STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“You used me,” I snap as I grab the door.

“You’re using Carson right now,” he shouts back, and I freeze in the open door frame. Is he right? Yes— and no. I was using Carson originally, I suppose, but now…

I don’t know.

I slam the door behind me, with no idea where I’m going— or what I’m going to do when I get there.

12

Because my parents have the worst timing in history, I come home to see a series of glossy law school booklets they’ve mailed me waiting on the table. I trash them immediately and hurry past my alarmed suite mates to my bedroom. A few moments later, there’s a light rap at my door.

“Astrid? Everything okay?” Arianna asks through the door.

“Yeah. No— just drama with the paper,” I answer through poorly disguised tears.

“Everything’s cool with Carson?” Jess asks.

“We’re fine,” I answer. Is that a lie? I’m not sure— because I’m pretty positive that we aren’t fine, but also that we are for a few hours at least, before I tell Carson all that I know and all that Devin plans to print. Devin still wants me to write the story, but I know that’s just for appearances— the information he found about the alibi will get printed one way or another. At least if I write the story, I can try to put a decent spin on it—

My phone chimes. It’s a text from Carson.

Carson: You’re going to need to hurry up at your meeting, Astrid, because I’ve got a list of things I want to do to you and it’s long.

I try to smile, but god, I can’t go over to his place right now. I’m a mess, weepy and red-eyed and totally makeup-less, now that I’ve practically rubbed my face all over my pillow. The outfit I knew Carson would love is now crumpled up on the floor, and I’m wearing duck pajamas. I’m pretty sure that if Carson saw me right now, the list of things he supposedly has to do to me would grow infinitely shorter.

Astrid: I think I need a rain check for tonight. Tomorrow?

It’s only a few seconds later that Carson calls.

“Is everything alright?” he asks over the phone, sounding genuinely worried.

“Yes— just some drama with Devin,” I answer. I try to keep my voice steady, so he can’t tell I’ve been crying.

“What’s going on?” Carson asks.

“Nothing I want to talk about right now,” I say with a sigh. I know I need to tell Carson about the alibi, about Devin sending me intentionally to the game that day— just like Carson worried— but I can’t go through it all again right now. I need at least a few hours to calm down and think it all through.

Try to find some options that don’t feel like the end of the world.

Carson makes a noise in his throat, then says, “I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes.”

“What? Carson, I’m already in pajamas—“

“Then wear pajamas,” Carson says, and I can tell he’s grinning in that arrogant way that I love-hate. “We’re not going anywhere public. Just to a place on campus I like. Trust me.”

I do trust him— and he trusts me, far more than he should. I agree, and a few moments later Carson’s car is outside. I’ve changed into jeans and a t-shirt that are at least a single step up from the duck pajamas, and I stop to hug Arianna and Jess to thank them for worrying about me. When I slide into the passenger seat of Carson’s car, I’m instantly soothed.

“You look amazing,” Carson says, and leans over to kiss me on the mouth, gently but deeply. I practically sigh into his lips.

“It’s not a short skirt,” I point out apologetically.

“It’s not the clothing that makes you look amazing,” he answers as he kicks the car into drive and we ease away from my apartment complex. He slides a hand onto my thigh, but doesn’t creep it up high— it’s for comfort, not arousal, though it provides a bit of both. It’s impossible for me to be with Carson and not be aroused, even in a situation like this.

We carve through campus, which is still lively despite the hour— plenty of people going from dorm to dorm, arriving at or leaving late study sessions, or cutting through the quad to get to the bars. I’m surprised when we park, of all places, outside the president’s house.

Technically, the house belongs to whoever is currently president of the university, but they never actually live in it anymore. These days it’s more of an event space, with fancy rooms and long dinner tables and antiques galore. The interior is lit up, but it’s pretty clear there’s no one actually here. Carson parks the car at the end of the driveway and climbs out.

“Let me guess: Star football players get keys to the president’s mansion?” I ask, gazing up at the turrets— seriously, the place has turrets— in wonder.