STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book Three)

by Harper James

  “Hey,” I say, shaking my head. “You had a great tryout and you did a lot more than just tumbling. Besides, most of them have lots of practice being the whole cheerleader package— I’m sure there’s a learning curve.”

  “Speaking of auditions— when’s yours?” Trishelle asks, adding more bronzer to her already flawless makeup.

  “Four weeks for non-theater majors. If you’re actually in the department you do it in your entry level classes.”

  “You know what would be great practice for that audition?” Trishelle asks casually. I shake my head, and she answers. “Come to this party with me.”

  “Why would that be great practice?”

  “Because, Anna— you’ll be experiencing something new! You’ll be forcing yourself to be brave and uncomfortable! You’ll be getting into character as a…as…I don’t know, as a girl who goes to parties with her friend because her friend is scared shitless of a college football party. Please?” Trishelle asks, turning to grab my hand.

  I hesitate, and I know Trishelle suspects I’m weighing my hatred for big parties against my love for her. And that’s true— I am. But I’m also weighing my hatred of big parties against the strange, stomach-twisting desire to see the guy from her cheerleading tryouts again. He’s been in my head ever since; sometimes, he’s the asshole whose friends mocked Trishelle…but other times he’s the quiet loner who looked at me in a way that made me feel very…desirable? Strange? Turned on? Confused?

  “I’ll go,” I say with a sigh that’s about fifty percent exaggerated, hoping to hide my budding excitement. Trishelle squeals in delight, and immediately starts ordering me around— obviously, I can’t just go to a party like this. I’m a cheerleader’s friend, after all, which means I have to be every bit as primped and polished as Trishelle is. I draw the line at wearing high heels, though. Heels are the actual worst thing in the world. Trishelle and I compromise on some designer flats.

  “Besides, wearing them will mean you look really tall next to me,” I point out. Trishelle rolls her eyes, but I know she’s pleased.

  The party is in a house just off campus— a palatial place that’s on the same road as all the fraternities. I think it is one of the frats, at first, but Trishelle explains it’s actually the men’s varsity house. Male varsity athletes from all sports are allowed to apply for housing there, and the perks are amazing. There’s a live-in chef, a cleaning service, and a pool in the back. The lawn is beautifully landscaped, and uplighting makes the party-goers standing outside seem to glow. This is not the crowd Trishelle and I hung out with in high school. No wonder she didn’t want to come here alone; this place is intimidating as hell.

  “Hey there!” Trishelle calls out to a few of the glowing girls on the front lawn. They smile at her and hug her tightly, then begin to speak fast. Trishelle’s voice changes, when she speaks to them; it becomes sassier, more Southern, more sarcastic…more like their voices. I linger behind her, smiling occasionally, as if I’m in on the conversation but just electing not to actually contribute to it. After a few moments, they turn away, effectively dismissing Trishelle. She turns back to me, gives me a nervous smile, and then we walk through the front doors.

  Music is pounding inside, though I couldn’t tell you the song; all I hear is the rattle of the bass. I suppose it was a given, as it’s literally a house occupied by varsity jocks, but all the guys here are huge. Like, not just muscles, but height, width, and personality. They look carved, all hard lines and deep muscles, and speak with loud voices and wild hand gestures. It’s clear to me that they’ve never been told to sit quietly, to play nice, or to cross their legs; they occupy every inch of the world they can grasp, and are clearly reaching for more. I find myself thinking of the guy again, about how he not only occupied every inch of his world, but owned it— and managed to do so without making a fuss.

  His quiet confidence was sexy as hell, much as I hate to admit it.

  Trishelle gets us drinks that taste like pure (cheap) liquor, and I keep my hand balanced over the top of my cup— I don’t trust these guys in here any farther than I could throw them. Trishelle seems more and more at ease with every sip and every passing second.

  She knows plenty of girls here, and she wades into their world slowly, but knowingly. I, on the other hand, have no idea who to talk to or what to talk about, especially when Trishelle vanishes with a group of cheerleaders (they say it’s an emergency, but based on their hazy grins and giggles, I suspect it’s not a serious one). I stand alone, trying to decide if I’ve already had enough to drink or if I just feel a little dizzy from the heat and humidity in here. Trishelle has been gone almost a half hour already— I said I’d wait here for her, but screw that. I sigh and head back outside.

  The air out here is cooler and thank god, doesn’t taste like schnapps; I gulp it in, then sit down on one of the brick steps leading off the wide, plantation-style porch. I feel my heart start to chill a little— I didn’t realize it was pounding from the crowd and heat and music in there. I have never been a fan of these sorts of parties, but Trishelle has always had this sort of fascination with them. In high school she was always desperate to get invited to these, like she thought getting drunk on cheap beer was a magical, nineties-movie-type experience. I keep waiting to figure out what the appeal is, but tonight hasn’t shown me anything new.

  “Have a drink with me, Anna Milhomme,” a voice says, almost at the same moment that the speaker lowers himself on the step beside me. Shit.

  It’s him. The guy from tryouts. Only now, instead of a few rows of bleachers between us, there’s just a foot or so of brick. He isn’t smiling, isn’t frowning, doesn’t look nervous or excited or anything in-between. Just like before, he’s unreadable.

  I try to breath the air that isn’t glimmering in the scent of him, and force a small smile, noting the cup of beer in his hand. “I guess, technically, I could have a drink with you,” I say. “Since I’m drinking and so are you, by coincidence.”

  I note happily that despite sounding like a dork, my voice isn’t shaking the way my insides are.

  “A technicality,” he says, nodding, considering my words. “Sure. It’s just a technicality that you came to a party at my house, wearing that outfit,” he pauses to motion up and down my body approvingly, “and happened to sit right by the front door, so there’s no way I’d miss you.”

  “Practically everyone is inside,” I argue, rolling my eyes. “I had no way of knowing you’d see me here.”

  He looks unconvinced, and finally there’s at the smallest thread of emotion in his face— amusement. “So you did know it was my house, then?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know the house for varsity male athletes was the house I would live in?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows.

  I scowl, because if I say no, it sounds like I’m stupid, and if I say yes, I admit to knowing he’d be here. Which…I did figure he would be. Or at least, I hoped he would be. And while I didn’t come outside just so he’d spot me, I have to admit, I’m glad he did.

  My stomach is twirling, which feels totally at odds with the irritation for him in my head. I’ve never felt this dizzy, sloshy feeling of lust for a total stranger, and certainly never for a total stranger who seems delighted to pick on me.

  “Why are you out here alone?” he asks, but it’s not pitying; it’s a question he seems to really want to know the answer to.

  I shrug. “My friend Trishelle disappeared, so I came out for some fresh air. Why are you out here alone?”

  “For the same reason you are: I’m not into crowds.”

  “Says a football player. Don’t you play for an enormous crowd every weekend? Isn’t that how football works?” I joke.

  He almost laughs, but doesn’t— which feels like a victory anyhow. “You don’t hear them, on the field. You have your teammates with you, but you’ve got a helmet between you and the world. Most of the game is in your head. You’re alone.”

  I fall silent—
I hadn’t been expecting such a poignant response. I glance down at my drink just to get away from looking at his eyes for a second. He hasn’t really looked away from me since he sat down, and his still confidence makes that feathery feeling in my stomach intensify. I remember what he said about my outfit, and find myself wondering if he watched me before he sat down. If he stared at me from a distance the way he’s staring at me up close now. Guys have never stared at me like this, not really; I didn’t fit the high school standard of pretty.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  Now he looks especially amused, but it’s an emotion you can only see from this close proximity— it’s all in his eyes and the corners of his mouth rather than his cheeks. “Tyson Slate,” he answers. “Why don’t we take our drinks somewhere else?”

  “Such as?”

  “Somewhere more alone,” he answers. I flush with surprise at how forward he’s being— but also with more than a little disgust. I literally just learned his name, and he’s trying to get me “somewhere more alone”? Clearly, guys don’t get the same safety video that girls do at orientation.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, trying to bridge the gap between being mean— because I do like this guy— and being clear that I’m not the type to skip away with him.

  He doesn’t look offended, but nods slightly. “You want to stay at the party.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You don’t want to leave with me.”

  “We just met. But besides, my friend asked me to come with her tonight. I can’t just bail on her.”

  His— Tyson’s— eyebrows lift. “This is, I assume, the same friend you attended cheerleading tryouts for?”

  “Yes. Trishelle. We went to high school together,” I say, like that’s a complete explanation of why I’m here with her.

  Tyson nods. “I’ve seen you twice, Anna Milhomme, and both times you’ve been supporting a friend who is, as best I can tell, nowhere around. Which surprises me, because given how fast you were to put my asshole teammates in their place and turn me down, you seem only too happy to let your friend walk all over you.”

  Now my eyebrows lifts, and lips curl to a frown. Fuck this guy. “Like you said, Tyson Slate,” I answer, using his full name the way he keeps using mine, “you’ve only seen me twice. Don’t think you can summarize who I am in two meetings, especially when you clearly didn’t understand me well enough to know that I’m not some football groupie who will prance off alone with you to get some STD you’ll be totally unapologetic about.”

  He looks amused again, and I hate him for it— but he also looks like he’s nearly hungry for me, and I love it, and I hate that I love it, and ugh this guy is the worst. I roll my eyes and add, “And the staring. What’s with the staring? Did your mom not teach you not to stare? Or is it just that your dad didn’t teach you to respect women?”

  It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but I didn’t think it was particularly horrible either— but suddenly Tyson’s face is full of emotion, so much so that it freaks me out. I edge back and fall silent as his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. He stands up, towering over me, his shadow darkening my face.

  “Wow, that was fast,” he says stiffly, then turns and walks away.

  Chapter 3

  What the actual fuck just happened?

  I stare at the door where he’s just vanished, replaying the conversation in my head. What did I say? Are his parents a sore subject or something?

  After all, we were bickering and he said some pretty harsh words himself. Yet somehow my little digs had him heading for hills and acting like I’d just threatened to kidnap his baby sister.

  I blink and turn back around, staring into the yard for a few seconds, waiting for a sudden epiphany. When it doesn’t come, I pull out my phone and use it to do a little stalking— now that I have his name, I actually have something to stalk with. Maybe there will be something tucked away in a tweet or Instagram post or something that gives me a clue—

  Oh.

  Oh shit.

  I must be a total fool not to have known any of this…

  My lips part in shock. Nothing about Tyson Slate is tucked away. My search results flash links to CNN, ESPN, even the BBC— and none of the articles are about football. They’re about his dad, Dennis Slate.

  Specifically, about Dennis Slate being a suspected murderer.

  I tap the first article and read, horrified and darkly curious. Dennis Slate is a suspect in the death of his mistress. His middle son— Tyson’s brother— had provided, but then rescinded, an alibi. His oldest son no longer supports his father. Tyson’s mother stuck by her husband, but the article paints her as something of a fool for doing so. The piece ends with a series of stats— apparently Dennis Slate was a football player as well. He had a brief stint in the NFL after college, and then went on to coach all three of his sons’ local teams.

  I cringe. I’d said his father hadn’t taught him to respect women, when his father is on trial for murdering a woman. Yeah, I’d say his parents are a sore subject. Damn it. I look up, try to forgive myself, but instead replay every embarrassing mistake I’ve ever made for the next half hour before wandering back inside to look for Trishelle. I want to go home— if I’m going to sit around reliving past humiliations, then at least I want to do it in close proximity to peanut butter crackers and ice cream.

  I weave through the party. Everyone has clearly been beating me when it comes to drinking— I’m barely tipsy now, and all around me I see the telltale wild eyes and pink cheeks of total inebriation. If I’d thought the scent of alcohol was overpowering inside the house before, it’s nothing compared to how it smells now; I’m pretty sure that a single match would cause the entire place to explode just from the fumes.

  I spot Trishelle through the crowd. She’s leaning against a wall with a group of cheerleaders, and they’re talking in a huddle, occasionally peering over their shoulders at the rest of the crowd, then turning back to one another and giggling. I try to get Trishelle’s attention, but she’s too involved in the huddle, leaving me no choice but to tap her on the shoulder. She spins around; her eyes fall a little when she sees it’s only me, and I have to admit, it stings.

  “I think I’ll go home,” I say quickly, very aware that the other girls are waiting impatiently for Trishelle’s attention to return to them.

  “What? You can’t!” Trishelle says, sounding panicked.

  “I really need to. I just— I’ll explain later. Nothing serious or anything,” I add, not that she’d asked.

  “It’s just…” Trishelle leans in close, so that only I can hear her. “If you leave early, it’ll be weird for me— you know, I bring a friend to a party, she sits by herself outside, then she bails?”

  “How did you know I was sitting by myself outside?”

  “I saw you,” Trishelle says.

  I tilt my head to the side. “You saw me sitting alone outside and didn’t come to see what was up?”

  Trishelle winces and gives me an apologetic look. “I was in the middle of a conversation with the captain, and she’s the sort of person you don’t walk away from.”

  “Yeah,” I say flatly. Trishelle doesn’t react— I think she might be too drunk to know how pissed off she’s making me.

  “Just give me another hour,” Trishelle says, grabbing my hand.

  “Sure. Fine,” I mutter, then turn to walk away. Tyson had a point before— I am totally letting Trishelle walk all over me. I suppose I didn’t see the warning signs since I’ve never been a doormat before— and Trishelle has never been like this before.

  Or is this who she was all along, she just hadn’t made the cheerleading squad back in high school, so there was no way know?

  I don’t want to go back to the front steps, since apparently I’m being watched --and judged—for being by myself out there. I duck instead out a sliding glass door toward the back of the house, which leads me to a deck lined in string lights. I weave through a decent size crowd to get to
the stairs, which I follow down to the darkened— but blissfully quiet— backyard.

  I admire those tough as nails type girls who never shed a tear…but I’m definitely not one of them. That said, I cry in private. I’ve learned that the more I try to fight crying, or tell myself I’m being ridiculous, or shame myself for feeling human emotions, the more awful I’ll look afterward. If I just go ahead and let the tears flow, I can usually avoid the puffy eyes, red nose, and salt-raw cheeks that trigger everyone’s curiosity and pity. When I get stressed out and feel the tears coming, I just find a place to quietly cry it out, dab my eyes, take deep breaths, and then can usually resume by regularly scheduled life without too much trouble.

  Underneath the deck there are a few iron patio chairs that I don’t think get a lot of use. I dust them with my hands just in case there are spiders, then sit down and bring on the tears. This sucks. This party sucks, Trishelle sucks, and at the moment, college basically sucks. I didn’t love my high school or hometown or anything, but I least that place was routine. Here, I can apparently lose my best friend to cheerleading bitches and make an ass of myself all in the same five minutes. Why does higher education have to come with a whole new round of social hurdles?

  I take a few long, deep breaths, but I’m clearly not done with the tears yet. I let out another round, grateful that the music and noise from the top of the deck drowns out the sound of my sniffling and huffing.

  “What are you doing?” a familiar voice asks.

  I spin around, mortified— tears are streaming down my face and I know my cheeks are red. There’s no way to play this off.

  Of course it’s Tyson Slate standing there.

  He’s leaning against one of the deck pillars, and I don’t know how exactly, but it’s somehow clear to me that he didn’t just arrive— that he’s been watching me sit here and weep like a little girl since the moment I began, and just now spoke up. His face is shadowed, so even if he wasn’t freakishly unreadable, I still wouldn’t know what he was thinking.