Page 7 of Tripped Up

She smiles sweetly at him. “Not pregnant. Just fat.”

His mouth gapes and his face goes purple. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do.

“Um—I, um…”

“Why don’t you run along and find your manager,” I suggest with a hard edge to my voice. It’s not a suggestions, and he knows it.

Her calm demeanor in the face of his rudeness only serves to piss me off further. She shouldn’t have to be nice when people are assholes.

“Yes. I’ll be right back,” he says, before he runs away like a demonic hellhound is chasing after him.

Hey, I’m mostly bark, but he is right—I will bite. If the circumstances require it.

Elsy shoves me off of her. “I can handle it.”

“He was an asshole.”

“I know. But I can take care of myself.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and my eyes flick down involuntarily before I force myself to meet her glare. “Don’t be a creep, Wyatt.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, keeping my gaze on her face. “They’re great tits.”

“I know they are,” she snaps. “Doesn’t mean you get to look at them.”

Or touch them, or suck on them, or fuck my cock between them. Trust me, I’ve fantasized about it more than a few times over the last thirteen years. I’m a disgusting, depraved pig. I don’t need her to remind me. I remind myself often enough.

Another salesperson approaches. He’s wearing a boxy, off-the-rack suit, his dark hair slicked back to cover the receding hairline.

“Can I help you?” he asks. He directs his question to Elsy, who glances at me out of the corner of her eye before giving him her full attention. She knows what she wants. The only thing holding her back is her own anxiety.

“I want this one.”

“Certainly. Would you like to test drive it?” He focuses on her, but there’s nothing sleazy in his gaze.

“Yes. Please,” Elsy says. To my surprise, she reaches for my hand. “You’ll come with me, right?”

Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I nod. “If you want me to.”

The salesman—his name tag says Joey—heads off to fetch the keys.

“He seems decent,” I comment, forcing my tone to stay casual. I don’t want to bring attention to the fact she’s still holding my hand. I almost expected her to drop it the second he was out of sight.

“At least he didn’t stare at my tits,” she mutters.

“Sorry.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you are.”

I am, but not for the reason she thinks.

I’m so fucking sorry for what I said. I have no excuses; I was a young, insecure guy who thought I’d get in tight with the popular crowd.

Words have meaning. They have power and they can cause hurt, real hurt. Even back then, I knew that. Yet I said it anyway.

I’ll never forgive myself for hurting her. And I’ll do everything in my power to make it up to her, to show her I’ve changed, that I’m not the asshole she thinks I am.

I just hope it’ll be enough.

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