shut up, Torres.” I’d thought the words had come from me, I’d certainly been ready to say them, but it’s Brookes who actually says them. “Like you’re not just as whipped as he is.”
“Hey! I didn’t bring home a dog who destroyed our house. I think I’m still winning here.”
“I went to the bathroom,” Silas says in exasperation. “How was I supposed to know he’d rip everything apart if I left him alone for a minute or two?”
My eyes widen. “He did all that damage in two minutes?”
“It was really more like ten,” Brookes explains.
“He’s a fast little sucker. it took us a little while to catch him.”
Unbelievable. Three college athletes can’t catch a dog.
“Well, he’s not really an indoors kind of pet. He needs space to run and play. Why didn’t you put him in the backyard?”
Silas glares at Torres. “Because there’s still a part of the fence that’s down, and Torres over there refuses to let us fix it.”
“Hey… if you can get a dog for sentimental reasons, I can like that broken fence. It’s part of *my* story.”
Brookes dumps the larger broken glass pieces in the trash, grabs a broom, and tosses it at Torres. “You’re both idiots. And the two of you can clean up the mess he made and decide how to keep him from making it again. Just figure your shit out.”
Brookes stalks out of the kitchen and Torres whistles. “Someone is moody. Think he’s jealous of the complete and utter perfection that is my love life?”
I roll my eyes, and rather than answering, I lift Bo Jackson into my arms so Silas can stand. He goes to the sink, splashing water on his face to clean off the slobber, and when he looks back at me, his long hair is stuck to his forehead and cheeks, and he’s back to being unequivocally sexy.
He crosses to me, and though he lifts a hand to scratch at Bo’s ears, his eyes never leave mine. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze that he only rarely shows me. And each time, it grips my heart so hard I think it might break.
“It was very sweet of you to want to take care of him.” He leans closer, until his forehead presses against mine, Bo wiggling between us.
“I just… when I think about our future. I picture a house with a yard. Maybe a kid or two… and this dog. I just do.”
“If football doesn’t work out,” Torres says, “You could always try for a career with Hallmark.”
“Shut up, Torres.” This time—the words come from both me and Silas.
Hopping off the table, he lifts his hands in surrender. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. Nell’s about to get off work anyway.”
As Torres leaves the kitchen, Silas yells after him, “That fence is getting fixed, Teo! Deal with it.”
His friend waves off his words, and slips out of the room, leaving just the two of us in the kitchen.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” He scratches a little harder at Bo’s ears, and the dog croons.
“I didn’t freak you out? With all the future talk?”
Rather than answering, I reach up and wrap one hand around his neck to pull his mouth down to mine. His answering kiss is hard, they always are after he’s let himself be vulnerable with me. He kisses with abandon, with a brutal passion that takes my breath away. Whatever his flaws are, you cannot say that Silas Moore doesn’t throw his whole heart into whatever he does.
Bo whines in complaint when he gets squished too hard between us. And when he jerks, I can’t keep hold of him with the one arm that’s not pre-occupied with Silas. He jumps to the floor and takes off. I try to go after him, but Silas tugs on my hair, slanting his mouth over mine again.
“We’ll catch him in a second. I’m not quite done with this pretty mouth.”
There’s a thud in the living room, and then another crash. After one last lingering kiss, Silas groans and curses as he pulls away.
“He’s part of our story,” I remind him, just a slight note of teasing in my voice as I plant one more quick kiss on his lips.
“Yeah, well, I was hoping fucking you on the kitchen counter could be part of our story.”
I laugh and push him away. “Another time.”
Then together (with one of his hands slipping down to squeeze my ass), we head off in search of Bo Jackson. Our dog.