STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“I want to get up to five inch heels. That’s the dream,” she says, turning her feet to look at the three inch ones she’s currently wearing.

“That’s the dream?” I ask teasingly, prodding her. “Sorry, law school! I’m wearing five inch heels now, so everything else is just whatever.”

To my surprise, Trishelle scowls at me in a not-kidding way. “Look, I like being able to do stuff like this for once. I know it’s sort of vain, but don’t mock me for it.”

My eyes widen. “Sorry— sorry. I wasn’t trying to make fun of you, really.”

Trishelle sniffs, then leans in to pick at her mascara. I think she’s really pissed for a second, but then she sighs and gives me a defeated look. “I’m just so bad at this stuff. The other girls on the squad— even the new ones— are just so good at being the whole cheerleader package. I feel like they only let me on so I could do some tumbling passes in front of them and make them look good.”

“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.