Lucky for me, they now had that self-checkout, otherwise I would never consider buying condoms in this town.
Hiding the offending box between the underwear and the shirts, I made my way to the middle of the store, spotting the wrapping paper in the middle of the aisle near the checkout.
A little kid darted out in front of me—the same one from earlier—and caused me to growl in frustration.
How hard was it to watch your kid? It was more than obvious that this one was trying extremely hard to be obstinate, and his mother was doing nothing to ensure that he was contained.
When the kid grabbed a box of Little Debbies off the shelf and started helping himself to the contents of the box, I just shook my head and went around him.
But, while my attention was occupied elsewhere, I hadn’t been paying attention to what was in front of me.
One second, I was walking, and the next I nearly maimed myself on a roll of wrapping paper that’d slid under my foot.
Seconds later, about two hundred other rolls joined the first, taking four people down in its wake. A woman with her coffee, an employee in a red shirt that I thought I’d coached at one point in time a few years ago, the town electrician and a young woman with inky black hair and a banging body.
Unfortunately, the woman with the banging body got to be on the receiving end of my belongings, taking the box of condoms straight to the face, the pair of value-sized shirts acting like a hammer as it followed the box down.
Blood instantly spurted, and the woman rolled to her feet and made a mad dash to the bathroom, trailing blood behind her.
I stood there, stunned for about thirty seconds before all hell broke loose.
“Goddamn that woman,” the employee said as he dragged himself up off the ground. “If there was a way to ban a person, I’d do it with her. I swear, every single time she comes in here, something happens.”
I looked at the kid with a raised eyebrow. “Seems to me that you’re being a little bitch.”
I was a football coach—being nice wasn’t really in my genetic makeup.
The kid sputtered, “Coach! You can’t say that in here! Think of the kids!”
The one and only kid that I could still see, working on his second Little Debbie, had probably heard worse. His mother seemed like the type to let the television babysit him—and not censor what he watched.
I looked back at the employee, shook my head, and then took a step in the direction of where the woman had run, feeling a sense of urgency. I needed to know that she was okay.
I didn’t know why, but I felt it, so I was going with my gut.
I kicked something when I took a step, and saw a phone amongst the blood, knowing instantly that it belonged to the woman.
Bending over, I picked it up and glanced at the lit screen.
Words, likely from an e-book, scrolled across the screen, but I didn’t glance at them until I was leaning against the wall waiting for the woman to come out.
When I did, my heart skipped a beat.
He bent her over, trailing the blunt head of his cock down her spine, painting her back with his pre-cum.
My belly clenched, and I suddenly felt a different urgency take me.
Not willing to actually change the page, I read the screen over and over again, waiting for the woman to come out of the bathroom.
And when she did, I’d practically memorized the words.
Then I felt something tap me in the backside, causing me to turn.
“Excuse me,” a husky, feminine voice said from behind me.
“Are you okay?” I blurted, seeing her blood-filled towel in her hand.
She nodded, but I didn’t hear the words that came out of her mouth when she replied, because I was too focused on her face.
I felt terrible for hurting her, even if it was by accident.
Then her eyes glanced down at the phone in my hand, and her face turned eight shades of red.
I had to fight not to smile.
I let the phone go when she reached for it.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Then, she turned, skirted around me, and started running for the door.
When the doors didn’t open fast enough for her forward progress, she ran into one of them, and I had to hold in the burst of laughter that threatened to slip free.
That woman was a hot mess.
And I wanted to know more about her. Now.
I’m a virgin.
(This isn’t an old shirt)
“What do you mean you want me to teach the sex-ed class this year?” I asked, appalled at the mere thought of having to have that discussion with teenagers when I hadn’t even experienced the act myself.
The horror must’ve been evident on my face because Mrs. Sherpa hurried to explain.