1986: Why Can't This Be Love (Love in the 80s #7) Read Online Free Page B

just trying to protect me.”
    “You?” I asked, surprised. “Get real!”
    After what his uncle said to me? The way he’d warned me away?
    Dylan glanced at me, amused. “What? You think my heart can’t be broken?”
    “He warned me away from you ,” I reminded him.
    Shrugging, Dylan straddled the chair in front of the scoreboard. “Doesn’t matter. It was a reminder that chicks like you don’t normally dig punks like me unless you’re looking for a good time. I’m not the kind of guy you bring home to your mama.”
    He was wrong.
    Without thinking, I blurted, “I’d bring you home.”
    He froze.
    I faltered. “I mean, if I really knew you and all. If we were, like, a thing.”
    He gripped the back of the chair, eyes narrowing, his gaze roaming my face, studying it as if I was a bug he was dissecting under a magnifying glass. “You would, wouldn’t you?” A small, incredulous laugh escaped him. “Damn, you are one legit chick. Sweets, they don’t make girls like you anymore.”
    “What? Honest?” I asked. “How would you know? Maybe you just haven’t met any.”
    His brows drew together, furrowing. “Maybe.”
    Leaving the chair, he sat next to me on the bench, his frame dwarfing mine. Butterflies took flight inside my stomach, filling me with nervous energy. I pressed my knees together.
    “Let’s make this game more interesting, huh?” he suggested. “Each time I make a strike, I’ll tell you something about me. You throw a gutter ball, and you have to do the same thing. At the end, you tell me whether or not you’d still take me home to meet your parents.” He raised his voice an octave, mimicking my girlie speech. “If we were, like, a thing.”
    “You’re mocking me,” I accused.
    Smiling, he nudged me. “Only because I’m a little intimidated by your naiveté.” Nodding at the lane, he added, “Your bowl.”
    Cautiously, I stood, took my ball, lined up the shot, and released. It clattered to the floor, rolling into the gutter halfway down the lane.
    Dylan clapped, and then held up his hands to snap a picture of me with an imaginary camera, clicking with his tongue. “Give me the 411, babe.”
    “This is insulting,” I complained. “You get to give up information if you make a strike. Why the gutter for me?”
    He snorted. “Because I actually want to learn something about you.” Gesturing at me, he grinned. “Come on, spill.”
    I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m not that interesting. I don’t know. I’m seventeen. I like to read. I love music, like really love it, especially punk rock—”
    “The basic stuff is cool and all,” Dylan interrupted, “but I’m talking the deeper shit. What’s it like at home?”
    My gaze shot to his. “Home?”
    Propping a foot up on the bench, he leaned over, his brows arched, waiting.
    “Quiet,” I answered automatically, surprising myself. “My parents are kind of busy a lot. We don’t talk much.”
    Dropping his foot, Dylan grabbed a ball and headed for the lane, even though, technically, it was still my turn. One throw, and he knocked down every pin.
    “My dad left when I was a kid,” he informed me. “It’s been me and my mom ever since. She works all of the time, and dates a different man every week like it’s a sport. Most of them are losers, real dipshits.” His gaze caught mine. “That’s why I’m really here. I took a bat to her boyfriend’s car. He was shit to her.” He winced. “It was either find a way to pay for the damages or deal with the law.”
    I stared.
    He offered me my bowling ball and asked, “Would you take me home now?” His eyes shone with vulnerability.
    “Because you vandalized some jerk’s property?” I ignored the ball. “We don’t have to bowl for you to tell me this stuff.”
    “No,” he agreed, “we don’t.”
    “Then why do it?”
    Setting the ball down, Dylan approached me slowly, all predator on prey. “Maybe I’m testing the waters. Seeing whether or not I want