STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“What’s your name?” I ask.

Now he looks especially amused, but it’s an emotion you can only see from this close proximity— it’s all in his eyes and the corners of his mouth rather than his cheeks. “Tyson Slate,” he answers. “Why don’t we take our drinks somewhere else?”

“Such as?”

“Somewhere more alone,” he answers. I flush with surprise at how forward he’s being— but also with more than a little disgust. I literally just learned his name, and he’s trying to get me “somewhere more alone”? Clearly, guys don’t get the same safety video that girls do at orientation.

“I don’t think so,” I say, trying to bridge the gap between being mean— because I do like this guy— and being clear that I’m not the type to skip away with him.

He doesn’t look offended, but nods slightly. “You want to stay at the party.”

“Not exactly.”

“You don’t want to leave with me.”

“We just met. But besides, my friend asked me to come with her tonight. I can’t just bail on her.”

His— Tyson’s— eyebrows lift. “This is, I assume, the same friend you attended cheerleading tryouts for?”

“Yes. Trishelle. We went to high school together,” I say, like that’s a complete explanation of why I’m here with her.

Tyson nods. “I’ve seen you twice, Anna Milhomme, and both times you’ve been supporting a friend who is, as best I can tell, nowhere around. Which surprises me, because given how fast you were to put my asshole teammates in their place and turn me down, you seem only too happy to let your friend walk all over you.”

Now my eyebrows lifts, and lips curl to a frown. Fuck this guy. “Like you said, Tyson Slate,” I answer, using his full name the way he keeps using mine, “you’ve only seen me twice. Don’t think you can summarize who I am in two meetings, especially when you clearly didn’t understand me well enough to know that I’m not some football groupie who will prance off alone with you to get some STD you’ll be totally unapologetic about.”

He looks amused again, and I hate him for it— but he also looks like he’s nearly hungry for me, and I love it, and I hate that I love it, and ugh this guy is the worst. I roll my eyes and add, “And the staring. What’s with the staring? Did your mom not teach you not to stare? Or is it just that your dad didn’t teach you to respect women?”

It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but I didn’t think it was particularly horrible either— but suddenly Tyson’s face is full of emotion, so much so that it freaks me out. I edge back and fall silent as his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. He stands up, towering over me, his shadow darkening my face.

“Wow, that was fast,” he says stiffly, then turns and walks away.

Chapter 3

What the actual fuck just happened?

I stare at the door where he’s just vanished, replaying the conversation in my head. What did I say? Are his parents a sore subject or something?

After all, we were bickering and he said some pretty harsh words himself. Yet somehow my little digs had him heading for hills and acting like I’d just threatened to kidnap his baby sister.

I blink and turn back around, staring into the yard for a few seconds, waiting for a sudden epiphany. When it doesn’t come, I pull out my phone and use it to do a little stalking— now that I have his name, I actually have something to stalk with. Maybe there will be something tucked away in a tweet or Instagram post or something that gives me a clue—

Oh.

Oh shit.

I must be a total fool not to have known any of this…

My lips part in shock. Nothing about Tyson Slate is tucked away. My search results flash links to CNN, ESPN, even the BBC— and none of the articles are about football. They’re about his dad, Dennis Slate.

Specifically, about Dennis Slate being a suspected murderer.

I tap the first article and read, horrified and darkly curious. Dennis Slate is a suspect in the death of his mistress. His middle son— Tyson’s brother— had provided, but then rescinded, an alibi. His oldest son no longer supports his father. Tyson’s mother stuck by her husband, but the article paints her as something of a fool for doing so. The piece ends with a series of stats— apparently Dennis Slate was a football player as well. He had a brief stint in the NFL after college, and then went on to coach all three of his sons’ local teams.

I cringe. I’d said his father hadn’t taught him to respect women, when his father is on trial for murdering a woman. Yeah, I’d say his parents are a sore subject. Damn it. I look up, try to forgive myself, but instead replay every embarrassing mistake I’ve ever made for the next half hour before wandering back inside to look for Trishelle. I want to go home— if I’m going to sit around reliving past humiliations, then at least I want to do it in close proximity to peanut butter crackers and ice cream.