by Harper James
“You got an interview with Carson Slate? That’s insane! Holy shit, Astrid, I did not expect you to land something like that. He hasn’t given a single interview this year,” Devin practically shouts. I feel sick at the excitement in his voice, at just how wrong he’s interpreting the situation. He goes on without giving me a chance to clarify. “Did you get anything good? Did you get anything about his dad, by chance?”
“No, nothing like that. Nothing great at all, to be honest. Just lots of one word answers,” I say, trying to wade into the disaster toe by toe.
“Still, that’s something,” Devin gushes. “If we can fluff up the story a little, it’ll look like we’ve got an exclusive with him. It’ll be huge. God, I wish we’d gotten something about his dad. Did he say anything at all?”
“Uh, no— well, just that he doesn’t like to talk to reporters because they always want details on his dad.”
“Well, yeah. The guy is a murderer. Why wouldn’t we ask for details?” Devin says. “We can spin that. It’s not much of a story, but we can use that as the headline and then just backfill it with old information. It’ll get snatched up like crazy. Maybe even get it syndicated state-wide.”
“Seriously?” I ask, voice daring to rise. A syndicated story? If it went state-wide, Devin probably wouldn’t fire me when he found out that Carson didn’t so much give me an interview as get cornered by an idiot sophomore journalist who didn’t know who he was. Hell, even my parents would be impressed, and they don’t even consider writing an actual, real thing that human beings can do for a living.
Devin keeps talking. “Okay, listen— you’ve got to go get back in front of him. You talked to him once, he must like you.”
“I really don’t know about that,” I tell him.
“Whatever. Look, go see if you can get anything else out of him. You don’t need to tell him you’re working on a story about his dad or anything— just let him take the conversation wherever he likes, then guide it toward his dad when you can, okay?”
I shake my head even though Devin can’t see it. “I really, really, really think that the regular sports reporter ought to do this, Devin.”
“The regular sports reporter has never gotten a word out of Carson Slate,” Devin says firmly. I consider pointing out that this is because the regular sports reporter knew not to even approach Carson in the locker room, but instead rub my face worriedly, smearing what’s left of this afternoon’s mascara.
“What happens if he gets mad about it? He could blacklist the Blaze,” I say. “Never give us anything.”
“It won’t matter if we’ve got a great story about him,” Devin says, sounding darkly thrilled in a way that sort of creeps me out. “Touch base with me after you’ve talked to him again. Most of the football players go to Reign on game nights. Do you think you can be there in an hour?”
I sigh. What am I supposed to say? You don’t just cross your editor, especially not when you’re desperately trying to show your parents that this could be a lifelong career and a reason to change majors, even though they disapprove of the idea one thousand percent.
“Sure.” My voice is meek and flat, but Devin doesn’t seem to notice.
He’s already planning how to turn this crappy little article into something major, something to put both of our names on the map.
And I don’t have the guts to put a stop to any of it.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m standing outside of Reign with my two suitemates, Arianna and Jess, who thank god were willing to come with me rather than hit up their favorite bars tonight. Reign is a bar in the center of the downtown strip, the kind of place that I’ve never even tried to get in to— it’s more or less reserved exclusively for cheerleaders, future lingerie models, and guys who date cheerleaders and future lingerie models.
Arianna is a thousand times better dressed than me, so I borrowed a little black romper and paired them with the tallest heels I own.
“I can’t believe you’re going to Reign,” Jess says, shaking her head at me as we get in the long line at the door.
“I can’t believe she’s going out, period,” Arianna says, grinning. “But damn, Astrid, you clean up nice in my clothes. You should wear this sort of thing more often.”
“Just don’t let me drink too much, okay? I’m a lightweight,” I say, wringing my hands.
Arianna rolls her eyes. “Calm down. It’s just a bar.”
“A bar full of wolves and jackals,” I mutter, picturing the kinds of men who frequent this place.
Jess knocks me with her elbow playfully. “Seriously, Astrid. Chill. You look great, and you’re going to have a good time. Just do me a favor— can you not talk to Carson Slate for like, an hour or two? Because I don’t want to get in just to be thrown out ten minutes later.”
I told them about my mission here— though I didn’t fill them in on all the humiliating details of the locker room. They are totally aware, though, that there’s a good chance I’m going to infuriate Carson Slate in the name of a story. Given that the football team practically owns this place, there’s no way we’ll be allowed to stay once that happens. I try to tug the legs on the romper down a little bit, as nervous about how short it is as I am about going into this particular bar.
We inch closer and closer to the bouncers while football players— some of whom I think I recognize from the locker room— breeze past the bouncers without even slowing down. The bouncers let a few cheerleaders in, then pluck a few particularly beautiful girls out of the line to allow them in the door. I’d be freaking out if it weren’t for Arianna and Jess— they’re totally calm. They know the drill, I guess. Finally, we’re at the front of the line. Arianna flashes the bouncer a bright white smile, then links her arms with mine and Jess, making it clear that we need to be let in as a threesome. He sighs, but waves us all through.
Thank God, the first part of the mission was a success.
I have to admit, I was worried they might let in my roommates but keep me out. I’m nothing special in the looks department, and this place is known for its high standards.
It was loud outside of Reign, but inside, the music is almost deafening. The bar is sleek and has royalty-themed decor, with gold lions painted on the wall and faux-gilded mirrors on the ceiling. There are chairs and recessed bottle-service areas that are decked out with purple upholstery and chandeliers that I suspect look tacky in the daylight, but expensive in the dim.
“Where to?” Arianna shouts to be heard over the music.
“I have no idea. Your call,” I shout back, scanning the room for Carson. I don’t see him anywhere, but then again, it’s hard to really make out faces in the many darkened corners of the room. Arianna shrugs at Jess, and the three of us head to the bar to order a round of drinks. I sacrifice my credit card for the tab— after all, my suite-mates are here as a favor to me. We sidle away from the bar and sway to the music absently, sipping on our drinks, Arianna and Jess chatting while I keep my eyes peeled for any sign of Carson.
“— And this is Astrid,” I heard Arianna say. I spin around, realizing I’ve totally zoned out, and see that there’s a guy in our little circle now. Not just a guy, but a football player. There’s no way he could be anything but, given his size and the hardened muscles on his arms.
“Astrid, nice to meet you. I’m Luca,” he says, nodding at me politely, but with clear disinterest— he’s over here because of Arianna. There’s something about the expression on his face that pricks at my memory, and suddenly, I realize he’s one of the guys whose cocks I saw earlier in the day. I focus on breathing to keep embarrassment from registering on my face even though the guy— Luca— obviously doesn’t remember me. Are all the football players so brazen? I wonder if I’d have seen Carson’s cock, if I’d been a few moments earlier—
Whoa, no. Nope, nope, stop right there. You’re in enough trouble with Carson Slate without adding those sorts of thoughts to the mix.
Arianna and Luca eventually slide away to talk to
some of Luca’s teammates, and it isn’t long before Jess starts up a conversation with a group of girls she knows from somewhere or another. I pretend to study my drink, then to text someone, and even dare to order a second cocktail (which I vow to nurse more slowly).
And I’ve only just received my new drink when he arrives.
I’m not sure how, exactly, I know that Carson Slate has entered the room. It’s almost like he has his own gravitational pull that tugs my eyes, my breath, my mind his way— that must be how I’m so certain when I turn toward the door that he’ll be standing in the frame.
He’s looking over the room with a dark mixture of pride and arrogance, wearing a neat-fitting collared shirt and jeans. Everyone knows him, of course, and there are waves and congratulatory claps on his broad shoulders as he moves through the crowd. A handful of girls swiftly bound toward him, hugging him a little too long for it to be strictly friendly, but he manages to shake them off with practiced skill.
For the second time today, I’m struck by how uncannily attractive he is. There’s something so stupidly sexy about his size and strength and the clean lines of his jawbone. I’m staring, but I know no one will notice— everyone is staring at him.
I take a long sip of my drink and look around for my suite mates. I can’t just approach Carson Slate without backup, especially not after this afternoon’s fiasco. Unfortunately, Jess has vanished, and Arianna and Luca are now making out in plain view. I scowl— Arianna is a little boy crazy, but lip locking a near stranger is still out of character for her, and it’s pretty gross to watch.
“You,” a voice says curtly, and I whirl around. I’m staring at a broad chest that, even through a layer of fabric, is familiar. My eyes climb it until I’m looking Carson Slate in the eye.
3
“Me,” I answer, as my throat tightens and my heart begins hammering in my ears. I still have to yell to be heard over the music, which I’m glad for— it means it’s harder for him to hear the tremble in my voice. The spicy scent of Carson’s cologne has overpowered the scent of perfume and alcohol, and I inhale deeply, wanting to drink it in.
“Are you following me?” Carson asks, voice testy. The crowd that had been surrounding him is still there, but they’ve drifted back, either giving us privacy or giving Carson space to be angry. I wish I knew which.
“No,” I lie. I think. I mean, is it following if I got here before him?
“You just suddenly, out of nowhere, decide to come to Reign, the day you break press pass rules and try to get an interview with me,” Carson says, folding his arms. “I wasn’t going to talk to your editor, you know. It seemed like an honest mistake earlier today. But this is some bullshit.”
“Look, I’m just here hanging out with friends. See? That’s one of my suite mates,” I say, pointing to Arianna.
Carson follows my finger and grimaces. “It doesn’t look like you’re doing much hanging out with her.”
“Well, we were. Until all that happened,” I say, shaking my head.
“Right. Sure,” he says with a sigh, then rolls his eyes and walks away. I should let him go— I mean, he understandably doesn’t want to talk to me. Except now I’ve got Devin’s voice in my ear, the promise of a state-wide story, of a headline, and…ugh. I can’t let Carson Slate and my big story get away this easily. Besides, I don’t like the idea of Carson hating me for no reason. He doesn’t even know me. I step forward and catch his sleeve.
He turns and gives me a glare that says I’ve almost pushed him too far, like maybe he will have me thrown out of the bar if I keep pushing my luck.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” I say, releasing his sleeve. “Stop acting like I’m some stalker just because I accidentally talked to you in the locker room earlier.”
“And then coincidentally showed up at my favorite bar a few hours later,” Carson says.
“Lots of people are here. You’re not treating them like stalkers,” I say pointedly.
“They aren’t reporters. Reporters are stalkers by default,” Carson replies.
“That’s not true. Not at all!” I protest.
Carson’s lips curve into something that might be a smile. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. He fixes me with his intense stare as he speaks. “Let me explain this to you from my perspective, Bowen Blaze. After years of always dealing with a certain male sports writer, suddenly your newspaper decides to send a beautiful girl into my locker room, who claims to not know the rules about speaking to me, and then when she doesn’t get a story, shows up in that outfit at my bar.” He nods towards me as his eyes rake over my body. “And I’m supposed to think you’re not just out to do whatever it takes to get a story?” He finishes contemptuously.
My mouth drops. Did Carson Slate seriously just call me beautiful? Did that just happen? Because I mean, I don’t hate the way I look or anything, but this room is packed with girls who fill out their clothes a million times better than I do—
“That’s what I thought,” Carson says, and turns again. I grab his sleeve for the second time, but this time my hand actually makes contact with his arm. I can feel his muscles through the fabric, the way the curve and fall and rise beneath my fingers. I take a breath, trying to quell the desire to drag my fingers back and forth.
“Look, I’ll admit that I don’t know anything about sports,” say, and now my voice is quivering despite having to shout to be heard. “But the truth is, I didn’t come here to try and seduce you into talking to me.”
He smirks. “Right.”
“However, you’re here and I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least try—“
He cuts me off. “I. Don’t. Talk. To. Reporters,” Carson says firmly, glowering at me in a way that tells me this whole thing was most definitely a bad idea. I swallow, keep my head up, and don’t look away. Carson clearly expected me too; after a long bout of eye contact, he shakes his head and takes a steadying breath. “If I let you give me your contact info, will you stop grabbing my arm?” he says. “Then you can tell everyone you tried to do your job.”
“Promise,” I say, and again, I think I see something that might be a smile on Carson’s lips. He hands me his phone and I dial my number into it, call myself, then hang up. He goes to take the cell phone back, but I resist, adding myself as a contact instead of a nameless number. “So you know I’m not actually named Bowen Blaze,” I explain.
“I know your name, Astrid,” he says. “
My heart flutters in my chest at the sound of my name on his lips.
“Oh,” I say, surprised that he remembered it. He looks a little offended that I thought he might not have.
“Got it,” he says, taking the phone back and pocketing it. “Well. Have a nice time here with your…friend.” He points with his chin toward Arianna and Luca, who are still deep into their make out session.
“Should I tell her to steer clear of him?” I ask, unable to look away from them.
It’s like driving by a car wreck, I can’t seem to stop staring.
“Luca? Nah. He’s decent. Doesn’t really get serious with anyone, so if she’s after a boyfriend, she should look elsewhere,” Carson says. “Though Reign isn’t exactly a place for couples to hang out. Does your boyfriend know you’re here?”
I startle. “Boyfriend? I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Interesting,” Carson says.
“Interesting how?” I dare to ask.
Carson chuckles darkly. “Just figured you’d have cornered someone and insist they date you. Seems to be your M.O.”
“Seems to be working for me,” I answer, raising an eyebrow.
“Alright, Astrid Tyler Bowen Blaze. I’ve got your info now,” he says. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see what I do with it.” He gives me a single, long, devastatingly beautiful look before walking away.
Arianna, Jess and I make it out of Reign before one o’clock in the morning, after Luca has vanished and we’re all more than a little tipsy.
“I can’t be
lieve you and Luca. That was an interesting choice,” I say, playfully shoving at Arianna.
“Oh, relax. It was just for fun,” she answers, giggling. “Don’t you have a wild side buried somewhere deep down?”
“Deep, deep down,” Jess snickers.
“Hey! I have a wild side. Maybe,” I argue fuzzily.
“Sure you do,” Arianna says as we reach out suite door. She goes to unlock it, and it takes her several tries to get the key and the keyhole lined up. She nearly falls into our living room when the door opens. “The wildest you ever got was wearing my clothes tonight!”
“Hey, Carson Slate said he liked me in this,” I quip. This isn’t something I’d reveal if I weren’t drunk, but hell, whatever. I pause for a moment, remembering how he scanned my body when he said that, the way he looked when he called me “beautiful”. That really happened, didn’t it? It seems impossible now that we’re away from the pounding bar music…
“Well, I’d have let Carson Slate do way more than Luca, I’ll tell you that much,” Arianna is saying, giggling and prodding at Jess. “Next time we go, I’m wearing that romper, Astrid. I want Carson Slate to call me beautiful. Too bad he doesn’t hook up anymore, huh?”
“I didn’t say he wanted me, just that he thought I looked good in this,” I mumble. Arianna is falling onto the couch, Jess is stumbling her way to her bedroom. We’re all way drunker than I thought— I think the music and noise and smell of alcohol masked just how much we were drinking. Now that we’re in the quiet of our own suite, it’s painfully obvious that we’re a mess.
“That means he thought you’d look good out of that,” Arianna shouts after me as I head toward my own bedroom. I don’t bother turning on the lights— I just collapse into my bed, shimmying the top of the romper off my shoulders but lacking the energy to pull it the rest of the way off. I roll over and stare into the darkness, exhausted and awake at once. Carson’s words replay in my head, followed by Arianna’s. He said I was beautiful, so…is it so crazy to think me might have wondered what I’d look like undressed? God knows I’ve been wondering what he looks like without clothes on.