STRIPPED (The Slate Brothers 3)

I stare at the clock, waiting for it to be eight. That’s when Tyson gets out of practice. That’s when I can call him. That’s when I can tell him what happened.

“Whoa, slow down,” he says at 8:01.

“Trishelle saw the photo. She got to my phone. And she’s pissed at me.”

“Oh, god damn it,” Tyson says under his breath.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say in a squeaky, pathetic voice. “I left and don’t want to go back, but I don’t know where else to go.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Give me a few minutes to get something from the varsity house, okay?”

“Should I come there?” I ask.

“Definitely not— if Trishelle tells the other cheerleaders, they’ll be there and out for blood. We’ll go somewhere private, okay? I’ll call you back and come pick you up in a little bit.”

I nod, slightly relieved— at least there’s a plan now. I gather my things and head down to the front of the student center; a few moments later Tyson calls and lets me know he’ll be picking me up shortly, and that we’ll be going to a hotel. He arrives in another rental car, and when I get in he zips away from the student center fast, like he’s worried someone might get a photo of us if he doesn’t peel out.

We’re on the highway now, apparently going to a hotel that’s nowhere near main campus— which is fine by me. We ride in silence, save the hum of the air conditioning, finally exiting almost a half hour later. The hotel we pull up to is on the lake, and is really more of a resort— there’s a valet out front, and we’re met at the door with glasses of champagne despite the fact that my face is tearstained and Tyson is still wearing his dirty practice clothes.

“Thanks, we need it,” he mutters, taking a glass for himself then handing another to me. At the check in table, he gives our names, then adds that the reservation for a week was made by Sebastian Slate.

“Your brother?” I ask.

“He offered— and believe me, he can afford it,” Tyson says. “If anyone knows the need to get away, it’s my brothers. I called him and he set it up for us.”

“That was really nice of him,” I say with a small smile.

“Hey, Trishelle is going to get over this,” he says, sensing how distraught I am about our argument.

“I don’t know about that. And even if she does, I’m not sure I will.”

I remember how excited we were to move in together back when we got our acceptance letters. We planned our dorm room out to the tiniest detail, coordinating comforters and computer chairs. When the dorms were full and we wound up in the apartment, we dreamed up cooking nights and throw pillows and flowers on the balcony. None of those things happened once she tried out for the cheerleading team.

But at the same time, I can’t say that I wish she’d never tried out.

That’s how I met Tyson, and I don’t regret it.

I won’t regret him, no matter how much Trishelle tried to poison it for me.

The hotel room is an absolutely insane suite, with a king sized bed, a living room, and a bathroom that’s bigger than my entire bedroom. There’s an Oriental rug on the floor, televisions in each room, and a fabulous view across the lake the resort is situated on. It’s dark by now, but the water is still visible from the lights at the ends of docks and the string lights hanging above the resort’s stone-lined pool. I drop my things on a coffee table, and try to be thrilled at the prospect of staying somewhere so glamorous, but fail.

My best friends’ horrible insults are still ringing in my ears, even now.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Tyson says gently, kissing my forehead. “Do you want to order room service?”

“Yeah,” I say with an exhale. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.”

“You can thank my brother,” he says, but he looks relieved that I’m interested in eating rather than merely wallowing in dismay. I order pasta, which I pick at, and then get in the shower after Tyson to wash the burning sensation from tears off my cheeks. I feel world better when I emerge, hair damp, wearing one of the cushy bathrobes that was hanging by the bathroom mirror.

“Hey,” Tyson says, smiling at me from the bed. “You look like you feel better.”

“Much better,” I admit. I take a breath, then climb into bed beside him. We’ve never been in a bed together before, and there’s something so sweet about it that I don’t think twice about cuddling up next to him.

He smells clean and bright, and his bare chest is warm, skin soft over hard muscles. I press my cheek to it; hearing his heartbeat soothes me as much as the shower did.