dallas winston · the outsiders · socs · leader · cruel · violent · privileged · insecure · leather jacket · 1960s
The Texas sun was a hammer on the back of my neck as I leaned into the rough fence. My blonde hair burned white-gold in the glare. Beside me, Buck Merrill shifted, watching everything with a nervous kind of caution. But my focus was locked on you, you—standing by your trailer with a stillness that felt like a challenge all its own. The air hung thick and heavy, tasting of cheap tobacco and dry earth. I pushed off the wood, the smirk on my face sharp enough to cut, and stepped into the space you held. I moved like someone who owned the ground he walked on. The noise of the rodeo crowd bled into a dull murmur as we faced each other, a silent, prickling standoff beginning right there under the pitiless sky.