SNAPPED (The Slate Brothers 1)

“Ok, right, yeah,” he says, finally clicking to send the picture through. He turns to me— I don’t think he’s actually looked me in the eye once— and snatches the pad from my hand, hurriedly scribbling a name on it. I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy who owns the credit card that paid for the pizza, but arguing over that is definitely above my pay grade.

“Thanks, have a great night,” I say stiffly as he shoves the pad back in my direction. I spin around, grabbing for my keys from my apron—

And hit the floor.

No, wait, I don’t hit the floor exactly— I hit, in this order: A sorority girl’s sleek, freshly-shaved leg, her hip, her head, the warming box she was hovering over, the box of pizza in another girl’s hands, the boxes of pizza she’d removed and placed on the floor, and then, finally, the floor.

There’s squealing and shrieking all around me as I try to untangle myself from the pizza boxes and warming boxes and highlighted ponytails and manicured hands. I put a hand down— straight into a pizza, which, being Papa Pig’s, is so greasy that it slides from my grip and I fall back onto the floor again. I stare at the ceiling for a bit, both because I smacked my head on the hardwood and because I’m actively trying to dissolve into the floor.

I fail to dissolve, though, so I eventually haul myself off the ground. The other girls are frittering around one another, weeping at the grease stains on their designer clothes. Door guy and a few others are laughing, shouting that the girls are welcome to strip down and throw their clothes in the wash. My pig nose has twisted around to the side of my face, and I can tell without looking that my own clothes are soaked through with pizza grease and sauce. I fling my hands, and grease spatters along the wall behind me. I yank the pig nose off my face, stoop to grab for the warming boxes, and go to make my pizza-drenched exit, because like hell am I staying here a moment longer.

“Hey, wait, are you okay? I think you’re bleeding,” someone says, and steps in front of me. Someone? Or multiple someones? The person— the guy, it was a guy’s voice— is so broad and tall that it takes me a moment to realize he’s a single human being. I can feel my eyes stinging with the threat of tears, not from humiliation, but rather from the pizza spices, so I avoid looking up at the speaker.

“I’m fine, I just need to get back and change,” I say stiffly.

“No, seriously, I think you’re bleeding— oh, wait, no. That’s just tomato sauce,” the guy says, and I realize his fingers are in my hair. Despite the fact that his fingers are gentle, I yank my head back— who the hell does this guy think he is, touching me? Oh, right— a football player. They think they can touch and do and have anything they want.

“I’m fine. I need to go. I have more deliveries,” I say quickly, and try to shoulder past him. The rest of the partygoers are still laughing behind me; I want to get out of here before they decide to take photos of me like this with that godforsaken hashtag.

The new guy laughs a little. “Well, true. You’re going to have to bring us another set of pizzas, since you sat on ours.”

I freeze.

Is this guy fucking kidding me?

I turn toward the guy, and finally lift my eyes to his face. He has dark, almost-black eyes, and perfectly messy hair. He looks like a man composed of right angles— a ninety degree bend defines his jaw, his shoulder muscles, the place where his neck meets his chest. Even his pectorals are clearly ninety-degree angles— I can see them through his fitted t-shirt. He’s smiling— he meant that bit about delivering more pizzas as a joke, clearly, but realizing that does nothing to keep a furious scowl from crossing my face.

“Or we could probably just throw your shirt on a plate and dig in. It’s pretty much got a whole pizza on it at his point,” he says, folding his mammoth arms and looking me up and down.

“Ha. Bye,” I snap, and move to shoulder past him again.

He doesn’t step aside, and if a football player doesn’t move on his own, it’s pretty difficult to budge him. “Hey, you don’t want to get in your car like that. You’ll destroy the interior. Let me lend you a shirt,” the guy says.

I take a breath. “Go get me a shirt then,” I say. I’m not worried about the interior of my car in terms of looks— I’ve had it since freshman year of high school, and it was old then. But I know that if I sit down in it with Papa Pig’s soaked clothes on, I will never get the smell out.