Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers own "I Won't Back Down."

You can stand me up at the gates of hell

But I won't back down

July 12, 1966

Ella's breathing was heavy, her eyes wide, and her lips parted. This was the second time she'd had a dream like this, a provocative one at that. Ever since that afternoon when Dallas had driven her to the store, all she could think about were his captivating eyes, the smell of tobacco and weed that emitted off of him, the small indent of his upper lip, and by golly, the way he had looked at her—really looked at her, like she had never been looked at before. Then again, Ella had only ever dated one boy, one who had merely used her for his own cruel intentions. Craig Bryant hadn't even liked her, only used her in a scheme at getting back at Dallas Winston and Ponyboy Curtis, but not even he, who had been good to her in the beginning of their relationship, had ever looked at her the way that Dallas had.

The eighteen-year-old wasn't sure why, but whenever she thought about the expression on Dallas's face, her entire body would tingle, her thighs would squeeze, and her bottom lip seemed to get caught between her teeth. It made her feel . . . different, like she was really a woman, like she was almost desirable, like she had never felt before. She had liked Craig so much nearly a year ago, so she wondered why he hadn't made her feel like this.

With a deep sigh, Ella moved out of bed, wishing that she didn't have to go to work that morning. She was glad, though, that Steve had fixed her car so she no longer had to walk in the heat, but she felt guilty that he told her not to worry about paying him. Part of her felt that Evie had something to do with that, but Ella had decided—even though Steve had insisted that she not worry about it—to make him something, even if it was a measly batch of cookies. She figured he could share it with his friends or something if he didn't want to take anything from her, but the thought was still there, and she was very grateful for his help—his and Evie's.

As she went through her morning routine, her dream plaguing her thoughts, Ella wondered when she would see Dallas next, not looking forward to it, and she wondered if he ever thought about her, or even considered her in any way other than just his former tutor. She was sure that they were on a friendly basis with one another, but she thought of him in a different way, and the other evening in the car with him being that close to her had only intensified her feelings. Honestly, it confused her, too, as she couldn't fathom what it was about the hard-headed hoodlum that drew her in. He wasn't a very nice person—he was cold, bitter, mean . . . the list was never-ending, but he was also charismatic, possessed certain abilities of being nice, could be understanding, and he was protective. Ella had also come to learn that Dallas was almost loyal to a fault, but it took him a lot of time to befriend most people, though once his friendship was gained, he became a very devoted companion.

Before she left, Ella checked in on her mother, who was still sound asleep in her bedroom. The girl's face fell a little as she peered in at her, a sensation of sheer worry still lurking in the back of her mind as she recalled Dr. Andrews's words. He'd prescribed Ella's mother some medication for the pain, and she wasn't allowed to work or do anything strenuous, but Ella was certain that her mother was too worn out and in too much pain to even want to move out of bed on most days.

With a sinking feeling in her gut and a facade of courage on her face, Ella stepped out into the rain and humidity, climbing into the car and heading to the laundromat.

Two-Bit's expression was somewhat cocky, but he simply raised an eyebrow at the younger teen in front of him as he dropped his cards onto the coffee table. He could see the annoyed look on his face, figured he had him real good, and that he would be getting a case of beer out of this, but when Ponyboy had the audacity to look straight at him, one side of his lips curving up ever so slightly, Two-Bit leaned forward, immediately losing his previous confidence.

Ponyboy grinned, flipping his cards around. "Royal flush."

The rusty-haired teen's face dropped instantaneously. "How in the hell?" He blinked, brows pulling together as he studied the kid's cards—he couldn't believe it. "You gotta be pullin' my chain or somethin', kid. You was never real good at poker."

Ponyboy rolled his eyes. Two-Bit was right, though, he never had been exceptionally good at cards, but those five days he'd spent in the church with Johnny had surely taught him something. It was no secret that Johnny Cade had been one helluva poker player, and if anything Ponyboy had learned from his best friend during those awful days in Windrixville, it was a few poker tips. Surprisingly, he hadn't bothered to play a game of cards since September, so when Two-Bit had prompted him to do so, he could only cave in and go with it. Besides, if he won, Two-Bit had to pay for his next movie, and if he won, he had to pay for a case of beer for him. Well, he thought with a cheerful smirk, it looked like he was going to the movies with a free pass after all.

A grin stretched across his face. "Well, I'm a fast learner."

"I'll bet," Two-Bit replied, and took a sip of his beer. "I'd call a rematch, but I doubt you would."

"Nope," he agreed, hopping up onto the couch and leaning back. His eyes narrowly landed on the book Mary had gotten for him, the one he had purposely left behind in the library. He was conflicted about reading it, or merely returning it—only because she had gotten it for him—but he supposed that was really a childish thought. In all honesty, he actually appreciated the gesture, knowing fully well that Mary didn't have to check it out for him. He couldn't fathom it, though, remembering how harshly he had treated her, and it didn't make him feel too hot. His ears burned, but he turned back toward Two-Bit, who was aimlessly shuffling the cards. "What do you think of Mary?"

Caught off guard with the question, Two-Bit gave him a strange look. "What do you mean, kid?"

Ponyboy shrugged. "Nothin', really. I was just curious about what your thoughts were of Soda's girl. I don't really know what to make of her yet."

"No?" he said, and pursed his lips. "Well, I don't know myself, either. She's awfully quiet, ya know, don't hardly say nothin' to me." He placed the deck back onto the table and stretched his arms up in the air with a wide yawn. "Seems like a nice gal, though, probably a little too nice for our kind, but your brother surely seems happy, don't he?"

And that was all the confirmation he needed—everyone else seemed to think that Mary DeVaney was a nice person, or that Soda was happy, so that meant she must be good for him. Ponyboy wasn't sure, but he both felt bad for treating the girl poorly, and weirdly okay that he had. Perhaps it was just him being worried that Mary was going to end up breaking Soda's heart, but every time he saw her and looked at her nervous face, he couldn't believe that she would. Oh, blast it, he thought miserably—but that wasn't the only reason, and he knew it. There was something about her that made him nervous, and it was something regarding the look in her eyes—that nervous, skeptical expression that unnerved him.

With a sigh, he continued speaking. "I guess, but . . . I was awfully rude to her a few days ago." At the older teen's perplexed look, he continued on flatly. "I saw her in the library and said some pretty hurtful things to her." His face turned a shade. "I didn't mean to, and I suppose I feel guilty about it, but I—"

"Don't want to like her?"

A nod. "I guess I don't." And though it was a lousy thing to admit, he felt better doing so. "It's not that I think she's a bad person, or that she's all wrong for Soda, but there's something about her that makes me uncomfortable, and hell, I can't tell Soda that, or Darry."

Two-Bit looked thoughtful. "Well, Ponykid, this might sound awfully dumb, but maybe you ain't ready to accept anyone else because you don't wanna get attached, dig? And, hell, it's not a bad thing, unless you's like Dallas, then it would be." He finished off the last of his beer in one gulp, getting up to toss the empty bottle in the garbage can. "But you oughtta consider on apologizing to her, especially if it's eatin' ya up that bad."

"I guess you're right," came the dull response. "She was nice enough to give the book I was reading to Soda when I left it at the library." His chin bowed. "I was awfully rude to her."

"Don't sweat it," the older boy stated. "Look'it here—if she's not doin' anything wrong, then just be happy for your brother. It's the most any of us can do, especially now."

Ponyboy nodded. "Yeah. Gee, thanks, Two-Bit."

"Sure." His brow quirked. "By the way, how's your book comin' along? You speak to that publisher guy yet? What's the deal?"

He could have slapped himself in the head. "I gotta talk to Dally first. I ain't done that yet."

"Well, in that case," Two-Bit drawled, "you're shit out of luck, 'cause I have no idea where that greasy hood is."

The red-headed teen sighed in defeat, figuring that the next time he ran into Dallas Winston, he would have to tell him about his book and ask for his consent. Two-Bit was right, he noted, he was shit out of luck—Dally could have been anywhere . . .

"You know you ain't gonna make any dough without me."

Buck looked pretty annoyed. "You ain't racin'."

The blond was seething, but he followed the older cowboy as he worked behind the bar. "You still all hacked off 'cause I was right the other week, huh? You knew that horse wasn't in any condition to be runnin' like that, so you fucked yourself with that race." His hands slammed down on the table. "So what, huh? You ain't in it for the cash anymore, that it?"

Buck let out a long sigh, a sign that he was about to cave. He knew that Dallas was right—he needed the extra cash, and he needed it bad. He had already blown the loot from the last race, which hadn't even been that much of a winning. The guy who had taken Winston's place wasn't half as good, and he certainly couldn't make a horse take to him like Dallas could. For a right, nasty son-of-a-bitch, Dallas had a way with horses that Buck couldn't fathom. He could tame the wildest of them, could train the ponies, could nurse a senior horse to good health . . . the kid practically spoke horse, and he was damn good at it—a trait Buck Merril hadn't witnessed in any other person.

"Well . . ."

The teen watched him carefully, his eyes narrowing. "Come on, Merril. We both know you could use some cash." There was a sarcastic sound in his voice, although the thought was tempting. "Sign me up with ya. Friday night, you an' me." He leaned forward so half his body was across the counter, elbow pressing into the wood. "I'll race Shiloh."

Buck's brows shot up. "You wanna race that washed out old thing?"

"She's fast."

"Ain't fast enough."

Dally glowered, not backing down. "Just put me the fuck back in." He was tired of stringing this along, of trying to play nice. He wanted to be in that race Friday night, and he got what he wanted. "I win, we split the dough fifty fifty, savvy?"

The older man looked vexed, his arms crossing over his chest. "This is yer last chance, Winston. You fuck this up, I'll make sure yer ass don't ever work for the Slash J again."

He leaned back, a smirk on his lips. "Shiloh it is then."

It was more than obvious that Buck was pissed, blue in the face probably, but Dallas didn't care. He'd missed racing, and like Buck, he needed some money. He was mighty sick of living with his deadbeat daddy, and he was itching to get the hell out of his house. Well, at least he had some clean sheets, so he couldn't complain there, but that wasn't the point. He and his old man had never gotten along well, and they were both tired of dealing with each other nearly every day. Dallas had taken to sleeping at the Shepard's place a few times, once at the Curtis's, and once or twice with Linda Holland, and he was just getting plain sick of everyone.

Was it so much to ask for to sleep in a bed with peace and quiet for a whole night through? Apparently, it was a lot to ask for in Dallas's case. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a peaceful sleep that wasn't disturbed in the slightest. In fact, Dallas couldn't ever remember sleeping an entire night through—not even drunk off his ass.

When Buck refused to respond, he knew he had his answer. His smile was grim but full as he exited the bar that afternoon—he always got what he wanted.

Ella was folding up some towels, trying to ignore a few of her stray hairs that were sticking to her moistened neck. At this point, the girl was seriously considering on cutting her hair off so that she didn't have to worry about it anymore—hell, she would just keep it wrapped up in a bun from that point forward. It didn't matter anyway, as she wasn't trying to impress anyone. Reaching for another towel, Ella folded it to perfection—after spending the last few hours ironing the clothes, she was glad to be folding them. Her fingers were beginning to feel rough, and truthfully, she hated it—she would have to rub extra lotion on them later.

The bell chimed, alerting the girl of a customer's arrival. She glanced up just in time to see a girl with black ringlets backing herself inside with a hamper of laundry piled high. Her arms were enveloping the basket, which was obviously too heavy for her to carry. Still, though, she managed, muttering out a string of profanities that caused Ella to grimace slightly. Dropping the last of her load, she made her way to the front of the store to see if the young woman needed help with anything. But as Ella approached her, it was clearly evident that she was more frustrated than anything, shaking her head and mumbling quietly to herself as she counted out some change.

"Do you need any help?" Ella asked as politely as she could. Half of her was nervous about speaking to this girl, mostly because she seemed to be in a bad mood, and somewhat because she was just shy to begin with. But then, the girl's eyes snapped in her direction, and Ella nearly fainted. "Angela," she said, sounding as surprised as she looked. "I didn't . . . recognize you."

The younger teen rolled her eyes. "Is it the bruises on my face, or is your memory that fucked?"

"I'm sorry," Ella replied, looking the girl over. There were a few scattered bruises on her face, as well as two scratches that seemed to be covered with makeup. Ella remembered Steve relaying to Evie about some gang war going on downtown between Shepard's outfit and the River Kings. Ella wasn't exactly familiar with that stuff, usually opting for keeping to herself—not one to get thrust in the social class divide, or any of that nonsense. But she had heard about Angela getting jumped from both Dallas and Steve—something about getting back at Tim. "I just . . ." Her lips pursed. "Did you need any help?"

Angela was plainly blunt. "No."

As Ella turned away, she remembered the last time she had seen Angela Shepard. It had been around October of last year . . . the homecoming dance, that was it. She remembered Evie's dislike of her, and how some of the other girls didn't seem to like her all that much, either, well, except for Sylvia Evans, but that was a different story. A lot of people didn't like Angela, and it was clear why. Angela was a very rough girl, loud and obnoxious. She was in trouble a lot, and overall, not a very nice person. But Ella usually wasn't one to judge others too harshly, and she didn't exactly have a problem with the rebellious younger teen.

While those thoughts occupied her mind, there was a loud crash from behind her, followed by the sound of change scattering across the floor, and Angela's voice, which was a mixture of a loud groan and a piercing shriek. Ella jerked around to see the other girl with her head in her hands, her change bag on the floor upside down at her feet, and all of her change dispersed around her. Ella frowned, a sympathetic expression on her face as she made her way back to where Angela was still standing, crouching down to pick up the bag and scoop her coins into it.

It took Angela a second to react, but when she did, her blue eyes went wide, her countenance turning to shock as she watched Ella picking up her things. "I'm surprised you ain't laughin'," she said, moving to her knees to gather up her money. "Hell, most people would."

Ella frowned. "I'm not most people, Angela. Why would I laugh?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. Same as I would if it was someone else." Another minute or so past as the girls cleaned up the mess, and once they were standing, Angela began sorting her basket of laundry, a firm look on her angular face. "Our washer broke this mornin', and it ain't like anyone else bothers to do the laundry anyway. Of course, they ain't hardly ever home, but if they are, my Mama's always bitchin' about it." She shook her head. "You'd think she'd move her ass and do somethin', but all she cares about is my step-daddy's dough."

The brown-haired girl was listening, surprised to hear Angela Shepard talk like this. "I'm sorry," she replied. "That's awful."

And then little Angela cracked a smile, a bitter one, but close enough to being genuine. "Oh, please, that ain't nothin'." Her eyes expressed blunt mischief. "Waitin' for my neighbor to take her afternoon nap so I could take her car is awful." At Ella's baffled look, she rolled her eyes. "She's an old lady. It ain't like it matters anyway. 'Sides, I ain't walkin' in this blasted heat." As she dumped her clothes into the washer, she continued on. "It ain't safe to be walkin' the streets anyway."

Ella nodded. "Yeah, I heard about . . . what happened to you."

"Ain't nothin'," Angela replied. "Nothing I can't handle." Her nose wrinkled. "Just watch yourself."

The older teen had to smile a little. Angela might have been rough around the edges, but Ella had to admire how brave she was, even if it came out rather obnoxiously. Angela was just the type of girl who stood her ground and didn't let anyone push her around. She remembered how she'd felt when Craig Bryant attacked her back in January, how awful she'd felt, and she found that she could admire Angela Shepard—she wasn't one to back down.

The bell chimed, and Ella turned her head to see Evie strolling inside, fanning herself with one hand, her short shorts almost looking like a second skin against her figure. Ella had to hand it to her, though, for Evie could pull the look off like one of those pin-up models you'd see in magazines. Ella would never look like that, could never pull the look off, but Evie . . . Evie could, and she flaunted it like it was nobody's business. In comparison to Ella's casual beige shorts and sleeveless white blouse, Evie looked like a million bucks. Hell, even Angela, who was adorning a pair of short denim shorts that conformed to her smaller and more androgynous figure, along with an orange halter top, looked like she belonged in a fashion magazine.

Evie's voice broke the silence as she made her way down the aisle. "Hey, El," she called, and then her gaze landed on Angela. "Angela," she added, tone seeming to drop an octave.

Ella smiled. "Hey, Evie."

There was a short silence as Angela and Evie stared each other down, until Evie continued on. "Isn't it your break, Ella?"

And Ella's eyes landed on the clock. "Yeah. Just let me tell Ginger . . ."

Steve eyed the clock above the door to the garage, reaching his arms over his head as he stretched. His shift was nearly over, and truthfully, he couldn't be happier. The DX got pretty hot in the Summer, and the dark-haired greaser was sweating like a pig. Beside him, working on a '56 Pontiac Star Chief, Soda didn't look any better. His shirt was practically drenched through with perspiration, and he'd told Steve earlier that his feet were burning inside his shoes. Then again, it was no secret that Sodapop Curtis's feet overheated—even in the Winter. And Lord just help him if Darry didn't remind him to sprinkle some deodorizer in his shoes every evening.

The older boy rubbed the back of his neck, his nose crinkling as a bead of sweat drizzled down the side of his bridge, and he wished that the last several minutes would finish out already. He watched Soda for a few, before he stood up straight, dropping the Pontiac's hood with a thud.

"It's boiling in here," Soda said, cleaning his hands and using his arm to remove the moisture off of his forehead. "Hell, but I could just about suffocate to death."

Steve nodded, craning his neck toward the opened door. "Not even that breeze is helpin'."

"Well, ain't it time to head out anyway?"

The two teens made their way inside to clock out, nodding once to Benny to let him know that they were leaving. Steve enjoyed these days, mostly because he and Soda were on the same shift—Benny had kept his word several months ago about letting Steve go on full-time after he'd graduated, as well as letting him and Soda work together, so long as they did just that and didn't goof off too much. But Benny liked the both of them, enjoyed their company, and he'd heard from Stew at Giberson's Auto that Soda was one helluva employee.

"So, you got any plans with Mary?" Steve decided to ask as they trudged along back to Soda's house. "I was thinkin' maybe we could double-date this weekend."

Soda's brows shot up. "To the rodeo?"

"Sure, ain't Mary ever been to one?" he asked, raising an inquisitive brow. After officially meeting Soda's girl, Steve was no longer that skeptical of her. Besides, Evie seemed to like her well enough, even if the other girl was a little shy. "I know Evie's crazy about them races." A smile crossed his lips. "She always bets on Dally."

Soda snorted. "She hates Dally."

"Not as a jockey," came the bland response, and Steve chuckled. "But anyway, buddy, you oughtta ask Mary to come along with us."

The younger teen thought it over a minute, unsure of how his girl would do in a crowd like that. He hadn't exactly told Steve that Mary was . . . rather reserved, because he really didn't want to hear his friend's remarks. Oh, he'd heard a lot before, even the light jabs he'd taken at Sandy, but for some reason, one he couldn't fathom, he felt almost protective of Mary, and he wasn't sure why. He figured Steve might think he was just getting too attached, afraid that Mary would ditch him like Sandy had, but that wasn't it. No, it was something more, something that Soda couldn't piece together, as if most things he did with Mary required him to consider her and her feelings before his and everyone else's.

Unfortunately, he never had a chance to respond, because a car pulled up alongside the curb, and Paul Hopkins and three of his buddies got out, less than friendly expressions of their faces. Paul was eyeing Steve with a look that was more than unpleasant, his body leaning forward into a fighter's stance, his gaze bitter and hard. Paul Hopkins was an average downtown hood, not belonging to any gang, but playing runner for a few different ones here and there to make some quick cash. He wasn't all that bright, and his vocabulary was only a little better than that of the Brumly Boys.

He tossed his can of beer behind him. "I want my hubs back, Randle."

"I don't have them," Steve replied, his voice level and sharp. "Thought we settled this last week when I beat you in the drags."

Paul's face was turning an unhealthy shade of red. "I don't give two shits about any drag race, Randle. Now, are you gon' give me my hubs back or not?"

"I didn't take them."

The older boy was looking more impatient by the second. "I oughtta school you a lesson, you son-of-a-bitch," he bit out, and unexpectedly leaped forward, his other buddy following suit while the other two went after Soda.

The six of them were panting, throwing punches left and right, as they fought each other like animals, the sun beating down on them like a blazing torch. It was only when one of the guys slugged Soda good and hard across the face, sending him to the ground, his head whacking the pavement roughly, that Steve panicked a bit. It took a second, but his vision clouded with red, his focus hazing over as he snarled at Hopkins, coming at the taller boy full force, his hits powered by the anger that was fueling his veins. So immersed in fighting, Steve didn't see Dallas Winston and Tim Shepard round the corner up ahead, running up to join the brawl. One of Hopkins's buddies was crawling toward the car, Tim chasing the other in the same direction while Steve forcefully threw his opponent down. The fourth was already at the car, desperately trying to get inside.

Steve jerked around to find Dallas hovered over Soda's slender frame, his lips pressed into a thin line as his squinted eyes studied the cut on his head, his hand held over his face.

"How many fingers, kid?"

Soda made a sound like a grunt. ". . . three."

Steve visibly relaxed, sneering as Hopkins peeled out and took off down the road, threatening that he'd be back for his hubcaps. Tim had come sauntering up beside the trio with a fixed expression, his greased back curly hair seeming to glisten in the overbearing brightness. He did a once over of Soda, before pulling out a cigarette and lighting up.

Dallas was still speaking, pulling the younger teen up a little to inspect the back of his head, and only when he was somewhat convinced that Soda was okay, going on that he didn't want to bring Darry's kid brother back to him and deal with his inquiries, did he pull the boy to his feet. His eyes found Steve's after a second, and he raised an ashy brow in question.

"Guess Paul wants his hubcaps back," Steve remarked, casually lighting his own cancer stick, his gaze as bitter as ever. "Oh, well."

Dallas shook his head. "Fucking idiot." He'd had a feeling that Paul Hopkins was going to come around before, not one to settle something over a drag race, and he had another inkling that the dumbass wasn't quite done yet, either. He nodded toward Steve. "Just watch yourself."

In a world that keeps on pushin' me around

But I'll stand my ground

And I won't back down

And there's chapter six! Thank you for reading!

Happy Halloween! :3