by Harper James
I don’t know why, honestly. It just feels like I should— the story is half his, after all, and I feel like he ought to see anything I write about him from now on, even if it’s just going to live on my computer.
For the next few weeks, I do this nearly every night, until it becomes almost a ritual. Come home from class, dinner and marathon reality show watching with Arianna and Jess (those shows really are addicting), then to my room, to the quiet, to the memories of being with him. It’s bittersweet, writing about our relationship, remembering what once was— but it’s also a reminder that it happened. Despite it all, I know I’m a better person for it. I’d never have stood up to my parents, if things hadn’t happened the way they did. I’d never have realized what a creep Devin was, and probably dedicated way too long to journalism before realizing that my heart wasn’t in it. I’d never have lost my virginity, which sounds like a silly thing to mark up in the “better person” category, but it is— being wanted, being desired, being willing to bare myself to someone and trust completely was powerful. Was good, and not just in a sexual way.
I send it all to Carson, periodically, even though he never replies, but the act of zipping the email off to him is as ritualistic as the storytelling itself. It’s not until I finish writing the final stage of our story— the article, the meeting with Devin, the breakup at Reign— that I realize this email I send to Carson will be the last one that goes his way. Will likely be my last communication with him ever, in fact— if you can call a one-sided email chain “communication.”
I read back through what I’ve written, attach the file to my email, and stare at the screen for a minute.
So, this is it, Carson, I think, looking at his email address and trying to picture his eyes. I’m sorry about everything. I hope someday you believe me that I didn’t really write that article. That I didn’t know I was a plant— but that I’m glad I was, in some ways, because otherwise we wouldn’t have met. That I know you’re a good person, and I hope you’re able to get through your father’s case no matter how it turns out.
I consider typing all that up, but instead I just write “this is the last one” in the subject line, and send it off.
Two days later, I’m walking to one of my last classes of the semester through the strangely sharp cold that has taken over campus. It’s the sort of weather that leaves you endlessly sniffling as you duck between overheated buildings and dry winter air. I hug my scarf around my neck and keep my head down, breathing into the material at my collar to warm my cheeks. Students mill past, everyone as eager to get into their warm classrooms as I am.
Thankfully, the buzz over the article has died down enough that the other students don’t part around me like I’m some sort of leper anymore.
The MassComm building is just ahead; soon, all my classes will be on the other side of campus, in the English and comparative lit building, which is older, mustier, and a thousand times cooler. Someone falls into step just behind me, and I slide over to the side of the sidewalk to let them pass. They don’t, though; they speed up only enough to start walking just beside me, closing in way too tightly on my personal space. I don’t want to stare, but they keep up the pace long enough that I glance up to get a look at the person with no sense of boundary.
It’s Carson.
I feel the breath empty out of my lungs in a whoosh.
I stop short on the sidewalk— so short that the person behind me knocks into me, and I pitch forward. Carson is fast; his hands jump out and he steadies me before I tumble to the ground. Confused and shaken by his presence and nearly busting my face, I wobbly step off the sidewalk and into the grass to avoid blocking more foot traffic. Carson is smiling, though the smile is small and a little sad.
“Hey,” he greets me, pulling his hands back now that I’ve caught my balance.
“Hi,” I say, sniffing, staring up at him through cold-watery eyes. “I—uh…hi.” Has he always been this beautiful? Of course. Though remembering the flawlessly carved cheekbones and seeing them again in person, at such a close distance, are two very different things. I remember how his jawbone felt against my neck, against my chest—
“I’ve been reading your emails,” he says calmly. “I thought we should talk about them.”
My eyes widen. I was so sure he’d been deleting them. Class change is almost over; the sidewalks are now just a smattering of late students jogging the last few yards to their buildings. “Okay,” I say, swallowing. I can’t read his expression— is he irritated by them? Happy? Angry? I have no idea, and it’s killing me.
“I owe you an apology,” Carson says, sincerity in every word. “I’m not— what happened was a disaster for me. On and off the field. But…I blamed you. And it wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m so sorry—“
“Hang on,” Carson says gently. “I’m almost done. I was stressed out and angry, and instead of taking the time to listen to you and think rationally about it all, I shut down and shut you out. That only made things worse, because if anyone could have helped me get through everything, it was you. So then I was angry because I didn’t have you, and…well. It was a mess.”
My eyes are watering more, now, but it’s not from the cold— hot tears are welling in them, and when they fall they leave raw streaks down my cold cheeks. Carson hesitates, then reaches forward and brushes a few of them away. My eyes drift shut; his hand is warm and smells of him, and before I can stop it I lean my cheek into his palm. When he strokes my skin with his thumb, I shudder in relief and happiness and from the knot in my stomach— the knot that’s been there since the article ran— finally unties.
“Astrid…I want you back. If you’ll forgive me for being such a dick to you,” he says, voice low.
“Do you forgive me for the article?” I ask meekly, opening my eyes and looking up at him. His are glittering and dark and perfect.
“There’s nothing to forgive. It wasn’t your fault. And as bad as the article was, I’m glad that I know the truth about the alibi now. To get through this, though, I need you, Astrid.”
I’m ugly-crying now, and the few people still on main campus are staring, but whatever. I nod frantically at Carson, wiping my eyes with gloved hands, trying to breathe through the thickness in my throat.
“So…is that a yes? We can be together again?” Carson asks, leaning down, trying to read my answer in my eyes.
“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, please. And not as a secret, okay? I want to be with you publicly. I want everyone to know about us.”
Carson grins, and then sweeps me up against him so effortlessly that it’s like I’m weightless. I reach up and link my hands around his neck, and he draws his face down close to mine, his warmth lighting me up. “Absolutely,” he whispers against my lips, and then kisses me, deeply and sweetly and perfectly.
“You’re packing an awful lot of clothes, given how rarely I’m going to let you wear them,” Carson says, watching me organize my suitcase. I make a face at him and keep going, checking off the list I’ve made. We’re going to Mexico, along with to Carson’s brother Sebastian— his recent signing deal means he has plenty of money to not only fly us and down, but put us up in a ritzy resort alongside him and his girlfriend. The timing is intentional; their father’s trial is starting in a week, and I’m guessing Sebastian is just as eager to take a break before the chaos begins as Carson is.
“Have you even packed anything at all?” I ask him pointedly.
“Condoms,” he teases, lifting his eyebrows.
I fold my arms. “That’s a shame, because I was hoping to have sex one more time before we left.”
Carson gives me a wry smile. Then rises from where he’s sitting in my desk chair— he looks ridiculous when he sits there, like a giant sitting on doll furniture. He picks me up in a sweeping motion and pulls my mouth to his, kissing me softly but firmly. “Conveniently, I’ve been badly wanting to fuck you without a condom anyway.”
I smile against his mouth, at the feeling of his cock hardening agai
nst me. “More conveniently, I started taking birth control, because I’ve been badly wanting that too.” Carson groans against me, and almost immediately lowers me to the ground, moving quickly to take my clothes off. I shy away, laughing. “Mexico. Save it for Mexico,” I say.
He growls. “That’s an awfully big ask.”
“We leave in two hours. And besides, that gives us both something to look forward to,” I say, biting my lip hungrily at the thought. Carson scowls at me, and I know he’ll spank me later for this— and that I’ll love it.
I make my way through the rest of my “to do before Mexico” list, checking things off as I move down. Message my parents— done. They’re still not thrilled that this is my last semester as a journalism major, but now they’ve come around to splitting my tuition costs with me, so that’s something. Besides, they met Carson when they came to town a few weeks ago, and despite the bad first impression that article left them with, they adore him. How could they not?
“What’s next?” Carson asks, looking over my shoulder at the list.
“It’s the Devin one,” I say, frowning. This is the item that’s sat on my To Do list for days, now— an email from the Bowen Blaze advisory council with the subject “Devin Resignation”. I haven’t read it yet. I mean, it’s obvious that Devin has resigned from the paper based on the subject line, presumably because he’s taking a job at one of the many papers that syndicated his story on Carson…but I just don’t think I want to read a bunch of professors talking about what a great asset he was, how they wish him luck, blah blah blah…
But I know I should read it, given all that happened between me and Devin and Carson. I give Carson a heavy look, zip my suitcase shut, then sit down on the bed and open the email. My eyes widen.
“What?” Carson asks, concerned.
“It’s not— holy shit,” I say, stunned. “He didn’t resign to pursue a job. It says that they asked for his resignation due to inappropriately advising younger reporters, sexual harassment, and misuse of funds!”
“Misuse of funds? What’d he do? Buy beer with paper money?” Carson asks, frowning.
“I have no idea, but this is the best thing I’ve ever read!” I say, leaping to my feet and jumping toward Carson. He looks alarmed, but catches me in his arms anyway, kissing my forehead swiftly.
“Okay, okay— is there anything else?” Carson asks as I settle. When I shake my head, he grabs my suitcase like it weighs nothing and hauls it out the door. I hug my suitemates goodbye and jog down to Carson’s car. We’re headed to his place first, then from there to the airport.
We have to take a roundabout way to get to his apartment— when the football season ended, he was offered a spot in the draft, but turned it down, citing the fact that he wanted to take another year to grow as a player. Ever since, the media has been in a frenzy outside his apartment’s main gates, meaning we’ve always got to slip in through the side, through an entrance that’s technically for the maintenance crew. It’s overgrown with bushes, and despite the season, a warm snap has confused the sweet olives into releasing a few blooms. When Carson rolls down his window to swipe his access key, he frowns, and goes still.
“What is it?” I ask when a few moments pass and he hasn’t moved, save to pull his face into an ever more pensive expression.
He sits there, frozen.
“Are you okay?” I say shrilly, wondering if he’s having some sort of medical emergency.
“Fuck,” Carson says, shaking his head. He suddenly throws the car into park and grabs for his cell phone. I watch as he lifts it to his ear. “Hey, Mom? I just remembered where I was that night— where I really was. And I think that Dad might be guilty.”
THE END
Look for Book Three In The Slate Brothers Series, Coming Soon
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And continue reading for an excerpt of Pump Fake by Lila Price….
Excerpt: Pump Fake by Lila Price
1
No one is home today in the big, fancy house—no one but me.
And I hardly count.
I’m just the maid.
There’s a lot to clean and I’ve been pouring sweat as I scrub the patio tiles out back in hundred degree heat.
My back is aching, so I stand up and stretch, looking around at the gorgeous view. God, I wish I belonged here. I wish I had a designer bikini on instead of my grubby old cut-off jeans and clogs.
For just one lovely, sinful moment with the gorgeous view of Lake Las Vegas below me, the splash from the pool’s rock waterfall soothing me. I close my eyes under the early morning sun, imagining what life would be like living here—every day a holiday, beautiful clothes, a carefree existence without any worries.
But my life is far from that fantasy.
And I know that I’m destined for a life of hard work and unpaid bills, stress, and striving desperately to get even a rung or two further up the ladder of success. I just need to accept it and stop daydreaming.
If I somehow lost this client, my mother and father would be beside themselves and our financial hole would get a heck of a lot deeper. So I kneel down again and get back to scrub scrub scrubbing like a demon.
I get about five more strokes of the brush on the tile in when I hear a noise behind me. I peer over my shoulder to see that I’m not alone anymore, I suck in a breath.
A man is carelessly leaning against the frame of the open French door, his thumbs hitched into the front pockets of his faded jeans. Muscles bulge beneath a white T-shirt that doesn’t hide his rock-hard physique, and part of a bladed tattoo edges out from a sleeve onto one tanned arm. He’s got the whiskered yet privileged look of someone who aimlessly wanders in and out of fancy houses every day of his life. His longish hair isn’t brown or blond, more like the two shades can’t decide where they belong, and even from here, I can see the piercing pale blue of his eyes.
I swallow when I see that he’s grinning like the devil as he lavishes a hot gaze over my ass, which is currently sticking up in the air because I’m still on my hands and knees.
I slowly sit up and face him, my belly in pulsing knots.
But this isn’t the king of the castle—he’s more like a knight of the royal guard. Eli Brennan, star wide receiver of the Las Vegas Rustlers and bad boy of the tabloids, looks as if he’s imagining things about me that make my skin flush.
I only recognize him because he’s basically football royalty. And it makes sense that he would show up here. After all, the homeowner, Randal Preston The Third, owns the Rustlers (on top of being a mega real estate developer).
I try not to freeze up. But it’s hard to get back to work when I know that Eli Brennan was just staring at me.
Me, the maid. The one whose derriere was wiggling away in jeans shorts as she obliviously scrubbed the tiles. The one whose dishwater blond hair is half in her face because her springy curls won’t stay in their clip.
I push back my hair, pull my shirt down more, and wish that my shorts weren’t so ratty—and that they were a little longer. Then I manage to speak.
“I thought nobody was home while the Prestons are out of town,” I say, trying not to sound accusatory.
“I decided to get here before Randal,” Eli says, his voice scratchy and low.
I feel his voice trail down my skin like a rough caress. Of course I’ve heard his voice before, on commercials, interviews, even during sound bites when he’s trying to explain away his latest scandal.
He’s been in bar fights, tested positive for pot, and supposedly slept his way through half the women in the country, but he’s always slid by on all that ridiculous talent that earned him a Heisman, a top draft spot, and a crap-load of money. Hell, he’s got a record number of fines, even as a rookie, for all kinds of minor
infractions. But in the off-season, during the summer after his first year in the league ended, he went too far, even for most of the fans who worship him.
His name appeared in the “black book” of an infamous Vegas madam, so is that the reason he’s come here to skulk around the house of his team’s owner? Is he in some kind of hiding?
I shouldn’t have even started a conversation with him, so I haven’t responded to his comment. My job is to be invisible, Randal Preston has made that much clear.
And my parents, who normally work this important gig, have pounded it home even more.
Never speak unless spoken to. Don’t make judgments. Don’t stare. You don’t do anything but clean the house and leave it spotless and gleaming.
As I’m reminding myself to become invisible again, I hear the sound of boots on tile. Mortified, I glance at his feet, frowning at the dirt Eli’s tracking over the tiles I so very lovingly cleaned.
He notices my dismay then holds up his hands. “Didn’t mean to dirty things up.”
But he doesn’t look very apologetic. In fact, I doubt Eli Brennan is ever sorry about anything.
I turn to pick up my pail and drop the brush into it. “No worries.” Then, with a mock cheery attitude, I nod toward the dirt. “Obviously I exist to clean up your messes.”
I shouldn’t have said that, but it was hard not to be annoyed at his lack of concern over messing up all my hard work.
“Wait a sec,” he says before I can haul my pail over to his dirt.
Within the next heartbeat, he strips his T-shirt over his head, revealing the glorious sight of a cut waist, ridged abs, and a smooth, firm chest. His tat rides every muscle in a network of sword blades, dark and edgy, making him look like a gridiron warrior.
The knots in me are getting tighter, pulling and making the lining of my belly quiver.
He gets down to one knee then smiles up at me while wiping the tiles. Not only is he being a smartass, but he clearly knows I’ve been checking him out.
