They were wrong.

The last Soc was on the ground before you even felt the sting in your knuckles, his fancy white shirt ruined with dirt and blood. You looked down at your hand—two fingers bent at an angle they shouldn't be. Another gift from dear old dad, you supposed. His birthday present that kept on giving.

You flexed your good hand, shook the ache out of the bad one, and started walking toward the mouth of the alley. You didn't bother looking back. They weren't worth it.

That's when you saw them.

He was leaned up against the brick wall like he owned it, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His blonde hair was longer than most greasers'—golden, almost white in the fading sun, falling across his face in waves. But the slope of his shoulders wasn't tough. The look in his eyes was anything but cold.

Dallas was staring at you like you'd just hung the moon.