STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“Give them to me,” he says sternly.

My lips part. “I— um—“

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he says, almost a tease, but not quite. I nervously pass them to him beneath the table, and Carson’s eyes close when the fabric hits his hands. His nostrils flare. “These are wet, Astrid.”

I flush, hard— I hadn’t thought of that when I handed them over, or I’d have protested more. Carson looks down, then rubs his thumb against the lace that’s now dark gray and damp from my arousal. He then tucks them into the pocket of his pants, casually as if they were a wallet or car keys.

“Alright, you’ve earned it— ask me another question,” he says, turning back to me.

7

The rest of the night is unbelievably normal.

We talk about football, about the reaching the pro’s, about his high school team. He uses silverware to show me how plays work, and laughs when I tell him I have no idea what a punt is. It’s almost enough to make me forget that I had my hand on his cock earlier, or that my panties are currently in his pocket.

When it comes time to leave, I worry he’ll invite me back to his place, and that I’ll have to sort out whether or not to tell him that I’m a virgin…but instead, he just kisses me lightly on the cheek, affection that feels like the exact median of the evening: half romantic, half professional. I go home without my panties, sorting through the various quotes he gave me that I might be able to use in the story. I’m in the middle of typing them up when I get a text that I’m disappointed to see isn’t from Carson.

Devin: How’s it going? Heard you were at Highland with him.

I frown. Who the hell told Devin? I’m not exactly surprised, of course— Devin sort of has spies everywhere. Though I’m assuming his spies didn’t see any of my and Carson’s more scandalous activities at Highland, or my editor would definitely be calling, not texting.

Astrid: Went well. Lots of great info on his development as a player. He’s got a cool story— he’s sort of a reluctant quarterback, even though he’s amazing at it.

Devin: HIS FATHER, Astrid. You’re not a sports writer.

I sigh and set my phone back down. Thanks for the reminder, Devin— I really needed it.

If I’m going to get Carson to talk about his father, I probably need to start the conversation with a little more finesse— which means I probably need to know more about Dennis Slate. I search for his name, and as expected, a huge list of articles pop up. Most of them just repeat what I already know: Dennis Slate was having an affair, the woman threatened to tell his wife, then the woman turned up dead. Carson provided his father with an alibi— that they’d been eating dinner around the time the woman was killed. There were even traffic camera shots of Carson driving to and from the dinner, though his father isn’t in the car with him. Worse, Carson apparently couldn’t remember where they’d eaten, or any details about the evening.

I stare at the screen, at the traffic camera shot of Carson behind the wheel of the car I saw him drive up to Highland just a few hours ago. I’m no detective, but even I’ve watched enough Law & Order to get the feeling that Carson is covering for his father. The articles I read also paint a very different picture of Carson than the guy I’m familiar with— calling him a “party boy” and “morally ambiguous”, especially when compared to his brothers, Sebastian and Tyson. Naturally, those labels don’t make his alibi any more convincing.

I’ve long heard the story that Carson Slate was a very different person before this year, but since I didn’t know much about him beforehand, I never thought on it all too much. Now, I have to wonder— did he change because he didn’t like the way he was portrayed? Or because a lawyer advised him to? Or did the papers just never have him pegged correctly in the first place? I wish I could ask him, but I suspect that line of questioning is just as off limits as his father is, right now.

But then again, maybe it’s only a matter of time.

The regular sports reporter is back for the next game, and I text Carson to tell him as much— though mostly, it’s just to wish him luck. He doesn’t answer for a while, but then responds a few hours before the game.

Carson Slate: Meet Desi at the front gate. She has a ticket for you.

I grin, then hurry to throw on a Bowen navy dress that’s a little longer than Carson would probably like— but I’m just watching the game, so it can’t matter all that much this time around, can it?