SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers, Book One)

by Harper James

  “Does it ever work? Has she caught you up to no good?” I ask, watching him shave in the bathroom. It’s almost mesmerizing, watching him drag the razor down his jaw, the smooth skin it leaves behind. I catch myself before thinking too long on how smooth his cheeks might feel between my legs later.

  “Not really.” Sebastian’s voice is contorted as he slides the blade down his chin. “Though she did catch Tyson holding a cigarette once.”

  “He was smoking?” I ask, surprised. Athletes, especially of the Slates’ caliber, surely knew better.

  Sebastian finished with the razor, rinsed it, then turned to face me. “No, that’s the best part— he just wanted to look cool, so he was holding one and pretending to smoke it but never actually inhaling. She didn’t much care though. She and my dad disagreed on spanking the three of us when we were kids, but I’d have rather taken the spankings— at least those would have ended when we were in middle school, right? Instead, they had a hundred cinder blocks on one end of the yard. When we messed up, we had to move each one to the other side. It took hours. But it’s also why the three of us have always been the strongest guys on our teams.”

  I laugh at the genius of the idea, leaning against the doorframe. “So your mom is against corporeal punishment. Noted. Anything else I should know about her?”

  Sebastian lifts a wry eyebrow. “It was actually my dad who was against spankings, I’ll have you know. But no, don’t worry— she’s going to love you.”

  We meet Mrs. Slate at a restaurant in town, a place that serves both sushi and Mexican food, but somehow manages to be upscale all the same. Sebastian teases me for my nerves one last time before he steps ahead of me to hold open the door—

  And there she is.

  I don’t know if she’ll recognize me. I look a little like my aunt, I guess, but perhaps no more so than any other brunette of my size and skin tone. But Sebastian’s mother has actually seen me before, at the first hearing. We made eye contact there, in fact. I remember, because I remember looking at her and wondering how she could possibly forgive a man for cheating on her, much less for potentially murdering his mistress. Dennis Slate and my aunt had been sleeping together for over a year when he killed her— and when that all came out, Mrs. Slate practically ran to the press to let them know that she intended to stand by her husband.

  That was the last time I appeared in a courtroom; I let the lawyers fill me in on everything I needed to know, after that. I decided that day that if seeing the remaining victims of their patriarch’s crime had such little impact on the rest of the Slate family, that my energy was better spent healing, helping my mother heal, so that we could be strong for the real courtroom showdown. At the time, though, we’d expected that showdown to be in the near future. We hadn’t anticipated just how much the Slate lawyers would delay, appeal, and stall.

  So, suffice it to say: My mind is cluttered and scared and nervous when I meet Mrs. Slate, but for none of the reasons Sebastian thinks. I hold my breath when her eyes fall on me until it’s clear she doesn’t remember me at all. I sigh in relief— and then regret it. She doesn’t remember me at all. I’m that forgettable, to her— the girl whose aunt her husband killed, and she doesn’t even remember my face.

  “Sebastian has told me a little about you, but I get the impression he’s been keeping you a secret,” Mrs. Slate says warmly from just a few feet away. I blink, stunned to realize she’s been talking to me for a few moments now. I force a smile on my face, but surely it looks as false as it feels.

  “At least what he’s told you is good, I hope?” I ask.

  She beams— a look that Sebastian clearly inherited from her, pleased and warm and cheeky, then says, “Trust me, if you’ve got any bad qualities, it’s clear my boy hasn’t noticed.” Then she hugs me.

  Hugs me, her arms tight around mine, and she smells like Oil of Olay and face powder and peppermint gum. She hugs me like I’m important, like she’s truly happy to see me, and even though I go stiff and alarmed and unsure, she doesn’t let go until she’s satisfied; then she smiles broadly at me, links her arm with mine, and leads me into the restaurant. Sebastian follows behind us, like he’s been brought here as a bodyguard rather than a dining companion.

  We sit down an order an offensive amount of sushi, along with nachos as an appetizer, and make small talk for a while— long enough for me to notice that put-together and smiling as Mrs. Slate is, I can still see there are dark circles hiding beneath her under-eye concealer. Her voices pitches here and there, and when there’s even the slightest chance the conversation could tilt toward her husband, she hurriedly changes the subject. Perhaps this is why she’s so eager to talk about me— she thinks it’ll steer us clear of Dennis Slate.

  If only she knew.

  “What about your parents? What do they do?” Mrs. Slate asks. Sebastian gives me a curious look as well— he doesn’t know, either.

  “My father was killed in action when I was very young— Afghanistan,” I say swiftly, hurrying past the pitying looks on both their faces, “and my mother works for a dog rescue. She’s the one that oversees all the transporting— you know, getting a dog pulled from a shelter in Florida up to Michigan, things like that.”

  “What a lovely job! She must be a really remarkable lady. I mean, obviously she must be, if she raised a daughter like you,” Mrs. Slate says cheerfully.

  “She gets it, Mom, you like her,” Sebastian says playfully, elbowing her. He’s crunched into one of the restaurant’s chairs that, underneath him, looks hilariously too-small. I can barely look at him without laughing.

  “Well, I’m just glad you seem serious about someone for once! Four years of dallying around—“

  “Oh my god, stop, please,” Sebastian says, putting a hand over his face.

  My mouth drops in delight— Sebastian Slate, embarrassed?

  “Go on,” I urge her. “Who was the worst one he ever introduced you to?”

  “Help me,” Sebastian prays toward the sky.

  Mrs. Slate is undeterred. “He never introduces me to girls, actually— that’s why I know you must be a real catch, Ashlynn. But I did hear through Carson that one of the girls Sebastian was bringing around had a tattoo that was supposed to say “beauty” in Chinese, but she’d got it done in some cheap shop and apparently it said “noodle”. Noodle. Like her arm was something you order off a menu!”

  I laugh loudly, and Sebastian shakes his head, flushing so hard that it makes me laugh even harder— which makes his mom crack up. Her laugh is bell-like and giggly, like a schoolgirl’s, and from the look of surprise on Sebastian’s face I can’t help but wonder if she laughs all that often, given what’s going on in her life. I wonder if she’s as certain of her husband’s innocence as Sebastian is. I mean, it can’t be easy, knowing your husband was sleeping with a woman who looked nothing like you, who’s half your age. To accept that he’s vile enough to do that, and then decide to draw the line at murder? Wasn’t the fact that he was cheating evidence enough that Dennis Slate wasn’t quite who she thought he was?

  I find myself wanting to ask— the same way I’d wanted to ask Sebastian back in the car home from the law library. I won’t, of course; it’d be cruel, and despite the fact that this woman is part of the force keeping my aunt’s murderer out of jail, I don’t want to hurt her. I don’t want to make her sad, I don’t want to remind her what an awful world she’s living in, I don’t want to ask her how she can share a bed with a man like Dennis Slate. And, frankly, I don’t want to hear her answer if it’s going to be like Sebastian’s— one of unwavering support. She’s just such a clearly nice person, like both of her sons that I’ve met. How can she have space for a man like Dennis Slate in her heart?

  “Now, anyhow— you’re a freshman, right? Have you declared a major?” Mrs. Slate asks, flicking her chopsticks around on her plate clumsily before lifting a piece of the California roll.

  “I’m pre-law,” I say.

  “Oh, good call. Lawyers make
good money— I should know, we pay ours enough,” she says, shaking her head. “Well, you’ll be a great lawyer, Ashlynn. You’ve got the look for it. Your eyes are all steel.”

  “My eyes are steel?” I say, almost laughing.

  She nods, then gives Sebastian a surprised look. “You don’t think they are, Bass? Look at her— you can tell she’s always thinking a few steps ahead of you. That’s probably why you like her so much.”

  “Because she’s smarter than me?” Sebastian says with fake offense.

  “No— well, yes,” Mrs. Slate says, slapping him on the arm teasingly. “But no— because whatever the game is, she’s going to beat you at it.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

  “Just make sure you use your powers for good,” Mrs. Slate says. It’s an offhand comment, delivered with a smile, but it cuts at my heart. Yes— I plan to use my powers for good. It’s just that in the process, I’m trying to bring down New Recruits Week, the football team’s god-like status, and, oh yeah, your husband.

  What will she think of me, when that day comes? When it comes out that didn’t say anything about who I am and my real feelings about her family, her husband?

  She’ll hate me, and I won’t be able to blame her. I might be able to live with that, though— but what about Sebastian? He’ll probably hate me too, when the time comes. But I’m not as convinced I can live with that.

  20

  It’s New Recruits Week, which means Sarah and I are getting ready for the first of the parties together. She’s wearing an insanely low cut black dress— one that makes me think she should have been the spy all along. She’s going to turn all sorts of heads in that thing. I, on the other hand, am wearing Sebastian’s jersey.

  “No one will bother you if you wear it. They’ll know you’re taken. Also, it makes a pretty cute dress on you,” Sebastian said when I modeled it for him— as a joke— earlier that morning.

  “A dress? You’re kidding.”

  “You wore it out as a dress the first time we met.”

  “Because I was literally covered in pizza grease. I had no choice.”

  “As a dress,” Sebastian said again, grinning, and I knew I’d be wearing the damn jersey as a dress. It was hard to say no to him.

  “I can’t believe you got that. I knew you and Sebastian have been around campus lately, but you must be really flirting it up to get a jersey from him,” Sarah says a little enviously. “Has he told you anything good? I’m going to video as much as I can with my phone so we’ve got some good shots of underage drinking and stuff, but everything else will just be here say. I mean, I can’t go videotaping people having sex without their consent, you know? Though…I wonder, if I tape it but don’t watch the tape—“

  “I’d avoid that entirely,” I say, touching up my mascara. “Not worth the trouble.”

  “I wonder if a release formed signed under false pretenses would hold up,” Sarah wonders, looking at the ceiling, then shrugs. “Well, either way, we’ll get some good info. Farrow said to pay attention to both what’s flatly illegal, and what’s against the student code of conduct. The latter is actually more important when it comes to New Recruits Week and the role it plays in the school’s opinion of football culture.” She says the last bit in such a precise, clipped way that I know it’s exactly what Farrow told her.

  I’ve finished primping, and mostly gotten over the fact that if I bend over in this jersey, someone’s going to get a show. I turn to Sarah, and we start toward the door. It isn’t until we’re outside that I think enough time has gone by that I can sound casual when I ask, “What’s the difference, though?”

  “Huh?”

  “So a girl has sex. And it happens to be with a football player. Is that because of the football culture system, or because she just wanted to have sex with the guy? And the high school students drinking— are they pressured into doing it by the rest of the team, or are they just kids making stupid choices?”

  Sarah considers this as our heels clip along the uneven brick sidewalks of Berkfield’s South Campus. “I think it’s both, right now. And what it needs to be is just one— the choice. There shouldn’t be any question.”

  I nod. “Fair.” She’s right— and, frankly, better at wording this than Farrow is, though perhaps it’s just the lack of judgment in her eyes when she speaks.

  Sebastian’s house— the house the party is being held in, obviously, since it’s the senior players’ place— is already lit up when we arrive, a thick crowd pouring out the door, people shoulder to shoulder on the deck, the front porch, in the yard, even on the sidewalk down the hill. It’s the sort of party that normally, at least one cranky old neighbor would call the cops on— but this is New Recruits Week and, as Sebastian explained it, “we don’t really have problems with the cops during New Recruits Week.” I text Sebastian from the front steps. Sarah knows we’ve been seen together, so it shouldn’t be too insane for him to come guide us in— plus, given the mass of humanity, we need someone with Sebastian’s size and reputation to clear a path.

  “You look excellent, as expected,” Sebastian says when he sees me, face bright. He’s wearing a Berkfield Seniors t-shirt— all the players seem to be wearing class shirts. I see a few of the new recruits ruffling around here and there, kids with wide eyes and overeager expressions. I know they’re not actually that much younger than I am, but they look like they’re from a different decade.

  “I’m Sarah— you must be Sebastian,” Sarah says in a slightly bouncier voice than normal. I suppose it’s her Spying On Football Players voice— it sounds flirty and coy.

  “I am— nice to meet you,” Sebastian says. “Head on in, if you’d like. Drinks are in the kitchen.”

  Sarah gives me a “here we go!” sort of look, then skirts away into the house, expertly maneuvering herself through the pack at the door.

  “So, here to case the joint?” Sebastian teases me, putting his arm around me.

  “I might be taking some mental notes,” I say as we meander down the sidewalk, toward a bench tucked away in the corner of the yard. It’s already occupied, but I’m with Sebastian Slate— so the people there stand up and scatter when it’s clear where we’re headed. We sit down together and sit in easy silence for a while, arms linked, thighs pressed together, watching the ever-growing crowd. The recruits themselves are all wearing Berkfield t-shirts of one type or another, and every one of them is trying far too hard to look older than he actually is. There are girls sipping on drinks, keeping their hands balanced neatly over the cups, sticking tightly to one another until a guy they deem worthy of individual attention finally urges them away.

  “Hope you locked your bedroom door?” I say as another couple disappears into the darkness.

  “Believe me, I did,” Sebastian answers.

  “Were you like this during New Recruits Week?” I ask offhandedly.

  “Are you recording me?” he jokes, then nods. “We all were. Maybe worse. You’re getting the PG show out here— inside the house, things are usually crazy.”

  “Why’d you have to tell me that?” I complain, then nudge him. “Now I need to go into the house to get the real story.”

  Sebastian winces, but nods. “Fine, fine.” We rise and make our way to the door; with each step, I question if this is a good decision. It’s like we’re traveling into deeper and deeper circles of inebriation— at the perimeter of the yard, it was mostly buzzed people. A few straight up drunk on the sidewalk. But inside…it reeks of alcohol and sweat, and from the volume and comedy-show displays of poor balance I’d wager everyone is a few hours away from being a cautionary tale. My eyes widen at the sight.

  “It’s only this bad the first night. Half of them are out of their parents’ house for the first time,” Sebastian says, looking embarrassed.

  “Half of them are current players,” I point out.

  “They’re just showing off,” Sebastian says, sounding hopeful. “Honestly, I’ve
never noticed it’s this bad before. Usually I’m right there with them. From the outside…I can see why your advocacy group guy is anti-New Recruits Week. But you’ve got to remember— parties like this happen all over campus. More people are looking at ours just because we’re the football team.”

  “Sure, but because you’re the football team, and everyone looks up to you, isn’t the standard of behavior higher?” I say pointedly.

  “I thought everyone looking up to us was part of the problem. What’d you say? Football god culture?” Sebastian answers, prodding me, and I make a face at him. He’s got a point. And, while everyone is super drunk, I’m not sure I see anything actually wrong happening. Granted, plenty of the drinking is underage, but that’s a problem far bigger than New Recruits Week.

  “Is that your friend?” Sebastian says, pointing. I frown and crane my head around him to see; my eyes widen. Sarah is making out with Conor furiously in the corner, her arms wrapped around his neck.

  “Whoa. Yes…I think I should go check on her…” I say. Sebastian shrugs and follows me through the crowd.

  “Sarah?” I call out. She doesn’t hear me— not even when I repeat her name a few times. Finally, Sebastian tries.

  “Conor! Heads up,” he calls out in his booming voice. Conor’s head snaps toward him; he grins at his teammate, though I see the expression falter a little when he sees I’m here too.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask Sarah, wishing I knew her a little better, so I could tell what her too-drunk signs are.

  She blushes, hard, and I see her eyes are clear and motions precise. She’s sober. She’s just…making out with Conor? I smile at Conor blankly, then take Sarah’s arm and turn her away from him. “Sarah, you don’t have to make out with someone just to get New Recruits Week dirt.”