SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book One)

by Harper James

  Although, suddenly, the thought of being without panties in front of Sebastian crosses my mind and I feel my nipples stiffen.

  I bite my lower lip and feel my cheeks flush.

  “You okay in there?” Sebastian asks.

  “Yeah, just— yeah,” I say, wringing my hair out and finger combing it as best I can. I take a look at myself in the mirror, adjusting where I can, wiping the remains of my mascara from under my eyes. I bundle my clothes under my arm, then swing the door open. Sebastian is standing right in front of it— in fact, he’d been leaning on it, because I nearly smack him in the face with the door.

  “Easy killer. You’ve done enough house damage tonight.” He swings an arm around my shoulders as I exit the bathroom. It’s so familiar that it startles me— and it startles me even more how much I like it. Everything about Sebastian is confident and strong and big, and it’s hard not to want to lean into him. I’ve never been into football players, but then, I’ve never been up close to one.

  I’m shocked at how good it feels to be snuggled up to him momentarily. I inhale deeply through my nostrils, smelling him.

  Wondering if this is what it’s like to be a ball player’s girl.

  “I’ll walk you out the back,” he says. “They’ll freak if they see you in my jersey.”

  “Who’s they?” I ask as we start toward the door, walking rather slowly. Am I crazy for thinking he might like having his arm around me? Of course I am. I look like a drowned pizza rat. But he’s watching me in a certain way that makes my heart race, and I don’t flinch when he reaches up with his free hand and moved a soggy piece of my hair off my forehead.

  “I don’t want them to think you and I were up here doing something else that might mean you wearing my jersey.”

  Oh. I flush, hard, because of course he wouldn’t want anyone to think he’d slept with the Papa Pig’s girl. Clearly, I’m misinterpreting the way he’s looking at me. It’s not that he’s charmed be me— it’s that he pities me.

  “Well, I should go.” I feel myself almost tearing up. I hate to admit that I actually was starting to hope that he was interested.

  Pathetic.

  Sebastian gives me a curious sort of look, then steps closer to me. “You look good in my clothes on, Ashlynn,” he says, voice low.

  “Thanks.” I try and sound casual.

  He steps closer still. He leans his head down, and my stomach clenches; I rise up onto my toes before I think twice about what I’m doing. “I think you’d look good without my clothes on, too,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I repeat again, realizing that maybe I was right the first time.

  Because he’s looking like he’s going to kiss me.

  And my heart feels like it’s going to burst through my ribcage with it’s pounding.

  I inhale a deep trembling breath as his mouth comes down closer. His breath smells sweet, his skin is flawless, the five o’clock shadow sexy and so-touchable. He’s going to kiss me, and I want it so, so badly— I want to kiss this football player, so badly. There’s a phrase I never expected to think.

  He mouth meets mine, and I feel a series of explosions in my chest as his soft, strong lips press against me, hungry and searching, his tongue brushing against my bottom lip. I go unsteady, taking a balancing step backward, too stunned and dazzled and overwhelmed to fully take it all in.

  “Right,” Sebastian says, drawing back swiftly, frowning. All the parts of my body he was touching go chilly, now that he’s gone, and I blink, unsure what’s just happened.

  “Anyway, keep the jersey. I’ve got others.” His voice has gone almost icy— what happened? I blink again, sure I’ve either hallucinated the kiss, or am actively hallucinating this moment.

  “Wait,” I say faintly. “I—“

  “You don’t have to explain yourself,” Sebastian cuts me off stiffly. I try to shake my head and object, but my body doesn’t seem to move— and that’s when I realize why Sebastian thinks I’m not interested.

  He kissed me, and I didn’t kiss him back. I stood there, enjoying it, reveling in the taste of his mouth, but I didn’t kiss him back, or touch him, or respond. Christ, it was probably like kissing Snow White.

  He opens the bedroom door and stands in the threshold, waiting for me to cut through. I swallow, too unhinged to say anything, too worried I won’t be able to say something even if I try. So, I stoop, gather my Papa Pig’s uniform, and shuffle past him, throat thick and eyes swimming.

  I didn’t kiss him back. I wanted to, but I just stood there. Surely he knows he has that effect on women? I can’t be the first girl who hasn’t flung herself at him, if only on account of some kind of situational paralysis.

  My body seems to unfreeze as I make my way down the steps, through the house, back to my car. I consider, even, turning around and rushing back to his room, to give kissing him another try— but he looked so cold. By the time I make it to my car, my body and mind are fully functioning again. Which means I’m perfectly able to berate myself for the ride back to Papa Pig’s.

  The hottest guy you’ve ever met, who was turned on by you, who gave you his clothes, who took you to his room— that guy tried to kiss you. And you blew it.

  3

  I call my boss and offer the most classic of excuses as to why I can’t finish my shift that evening: Lady trouble. My (male) boss immediately tells me to go home, quick, and to take Sudafed. I thank him profusely rather than asking him what, exactly, he thought Sudafed did for “lady trouble”.

  Truthfully, I would probably have jetted back to my apartment and changed if the pizza-catastrophe was the only disaster of the evening.

  Given what happened with Sebastian, though, I want to go home and replay the moment where he kissed me over and over, both so I can remember it, and so I can hate myself for botching it. I’ve never been kissed like that. I never even knew just kissing could make me feel like that.

  My roommates— there are three of them in the suite— are home, watching trash television with largely untouched textbooks spread out on the coffee table in front of them. They swivel their heads towards the door in surprise when I walk in.

  “You’re home early,” Maddy says. “Wait— oh my god, what are you wearing?” She looks delighted, which doesn’t surprise me— Maddy is easily delighted by anything that might be the teeniest bit scandalous. I haven’t known any of my roommates very long; we were all strangers when we moved in together. We get along nicely, though— we clearly have varied enough interests that we’re not going to be besties, but we get lunch together now and again, and no one is stingy about letting someone else borrow shoes or bronzer.

  “It’s been a very long, very weird night,” I say, shaking my head and chucking my purse and pizzafied clothes onto the ground.

  “It’s way too early for a walk of shame,” Emily says, frowning. “But that’s definitely walk of shame attire.”

  “Shame, but not what you’re thinking. I was delivering pizza in that stupid outfit to the house all the senior football players rent, and while I was there managed to trip over some girl and fall into about twenty of them. It was like a slip-n-slide, only instead of water, it was pizza grease,” I say, shrugging.

  The three of them have gone totally motionless, watching me over the back of the couch like someone clicked the “pause” button on them. I’m about to get freaked out by the stillness when they slowly turn their heads to look at one another, then back at me.

  My third roommate speaks, voice careful. “And how did you end up wearing that jersey?” Becca asks. Maddy’s eyes look almost cartoonishly hopeful.

  I shrug, but I might as well tell them a little about what happened, since there’s no way I’ll get through the story without blushing. “There was a guy there— the only non-douchebag there, actually. While the rest of them were laughing and taking pictures, Sebastian was a decent human being and let me use the bathroom to change and gave me one of his jerseys to wear out. My actual clothes are totally disgusting�
��”

  “Holy shitballs,” Emily says, her eyes wide and jaw dropped. My other roommates are wearing matching expressions, and I can see that Maddy is actually digging her nails into Becca’s arm.

  “Ouch!” Becca finally snaps, and bats Maddy’s hand away. Maddy jumps in surprise.

  “Oh! Sorry— but, right, holy shitballs,” Maddy says, springing to her feet and rushing over to me. The other two are quick behind her. Maddy stares at the jersey shamelessly, then reaches out and gingerly touches the sleeve. “Oh my god, it’s real. It doesn’t feel like that cheap crap at the bookstore.”

  “No way. You can’t be serious,” Becca says. She’s hung toward the back of the trio, like the jersey makes her too nervous to get close to it.

  “Like, did he just chunk it at you and say, “there’s the bathroom Papa Pig”, or did he like, give it to you?” Maddy asks, flattening her hands in front of me in a way that demands detail.

  Here it comes— the dreaded blushing. “He gave it to me. He was nice— he helped me upstairs and to his room—“

  “To his room?” Emily shrieks.

  “Yeah, and then he got it out of his dresser—“

  “Out of his dresser?” Maddy says, her fingers shaking.

  “And then handed it to me—“ I pause, waiting for one of them to repeat my words. No one does, but Maddy smacks me, impatient for me to finish the story. “And went in the bathroom to change. And he said I looked nice in it.” There— that’s enough of the truth, isn’t it? Because I’m definitely not telling them about the kiss.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god,” Maddy says, clutching her chest like she’s having a heart attack. Even Becca, arguably the least dramatic of my roommates, looks like she’s seconds from squealing. “I cannot believe you parlayed a job at Papa’s Pig into not only meeting the freaking star of the football team, but getting his clothes and getting hit on.”

  “I’m sure it was nothing,” I lie, blushing harder and tugging on the hem of Sebastian’s jersey bashfully.

  “I cannot believe this happened to someone who doesn’t even care about football. Do you even realize what it would mean if you showed up at a game wearing that? People would lose their minds. Sebastian Slate never has girlfriends. At least, not any serious enough to give jerseys to,” Maddy says. She’s pacing now, talking with her hands and getting loud enough that I bet the neighbors will pound on the wall at any moment.

  I frown, unsure I heard her correctly. “Wait, what did you say his last name is?”

  “Plus, he’s rich. And he’s basically from a football dynasty. He and his brothers are all going pro, I’ve heard. The young brother had pro scouts after him his sophomore year of college,” Maddy goes on.

  “Wow, you know a lot about the Slates,” Emily remarks, impressed.

  “Everyone knows a lot about the Slates!” Maddy says, flailing again. “I mean, it’s impossible not to. They’re like the SEC’s own little tabloid section.”

  “Slate. He’s one of those Slates,” I say slowly, making sure I’m fully understanding. “Like, he’s one of Dennis Slate’s sons?”

  “Hey, you do know something about football!” Becca says, nudging me. I know she means to make me feel better. She’s nice like that. She can’t possibly know that confirming the fact that tonight I was kissed by Dennis Slate’s son, is a nightmare. No, it’s worse than a nightmare, because I liked it. I liked being kissed, I liked him near me, I liked him looking at my body—

  I swallow, and for the second time that evening, find myself frozen, too overwhelmed with emotion to move. Thankfully, it hides the fact that I feel like I might get sick. I knew one of the Slate boys went to Berkfield. I assumed he played football, given who his father is, but the football team itself is huge, and it isn’t like I run into them all that often. It didn’t even occur to me, in fact, that I might be walking into Sebastian Slate’s house tonight. How had it not occurred to me? What’s wrong with me?

  Guilt is thick and heavy in my throat, and I mentally scream a thousand apologies into the air. For going into the house. For not remembering. For letting him kiss me. Oh, god— for wearing this jersey. I smile weakly at my roommates and hope that’s enough of an exit, then sprint for my room. I yank the jersey off and fling it across the room, where it lands on my desk edge before sliding off to the floor. I breathe deep, trying to count each inhale and exhale to three.

  It’s fine. It’s fine. It was an accident, that’s all. I was just thrown by someone at that house being nice to me. It doesn’t mean Sebastian is actually a nice person. It doesn’t mean I actually liked him.

  He’s one of the Slate boys, after all. I would never actually like someone whose dad killed my aunt.

  4

  I firmly believe there are few things a good night’s sleep can’t fix. I’m one of those people who won’t necessarily feel tired, but then will end up weeping at a grocery store commercial or something because I’m slightly overtired. Obviously, the whole situation with Sebastian Slate— no, Dennis Slate’s Son— is a lot more serious than a grocery store commercial, but I still wake up feeling better about the entire thing.

  It was just a crazy accident, that’s all. My aunt would understand— she was easily dazzled by football players. That’s why she had the affair with Dennis Slate, after all.

  And that’s how she ended up dead long before her time. And that’s why, eventually, the bastard’s going to go to jail for what he did to my sweet aunt, no matter how fancy and expensive his lawyers are, and no matter how innocent his family keeps insisting he is.

  So, sorry, Dennis Slate’s Son, but I am not going to think about your lips or your body or your jersey or anything else to do with you.

  I decide to absolve my remaining guilt by attending the campus advocacy group meeting tonight. It’s the first meeting of the semester, and I wasn’t totally sold on joining since my schedule is already pretty intense— I’m pre-law, and if I want to get into a decent law school academics have to be my number one priority.

  The advocacy group is pretty cool, though, and is a great résumé builder (in addition to being a great guilt absolver): Pro bono lawyers— good ones, who sometimes hire former advocacy group members— work with Berkfield students to find and rectify problems at the university. Last year, they made national news for proving that the pre-vet program was biased against minority applicants, and the year before they managed to get same-sex partner protections added to the retirement plan, even though that isn’t a requirement in our backward-ass state.

  My aunt would have wanted me to focus on the law school dream, and she’d have also been pretty into the campus advocacy group. She was always the person going to marches and pickets and sit-ins, and had about fifty thousand shirts with clever feminist phrases on them. She had a thing for football players, but that didn’t mean she was vapid— she was one of the smartest women I knew. The fact that some meat-head like Dennis Slate killed her—

  Nope, nope, I’m not thinking about the Slates. I’m thinking about my aunt. I hug my cardigan close even though it’s still summery outside, then shoulder my way into the student center. Signs lead me to Room 413, a large conference room that, by the time I get there, is already standing-room only. My eyes widen as I slide into the room. There have to be at least fifty people in here. Plenty look older than me— probably juniors and seniors— and a few are freshmen I recognize from one place or another.

  “Is this the right room? The campus advocacy group?” I whisper to a pretty Asian girl beside me.

  She nods, looking grim. “Right? How are you supposed to stand out in a crowd like this? My sister said it wasn’t this popular when she was in school. She got hired to Shannon’s firm right out of law school, but I mean, it can’t have been hard to stand out when there were only seven people in the group. I’m Sarah, by the way.”

  “Ashlynn— nice to meet you. Maybe people will drop,” I say hopefully.

  “Let’s hope so,” she answers.

&nbs
p; I wonder what the hell is wrong with us, hoping that people drop out of a student advocacy group, but whatever— the dream is law school and working with the ACLU, and cool as the advocacy group is, I don’t think I should devote a crazy amount of time to it if it’s not going to help me achieve those dreams.

  More people cram into the room, and finally, the lawyers arrive. There’re two men and three women, and while they’re all smiling and generally polite-looking, they also have serious, cutting eyes and Italian leather briefcases. They sit down at the conference table and introduce themselves, remarking on just how large the group has grown in the last few years.

  “But this is a good thing! Even though clearly we’re violating the fire code, cramming all of you into this tiny spot,” the oldest of the men says with a small chuckle. The rest of the room laughs a little too hard, likely because the man looks to be the one in charge— he’s seated at the center, and has done most of the talking. He goes on in an old Southern drawl, “We have a few different issues we’d like to tackle this year, based on student feedback over the last few years. Let’s go ahead and split into groups, maybe nine or ten people per?” The other lawyers nod at him in agreement, and immediately rise, waving their folders above their heads as they move to different areas of the room. The students hustle and fritter around, darting to follow their lawyer of choice.

  I have no idea how they’re choosing which lawyer to go after, but when I see Sarah frantically rush toward the guy who was speaking earlier, I know he must be the best— she seemed pretty in-the-know, after all. I clamber along behind her, at one point nearly vaulting the conference room table to get to him. I shoulder my way through the other students orbiting him, just in time for his hand to light on my shoulder—

  “And, you’re ten! Perfect— let’s go outside, yes?” the lawyer says. Other students rush away to their second choice, and Sarah gives me a warm smile, seeing I made it into the headcount. We follow the lawyer outside and into one of the unoccupied adjacent group study rooms. We take seats across from him at a large round table— despite the circle shape, no one dares to sit directly beside him, so it’s still clear that he’s at the “head”.