Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“Good.” I lock my eyes with a television mounted behind the salesman when the broadcaster announces my earlier-than-expected arrival to Seattle before returning them to the unnamed gent.
He’d be mid to late thirties, but his gangster swagger conceals the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. Although his pants are so baggy, his boxer shorts are exposed, and his wifebeater hasn’t been white in an incredibly long time, he knows a good thing when he sees it. Instead of negotiating for a better rate when it dawns on him that I’m the man in the news broadcast, he accepts the bills I set down with an appreciative head bob before switching off the dated television.
I stop believing I got out of negotiation lightly when he murmurs, “Although I could get in a lot of trouble if I take an hour lunch break.” When he stuffs his reimbursement into the front pocket of his jeans, his belt is the only thing stopping him from exposing himself. “I usually just eat behind the counter.” He rubs his hands together while shifting on his feet to face the changing room. It is a curtain hung in the middle of the shop that is several feet too short and nowhere near wide enough to hide Octavia’s enticing frame as she squeezes into a designer number she found on the clearance rack within ten minutes of us entering. “And do you really need an hour? Her lips…” His pause to grab his crotch has steam attempting to billow from my ears. “They could suck the marrow from any man’s bones in not even two minutes. She has a mouth that doesn’t need consent—”
I grip his greasy shirt in my fist and drag him to within an inch of my face. “If you finish that sentence, I will finish you.” There’s no playfulness to my tone. No friendliness. Nothing but a voiced threat and a silent assurance that I am a man of my word. “And if you even glance her way during your agreed hour lunch break, I’ll bury this business and everything in it.” I stare straight at him so he knows exactly who I’m referencing. “Do I make myself clear?”
For the first time in the past fifteen minutes, he stops bouncing foot to foot like he’s on more than a high for weekend pay. With a chin dip, he pulls himself out of my hold, straightens his wifebeater, then instructs me to lock up before leaving the keys he dumps onto the counter wedged between us with the dry cleaner next door.
Halfway to the door, he mutters, “It probably would have been cheaper to launder your stuff than replace it.”
“Probably,” I mimic, my voice not as stern as it was moments ago. “But nowhere near as much fun.” My last sentence is solely for my ears.
He didn’t see how Octavia’s eyes lit up when we walked past the shop window brimming with shoes with their heels still attached. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning, and since it was an expression I haven’t experienced since my twelfth birthday, I’ll do everything in my power to see it again.
When the salesperson stops at the door to flip the open sign to closed, he seems tempted to sneak a peek at the ‘changing room,’ but he must think better of it because with a murmured swear word and his chin balancing on his chest, he exits without so much as a backward glance.
I lock the door to ensure we don’t have any unwanted customers before joining Octavia near the changing room. “How are you doing?”
“Great!” She huffs, grunts, then sighs. “Real great.”
Recognizing the same dejected tone she used while leaving the heel of her shoe in a steaming pile of poo, I ask, “You’re not stuck again, are you?”
It takes her almost half a minute to reply. “What makes you ask that?” Her tone is more exposing than her reply. She has the same dismal mannerisms my cousin, Elliot, used when he got stuck in the slide at a McDonald’s on his eighth birthday. He’s always been ‘big boned,’ so he shouldn’t have tempted fate any day, much less after eating three double-stacked Quarter Pounders.
After ensuring not an ounce of humor can be heard in my voice, I ask, “Do you need help?”
I imagine Octavia’s face holding the same drooped lip, twinkled-eye expression she had when I snapped the heel on her good shoe when she murmurs, “Please.” After another handful of grunts, she mutters, “I think the latch is stuck. That or I need breast augmentation.” Her last sentence is choked with embarrassment.
Neither wanting nor needing a lawsuit, I ask, “Is it safe for me to enter?”
I learn the reason for the shame in Octavia’s tone when she permits me to join her in the ‘changing room.’ Her arms are raised above her head, a designer dress that should have gone out of fashion two decades ago has flattened her chest to the point it doesn’t seem anywhere near as mesmerizing as it once did, and her panties that caught me in a trance almost two hours ago are even more exposed since not an article of clothing covers the lower half of her body from my avid gaze.