Page 14 of Hell Bent
“Marginally better, from my point of view,” I said.
“Microfiber. Seamless. Soft. No line. Hipster.” She eyed me. “Go on and say it. I know you’re waiting to.”
“Are we expecting the word ‘thong’?” I sure wanted to know why she was in the Redding Target in a serious party dress,withoutNature’s Best Non-Alpha, but it looked like I was going to have to be patient.
Fortunately, I was good at patience. At times. And she seemed like a woman who needed a chance to slow down and let life … surprise her.
“Weareexpecting that word,” she said, “so I’ll tell you. You’re right, Iamwearing a thong. Alacethong, and a lace bra. They both cost ten times what my underwear normally does, and as soon as I pick out some normal ones, they’re going into the garbage. They itch, the underwire’s digging in, and that’s not all. I’ve been driving for five hours, and I swear the thong has ridden up an inch per hour. At this point, it’s practically embedded in my flesh. So here we go. Microfiber panties, microfiber bra, no underwire, no padding. I’ll tell you what. You can pick the colors. Six panties, size Medium. I’m sure all your usual dates are size Small, but this booty’s a Medium. Go.”
That was flirting all the way, according to my body, which had tightened up in all the expected places at the would-be crisp tone combined with the slight flush on her cheeks. I said, “Medium works for me. Here you go,” pulled out six pairs, and handed them to her. “What do you think?”
She looked at the hangers in her hands, then at me. “OK, I’m surprised. No red and no black. Not even hot pink. Why not?”
“You’ve got an old-fashioned face. A soft face and a sharp mind. It’s a killer combo. And I think you’d look …” I broke off and cleared my throat. “At the risk of being sleazy, I think you’d look good in these.”
“Appealing,” she said, eyeing the mint green and pale blue and light pink things, “because soft and, what? Feminine?”
“Feminine,” I agreed. “But not trying too hard. Like you just can’t help it. Like a picture from … what era am I thinking of? 1850? Something like that. A lady getting into her bath. In … France? Tell me what you’re a princess of.”
“I’m a princess,” she said, “of a country that doesn’t recognize titles anymore. Of a principality and a kingdom that don’texistanymore.”
“Where?”
“Saxony. My great-grandmother was a princess of Schleswig-Holstein who married the Crown Prince of Saxony—that’s south of Berlin, think East Germany—and eventually became Queen Consort when he became King, although again, those titles were all abolished after World War I. Which would be why I don’t usually tell people. First, it’s nothing I accomplished, and second, it’s not even real anymore.”
“Except,” I said, “for the way you carry yourself. Like you know who you are.”
“Now you’re just trying to flatter me,” she said, and I laughed. She dropped the underwear into the cart, though, and said, “Bras. Over here. Three of them. I am not being embarrassed. Size 36B, and let’s hear how you spinthatto make it sound appealing.”
I picked them out in the same colors with no trouble at all. Pale blue, pale pink, pale green. “It’s appealing,” I said, handing them to her. “I could tell you why, but I’m trying to be classy here.”
She was already headed over to the sock section, tossing the bras into the cart along the way. I said, “If I’m giving myopinion again, I like the socks that look a little more fun. The kind that women get to wear, with flowers and hearts and birds.”
“You have many opinions,” she said, picking out a blue pair with little yellow flowers, to my quiet satisfaction. “You can’t do anything too metrosexual for a living, because you had on a plaid flannel shirt before, and anyway, I refuse to believe it, but that’s aseriouslevel of interest in women’s clothes.”
I had no desire to discuss my occupation. It never ended the way I wanted. I said, “Women are more fun to think about than men, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Why?”
I pulled out a pair of black socks with big pink flowers on them, and a purple pair with butterflies. Merino wool and made for walking, or maybe hiking, but if she was wearing that underwear and bra set and a pair of pale-blue socks with tiny flowers, maybe stepping into her jeans … “Besides the obvious reason?”
“Obviously,” she said. “Come on. You’re clearly a dazzling conversationalist. Dazzle me.”
She made me smile like crazy. “Besides the clothes and the bodies? Can’t discount those, but women also see more than men, and they give you those knowing little looks that let you know they see it. Those little sidelong glances, like you’re giving me now? They kill me. Women are softer, but in some ways, they’re tougher. They’re funnier, too, and more mysterious. At least the ones I like are.”
“They wear sequined dresses and laugh like maniacs in the dog-food aisle?” she asked. “That what you mean by ‘mysterious’?”
“Probably,” I said, “and I want to hear why. The dog in my car is hungry, too, I’ll bet. Let’s go buy this stuff and get out of here.”
“Jacket,” she said. “Shoes. And then I’m done. After that, I will no longer be sequined, and hooray for that. Sorry, but I’m not mysterious, soft, or glamorous. The only qualification I might meet is the ‘tough’ one, and I suspect that’s low on your list.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “You have your points. Do me one favor.”
“What’s that?” I was getting another sidelong look.
“Don’t throw away the dress and the shoes,” I said. “That’s one knockout look.”
“With my ponytail,” she said, like a woman who somehow didn’t know she was hot. Had she had braces and acne until the age of eighteen, or what? I couldn’t figure it out.
