Sweet Keeper (Sweet Talkers Book 1)

by Thalia Sanchez

  Contents

  Playlist

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 by Thalia Sanchez.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.

  The characters, places and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, or used for fictional purposes. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 9798685414625

  To the sixteen-year-old girl that was told that this was a hobby and not a real thing,

  You did it.

  Thank you for never giving up.

  Playlist

  Anchor — Novo Amor

  Bloody Valentine — Machine Gun Kelly

  Don’t let me down — The Chainsmokers

  Easier — 5 Seconds of Summer

  Easy — Camila Cabello

  Fallingforyou — The 1975

  Friends — Moby Rich & Bishop Briggs

  Good things fall apart — Illenium & Jon Bellion

  I think I’m in love — Kat Dahlia

  Kiss Kiss — Machine Gun Kelly

  Lover of Mine — 5 Seconds of Summer

  MANTRA — Saint Slumber

  Moments — Tove Lo

  Ruin the friendship — Demi Lovato

  Single — The Neighbourhood

  State Lines — Novo Amor

  Straight to my head — You Me At Six

  Sweet Talker — Jessie J

  Teeth — 5 Seconds of Summer

  Work Song — Hozier

  Sweet Keeper Playlist

  Chapter One

  I don’t like college parties. Especially the ones that are thrown by fraternities.

  My problem with these parties has nothing to do with alcohol. I have an extraordinary place in my heart for a girl’s night that includes two bottles of wine and homemade drinks while binge watching TV shows. What I do hate is the excessive quantity of people that clump together in a small place. It seems like all of Moss University squeezed into this house. I’m a minute away from suffering a claustrophobia attack when I’ve just crossed the front door.

  The fraternity—whose name I can’t remember, but it sounds like it was gotten out of a movie—threw this party for no reason at all. Just because they could, because they own half of the campus. They don’t need a theme or a special occasion. It’s not even the beginning of the lacrosse season because that won’t happen until next semester. College students don’t need a reason to go to a party when they sign up for everything that offers free alcohol.

  I wonder, however, who the fuck throws a party on a Tuesday night when most of us have class tomorrow morning. I’d understand if it was later in the week, maybe a Thursday or a Friday, but it’s Tuesday.

  The smell of marijuana, sweat, alcohol, and a different mix of perfumes fills my nostrils, making my face contract with disgust. The music is so loud that it rumbles inside my head, hammering and threatening to break my skull with a steady beat. I don’t think someone can hear what the others are saying without shouting or reading their lips. Though, as far as I can see, they don’t want to talk. They want to find a hookup that’s attractive enough to get a room upstairs or even a car.

  The proof is in front of my eyes. Three couples sit on the couches kissing and getting it on like there’s not half of the campus surrounding them.

  It’s like I walked into the intro of a porn movie.

  Shaking my head, I try to forget that I’ve witnessed a couple of mouth inspections that were not from a dentist and continue my way into the house. My eyes scan every inch of the crowd, searching for someone in particular.

  I notice that people are staring at me. Some of them are frowning like they’re about to ask who the hell invited me or if I’m even old enough to be here. Technically, I am old enough to be considered an adult, but I don’t have the age to consume or buy alcohol. In a way, I understand their reaction. I’m not dressed up to go to a party. Hell, dressed up is not even close to my description. I’m a whole mess.

  I’m wearing a Yankees’ hoodie that’s twice my size and belonged to my brother, James. The logo is washed out, and you can barely see the white letters, but I don’t care. Underneath, I’m wearing a sports bra, but I don’t plan on showing it to these drunk college kids. Black leggings hug my legs, and I wear a pair of dirty and wet Vans. I don’t have any makeup, and my hair hasn’t been touched in two days—a bird’s nest tied in a high ponytail sits at the top of my head.

  In my defense, I wasn’t planning on coming. I wouldn’t have if my housemates paid attention to their goddamn phones. I was studying for a big chemistry test that I have tomorrow, and my phone would not stop vibrating with the number of my friend’s mother. The strict Mrs. Moore is capable of hopping on an Uber and dragging her daughter out of the party, or worse.

  The phone in my hand reminds me of what I came here to do. I concentrate on blocking the strange gazes while I zigzag my way through the crowd, searching for my roomie’s raven hair.

  I spot her at the dining table that people use to play Beer Pong. There are two large groups of people surrounding the area. They’re standing at the side of the person they support and waiting for who will end up being the winner.

  I already know the answer.

  Ash Moore—one of my best friends and housemates—throws the small white ball, and it dunks into the red cup that belongs to her rival. From where I stand, I can’t see who she’s playing against, but I know it’s a guy. A guy with a tremendous ass, if I may add. His back covered by a black leather jacket isn’t that bad either.

  Swinging her natural black hair, Ash lets out a victorious howl that can be heard over the music. She’s three cups away from winning while the guy still has to clear nine. A detail that puts the bets against him because the game starts with ten plastic glasses.

  He has only made her drink once. Seeing the blackboard with the rules, it’s required a minimum of two beers to play, meaning that Ash has only consumed three times, and he’s on his ninth drink. By now, his aim has to be off, thanks to the buzz of the beer.

  I don’t have doubts that she’s going to win because she’s the best. We both are. When we play in teams, there’s not a single person who beats us. Mostly because we’ve been practicing and dominating the art of Beer Pong since we entered High School —and that was almost six years ago.

  You can say we were children the
first time we played. Fourteen shouldn’t be the best age to start playing a game that involves alcohol, but we were ecstatic to have “big girl” experiences. I blame my brother for that.

  James was a popular baseball player back in high school, which meant that his presence was always required at parties. It was a requirement for him to go, and I blackmailed him into taking me; Ash wasn’t left behind since the hip practically joined us.

  That night we discovered that we were great at the game, and James saw us a small gold mine for bets. At first, he took us to win some money, then the direct invitations for us came. By the end of senior year, Ash and I had attended the right quantity of parties because our presence had become probably more important than any of the other popular kids at school. We got wasted that night, suffered from a hangover, and got our asses grounded for it.

  But it was so worth it.

  “Ash!” I yell as I push away the people that get in my path.

  Her rival makes his best shot, and the ball hits the border of the cup, bouncing three times on the table before falling and rolling to the ground.

  He’s going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow; I think as I make a face.

  “Hey, I know you.”

  I stop walking, not because I want to. A big and strong hand circles my arm and prevents me from stepping towards Ash. I turn around and arch a brow. My confused expression breaks into an annoyed one when I recognize the owner.

  Stanley McKinley.

  The name itself screams “Golden boy” to the four winds. It carries a lot of weight when you mention it on campus. He’s a popular lacrosse player, the goalkeeper with the sharpest eyesight in the past ten years, or so they say. Tall as a pole of pure muscle with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His hair is a shade of sandy blond and contrasts his sun-kissed skin. He owns a pair of shiny green eyes that never stop glowing. Not only does he have perfect looks, but in addition to that, he has a 4.0 GPA and is probably richer than half of the world’s population.

  It sounds like he was stolen out of a Barbie movie. He would make a fantastic Ken in a live-action, and any girl in this house can confirm that theory.

  However, contrary to popular belief, this guy is a class A jerk with whom I take the worst class in the world: chemistry. The same course that had me locked in the apartment, surrounded by a thousand papers. We have a test at eight in the morning, and he’s in this place drinking.

  I can sense the unpleasant scent of alcohol present in his breath when he leans in near my ear.

  “We have chemistry!”

  That sounds fucking weird to anyone that can hear him without the proper context.

  “Nooo, seriously?” I reply with sarcasm, trying to step away from him.

  Stanley scoffs, but a smile reaches his lips and points at me with one hand. In the other, he carries a bottle of beer.

  “Yeah, it’s definitely you. I wouldn’t forget that resting bitch face.”

  Excuse me?

  I inhale deeply, asking whatever omnipotent force is above us to give me the patience to deal with him.

  “Can you let go of me, asshole?” I ask, dropping my gaze to his hand, and raise an eyebrow.

  “I have to ask you something,” Stanley announces and lets me go. However, he looks hesitant about freeing me, probably fearing that I’m going to run away.

  I step back. Only a small step that keeps a prudent distance between his body and mine. The reek of beer no longer asphyxiates me, and I can think clearly; the venom dances on the tip of my tongue, wanting to be released. Slowly, I let out a breath as I’m close to kicking him in the balls.

  My patience is limited.

  “Thank you, but I’m not interested in doing crystal meth with you, because that’s clearly what you’re doing.”

  “You’re funny,” he says, and I disagree, but I let it slide because I have no interest in continuing this discussion. Why is it so hard for the world to take what I say seriously? “I want to ask you something important.”

  “Are you going to die if you don’t ask the question?” I quip.

  Stanley hesitates.

  “No…”

  “Then the answer is no, Stanley.”

  He raises his thick brows, surprised by the fact that I know his name, but honestly, who doesn’t? The guy is a celebrity on campus. It’d be impossible not to know his name when my email is filled with his face every damn time the athletic department sends a sports promo.

  “Listen to me, please,” he begs, pouting.

  I swear his green eyes shine in the light. I cringe, squirming. Is that supposed to make me feel something? I want to poke them. He can make that Puss in Boots look all he wants, and it’ll lead him to the same place with me: nowhere.

  “Nope.”

  It must be a life or death petition because he ignores my response.

  “Can I copy from your test tomorrow?”

  If I had been drinking something, I would’ve choked on it. I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but this certainly wasn’t it.

  Should I slap him now or later? Or now and later?

  What does he have in his head? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not a brain.

  Not only is that imprudent, but it’s fucking impossible. Professor Byrne—the Harpy, as people tend to call her— makes at least four different tests and gives them out in random order. Somehow, she manages that no one surrounding you has the same paper as yours. It’s a pain in the ass because her exams are already complicated enough.

  I’m barely passing the class with a C that will sink like the Titanic with tomorrow’s test.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I ask, checking our surroundings to see if someone is recording this joke. Because it has to be that. There’s no other way that this is happening.

  Stanley follows my gaze, completely lost.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” His answer is what I was expecting.

  I clench my jaw, my blood boiling inside my veins. I can’t believe that he dares to do this and think that I will simply let him do whatever he wants. It’s unbelievable. What’s up with these rich kids thinking that they can bat their eyes and think that the world is going to bow before them? Fuck. Them.

  “I don’t know. You’ve always looked like a clown to me,” I say, forcing a smile. His expression turns into a hurt one, but I couldn’t care less. “Excellent talk, buddy. I hope we don’t repeat it.”

  I pat his shoulder twice and bypass him. Finally, resuming my quest for Ash. I have to push some people out of the way before I can touch her shoulder.

  “Bree, you came!” Ash exclaims, delighted by my presence.

  She won’t be too happy when she discovers the reason I’m here.

  Raising the phone, I show her the string of missed calls that I have from her mother. Her blue eyes widen, and she grabs it. Her lips quiver, and she digs her teeth on the bottom one. She’s nervous.

  Stacy Moore is not bad; she’s strict. She’d do anything to keep her daughter’s doll face intact. Ash has to be in perfect condition in case a photographer calls her for a photo shoot. Her modeling career blew up after turning eighteen a year ago, and the shootings got more provocative and riskier. Her mother’s persistence has brought her to be the face of multiple famous magazines.

  “Can you finish the game for me?” Ash asks, forgetting about the rules. She’s focused on creating a convincing lie for her mother.

  I glance at her opponent—now mine—and my breath stops… or I gasp. I’m not entirely sure which one. I’m stuck processing the fact that I know this guy. Though I’ve never had a real conversation with him, I’ve seen him around. He’s popular and a jock.

  Physically, he’s so white that I’m not sure he has ever seen the sunlight. His creamy skin on his arms is adorned with black ink; a diversity of tattoos is modeling in them, making an invitation to explore the dark lines. His face is always furrowed, and his sharp jaw clenched, looking like he’s frustrated with life or trying to annihilat
e you with his somber eyes.

  I’ve had a small crush on him since the introduction week when we shared the same group during orientations. I’ve never done anything about it because it’d be pointless. His reputation with women precedes him. Getting into that would be messy. So, I watch him from afar, appreciating his panty-snatching looks. However, not everything about him is drool-worthy; his name.

  John fucking Carter.

  Of all of the names in the world, his parents had to choose the most used one. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve met a John in my life. It doesn’t matter how hot he is, I don’t think that I could date someone with that name. Hell, not even a hookup. I can’t picture myself moaning that name.

  He’s as basic as his name too. John fits the bad boy cliché like a glove. Typical fuckboy who never dates the same girl twice and wears his reputation on his sleeve. He always has chicks on his side, and no one has seen him show a trace of emotion other than anger on the field.

  Yeah, I don’t want to get into that mess. Not for real anyway. Plus, he’s also Asshole Stanley’s roommate. The last thing that I want to do is stumble upon that guy again.

  “Where did your friend go?”

  Well, fuck. I might reconsider my decision after hearing his voice.

  Slightly hoarse and deep enough to send shivers through my spine. He can melt my underwear with it, and I’d thank him. I go mute for a second, taking me by surprise because I never shut up. My other two housemates, Cora and Karma, notice my state and come to the rescue.