STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

“Wow. That sounds…fun. In that sort of women-as-property way,” I say.

Trishelle scowls at me. “I told you, it’s all for fun. Anyway, so it starts getting late and people are sort of coupling off and leaving and one of the captains told me not to get my hopes up, because Tyson Slate probably bid on me because he felt bad for me or because he’s trying to seem more involved with the team. But then he asks if we can come back here.”

I nod. I mean to say something more, but words seem to be getting lost on the route to my mouth. Tyson had been so quick to tell me that he didn’t want Trishelle, that bidding on her was just a way to get to me.

“So…” Trishelle says, flushing a little. “We came back here.”

She stops, and I hang on her last word as long as possible before finally asking, “What happened?”

Trishelle breaks character and groans, loudly. “Nothing. He was a perfect gentlemen and I guess he thought I was too tipsy to hook up with.” She makes a sad face.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Trishelle, you shouldn’t want a guy to hook up with you when you were drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk, just tipsy.”

“Whatever,” I sigh, feeling miserable.

Trishelle looks disappointed, like she knows I’m right but wishes I weren’t. “I’m just saying, Tyson Slate is amazing. So I hope I at least didn’t do anything stupid or embarrass myself. He stayed all night to make sure I was okay, so he must not think I’m a total loser, right?”

“I guess,” I answer. It sounds like Tyson and Trishelle didn’t do anything— like Tyson really did come for me and me alone. Still, I’m more than a little bothered at how into him Trishelle seems.

I wish I could talk to my best friend, tell her what’s going on with me, but now things feel more screwed up then ever and I’ve never felt so distant from her before.

It’s like I don’t even know her since we got to college.

“Well, if he was interested enough to bid on me maybe I still have a chance with him. He didn’t seem annoyed with me or anything this morning. Just…”

“Unreadable,” I say.

Trishelle’s eyes leap to mine, and for a moment I worry she’s picked up on the hunger in my voice— but instead she just nods hurriedly. “Yes! He is totally unreadable. It’s half of what’s so hot about him.”

“What’s the other half?” I ask, curious as to what she’ll say— and wondering for myself. Is it his eyes? His strength? His voice?

“The drama,” Trishelle says with a salacious buzz in her voice. “I mean, yeah, the hotness too, but I heard a rumor that there’s a reality TV company that wants to shoot a show based on the three Slate brothers— sort of like the Kardashians only with sports and boys instead of fashion and girls. The older two are in the NFL now and have gorgeous girlfriends and millions of dollars and houses and boats, and then all the stuff with their father being a murderer…it’s reality show gold, especially with his dad’s trial coming up in a few weeks.”

“You think Tyson is the reality show type?” I ask.

Trishelle shrugs. “I don’t know, but if he is, I don’t want to miss my chance. Let’s be real— they’re never going to put a girl like me on Bachelorette.”

I’m not sure why they wouldn’t— Trishelle, especially now that she’s wearing heels all the time and spends an insane amount of time on her makeup every morning, seems like exactly the sort of girl who would be on the Bachelorette. Nor am I totally sure why Trishelle wants to be on that show to begin with. She’s always been more of a reality TV lover than me, but never in a way that made me think she actually wanted to be on one of those shows.

“Anyway, all I’m saying is that losing my virginity to Tyson Slate wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Although I hear he’s huge,” she says, snickering— and there’s a tiny bit of my old friend in there, giggling at talk of something naughty. “Someone told me ten inches.”

I swallow. It looked like ten inches to me. “That is huge all right,” I say.

“What about you? Is there anyone you’re interested in? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages.”

That’s because you basically haven’t, I think, but I don’t say it. “There’s someone.”

Her eyes light up. “Who? Tell me!”

“Just a guy I met at a thing,” I say with a shrug. “We sort of hit it off, I guess. It’s weird, though, since we don’t have much in common.”

“Sometimes that’s the best way, though,” Trishelle says sagely. I miss the way we used to talk like this. She always had advice, especially on guys. Even though the two of us barely dated in high school, she liked playing Love Doctor, and we’d spend ages talking through serious relationship problems with guys we definitely weren’t dating (and were frequently members of boy bands rather than classmates).