Note: I don't own The Outsiders

Chapter 32

Dally shifted uncomfortably, trying not to disturb Sylvia, who was draped across him, pinning him to the bed. The last thing he needed was her waking up - wanting to talk and shit like that. Part of him wished she'd just vanish after they were finished, but she'd tried to guilt him into treating this like a real relationship this time around. He was tempted to tell her where she could put her so called real relationship, but he wasn't in the mood for some screeching chick arguing at him for hours on end. Easier just to let her think she was getting her own way - for now, at least. He wouldn't hesitate to stir things up once he'd had enough of her warming his bed whenever he needed it. If his calculations were correct, this particular corner of Tulsa should be seeing one hell of a fight between the two of them in roughly two weeks, three tops.

Sylvia stirred slightly and he froze, watching as her fingers curled against his chest, like talons preparing to sink into his flesh. As it was, the god awful blood red nail polish she wore made it look like she had just made a fresh kill - she probably thought she had him snared, but she was as dumb as she was easy. One nail was hooked around the chain he always wore; poised to snatch the St. Christopher medallion she coveted. She had asked him for it back last night, but he shrugged her off. He knew better this time - fool him once, he's fucked. Fool him twice … whatever. Who gives a shit how the hell that stupid saying goes anyway?

So he laid there, staring at the ceiling as he listened to her breathe and moan in her sleep. Bored with the cracked, tobacco stained view, he looked down at Sylvia and studied her - really took a good hard look at the woman that had shared his bed off and on for the last couple of years. Somehow, she looked older than he remembered - like she'd aged ten years while he'd been locked up. He'd like to think it was because she missed him - but it was more likely the Lucky Strikes, Southern Comfort, and revolving door of guys.

There were lines around her mouth that he didn't remember seeing before, dark circles under her eyes that she did a piss-poor job of covering up with makeup, and wrinkles on her forehead that made it look like she was permanently scowling. Her hair was a fried, yellowy straw color that rivaled the ridiculous dye job Johnny gave Pony while they were on the run. It used to flow around her shoulders, loose and shiny - at least he thought it used to. Now it just sort of fell in a dry frizz that looked thin on top and haggard at the bottom. She looked tired and looking at her made him feel tired, too.

Sighing, he went back to studying the ceiling. At least that didn't make him feel like hurling himself off a cliff.

Without warning, the door to the make-shift apartment flung open and Dally realized there was something worse than a broad talking his ear off at the break of dawn. Tim Shepard was standing in the doorway with a look on his face that was a cross between an angry badger and a pissed off pit bull. Dally would have laughed if he hadn't been so startled to see him standing there.

Sylvia woke with a start, bolting up in bed, naked as the day she was born. It was a beat or two before she realized there was a third person in the room - a beat or two before she realized she needed to grab the sheet or something to cover up. Dally wondered why she even bothered - he was pretty sure Tim was one of the guys she was screwing behind his back during his frequent trips to jail. It wasn't like it was something Shepard hadn't seen before. Hell, Dally would lay money on it being something at least half the neighborhood had seen before. Even good ol' Buck was a likely candidate.

"What the fuck do you want?" he was about to ask, but Sylvia beat him to it.

"Well?" she demanded, one hand on her hip while the other clasped the threadbare sheet to her chest.

Tim didn't say anything. He blatantly ran his gaze down her body, his stance bored and indifferent. "None of your damn business."

Dally reached over and grabbed her clothes from the floor. They had thrown them there last night in their haste. He grimaced at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer that still clung to them as he tossed them to her. "Here ya go, babe. Why don't you make yourself useful or something? See if Buck has anything in his kitchen for breakfast."

"Make your own goddamn breakfast," she sneered as she struggled into her wrinkled clothes, not even attempting to shield herself from Tim's view. She was muttering all sorts of curse words and inventive things to do with his anatomy under her breath and Dally couldn't hold back his grin. She was something else, he had to admit.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" she snapped and his grin turned into a full fledged smile. Her red skirt was crooked, her blouse was buttoned wrong and strained precariously over her chest - eventually those buttons would lose that battle - and she was wearing only one shoe, the other was dangling from her hand. It was at that moment that he remembered what drew him to her in the first place and he forgot for a moment how tired and worn out she seemed. She was full of fire and vinegar and he thrived on that.

He didn't answer her and she leaned forward, balancing with one hand on the bed as she put on the other shoe. "You're a moron, you know that?" she said, shaking her head.

"Remember, I like my eggs over easy - just like my chicks."

It was her turn to not answer. Kneeling down, wobbling slightly on her heels, she scooped up his discarded jeans and proceeded to fling them at his head. He easily ducked them and still grinning, added, "Oh, and make sure you butter the toast on both sides."

She snatched the pack of cigarettes off the nightstand and sauntered past Tim, who was still standing in the doorway with his arms crossed as he silently watched their exchange. Sylvia stopped just as their paths crossed and she leaned into him, brushing his arm with her chest. She leisurely ran a crimson tipped finger down his cheek, tracing his scar. His eyes narrowed and she leaned in closer, pressing herself suggestively against him. She smiled slowly and said in a smoky whisper, "You're an asshole."

Tim's slow smile mimicked hers and his eyes followed her out the door and down the hall, her heels clicking rhythmically on the wood floor. She was laughing - a throaty, sexy laugh that made both guys smile.

"Don't forget the coffee," Dally yelled after her, pulling on his jeans while Tim was distracted.

"Go to hell," she yelled back, her steps growing fainter.

Dally reached over and pulled open the drawer to the nightstand, grabbing a fresh pack of cigarettes. "So, what the hell do you want in the middle of the fucking morning?" he asked as he lit his first cancer stick of the day.

Tim pulled a folded up newspaper from his back pocket and tossed it to Dally. "This is why I'm here in the middle of the fucking morning."

Dally opened the paper and read the headline. "String of Robberies. Police Suspect Local Gangs."

Silently, Dally read the first couple of paragraphs and shrugged. "So? They ain't got nothin'. It's not like we weren't expecting them to notice. The fuzz are stupid but they ain't complete morons."

Tim stood there, his face blank and hard to read. "Turn to page five."

Rolling his eyes, Dally opened the paper and turned to the page Tim directed him to. The top article caught his eye and he looked up, his eyes wide with fear. "Oh no, man - Davy Jones is cuter than Tom Jones. My world is shattered. Thank God you woke me up to tell me that."

"Keep reading," Tim said steadily.

He scanned the page, trying to figure out why Shepard was so interested in teen fashion tips and dating advice. He probably skipped over the name three times before he noticed it. "Hey, Pony has a story in here. Cool," he said with an approving nod.

"Yeah, real cool. It's about you."

Dally squinted, confused. "What?"

"You. He wrote about last year and all that shit that happened. So there's a story about us robbin' houses on the front page and five pages later there's a story about you and your friends, killing Socs and saving little kids. Really flying under the radar there, Winston."

"It don't mean nothin'."

"The boss doesn't see it that way. Any attention is bad attention. A series of articles in the Tribune tends to cause some concern."

Dally snorted derisively. "Ya know - I'm beginning to think this guy doesn't exist - that you made him up. I'm beginning to think that you're runnin' the show and don't want anyone to know about it."

"Well, you'd be wrong."

Dally exhaled a cloud of smoke as he spoke. "Prove it. I want to meet this guy. Otherwise - I'm gonna think it's you and your idiot brother pulling the strings."

Tim looked angry. Dally half-expected him to hit him and wasn't surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment when he didn't. He hadn't had a good fight since getting out of the cooler and he was itching for a good brawl. As it was, this was the longest he and Shepard had gone without at least making an attempt to kill one another.

"You'll meet the guy when I say you'll meet the guy. Now isn't the time - we've got a job to do tonight."

Dallas didn't recognize the house they were parked outside of. Tim and Curly had done all of the scouting on this one. Dally wasn't sure why; but it saved him from having to sit in a car for hours on end with the two of them, so he wasn't about to complain.

The house was dark and the driveway was empty aside from their van they had just parked there moments ago. The dark green van had the name of a bogus extermination company on the side and Curly was the lucky guy who got to carry the clip board with the fake work orders on it. So far, they'd pulled three jobs and they hadn't needed their cover story, but it never hurt to be prepared. There were two other guys in the van whose names Dally hadn't bothered on learning - he couldn't even remember if Tim bothered to introduce them.

The plan was simple - fill the van with as much stuff as quickly as possible. So far, it had worked like a charm - well, for the most part.

"Are we ready?" Curly asked in a nasally whine and Dally glanced in the rearview mirror, catching the kid's reflection. His nose was bandaged and both eyes were black and blue. The last job had proved a bit tricky when Curly lost his footing in the dark and tumbled down the stairs - his nose meeting Dally's elbow with a sickening crunch. Tim hadn't believed Dally when he tried to explain what happened - certain he had tried to beat up his baby brother. Curly was embarrassed and didn't try very hard to correct Tim on his assumptions.

Tim did quick work on the lock on the back door and they poured into the house. Dally immediately headed for the stairs. He and Curly took the bedrooms while the other three worked downstairs. In the master bedroom, he pulled open the top drawer in the dresser and let out a low whistle. Even in the dark, he could see the diamonds sparkling, beckoning him. He grabbed a pillowcase from the bed and poured the jewelry into it, shocked at how heavy a bag of necklaces and rings could feel. He found some cash that he accidentally pocketed, keeping it for himself. He figured the other guys did the same thing - if not, then they were complete idiots.

He met Curly in the hall. The younger hoodlum had his arms full. "I'm headin' down. Third door on the left is the only one I didn't get to," he explained as he gingerly made his way down the stairs.

They had originally planned on only hitting the parents' bedrooms during their jobs, but quickly realized that the kids had rooms full of valuables, too. Dally couldn't believe all the crap these kids had. Some of them even had their own televisions and Dally really relished taking those.

Entering the room, he could barely see anything - very little light was coming in the windows, but he could sense it was a chick's room. It just felt … girly. He bumped into the dresser and reached out to steady himself. A bunch a stuff fell over and he instinctively grabbed what felt like a picture frame. Suddenly, a light filled the bedroom from outside - headlights tracking across the room and then coming to a stop.

"Shit," he whispered as he realized the car had stopped outside the house. He looked down at the frame in his hand just as the lights turned off. It was only a second, but he saw enough.

"I am going to fucking kill you, Shepard," he said as he dropped the picture back onto the dresser and headed for the stairs. He heard shuffling downstairs as the other guys scrambled to leave.

He was disoriented when he made it to the landing and it took him a second to get his bearings. Remembering that the door was through the kitchen, he headed toward the back of the house.

What happened next was kind of a jumble. He couldn't pinpoint exactly which came first - the sound of breaking glass, the blinding pain, or the complete darkness. All he knew was that one minute he was navigating his way through a strange house with a pillowcase full of stolen jewelry and the next minute he was lying on the ground, blood pouring from the back of his head, and shards of glass littering the ground around him.

Strangely - just before he passed out - he could have sworn he heard a disembodied voice mutter, "Dallas Winston … goddamn it."