STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

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.