I don’t even bother to look, just drop down into a crouch beside her.
“I knew we should have gone to that sketchy Exxon,” she mutters.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Do you want to try to escape to the car? I can buy the condoms.”
“If she sees you, she’s going to have questions.”
“I don’t have to talk to her.”
“She’ll still have things to say!”
“I’m willing to fall on that grenade for you, Carson,” I say, and I mean it. As much as I hate the way this town gossips and hate being the subject of that gossip even more, I’ll let them all talk if it means I get to end this night in bed with her.
Carson looks like she’s considering it, but then her brow furrows, and she huffs out a sigh. “No. This is stupid. I’m in aCVS, hiding from my high school English teacher. I’m twenty-five years old! I can buy condoms!”
She stands, squares her shoulders, and reaches for the Trojans I was going for. “These?” she asks, her voice quivering only a tiny bit. When I nod, she grabs them, turns, and starts walking to the register.
I keep my eye on Mrs. Eberle, who hasn’t noticed us. She’s in first aid, contemplating the virtues of various Band-Aids. Carson leads me straight to the self checkout, which I think is a good move until the damn machine starts talking.
At maximum volume.
“Please scan your Extra Care Card,” it screams, shattering the silence of the too-bright drug store, and like a dog hearing a potato chip bag opening from three rooms away, Mrs. Eberle’s head pivots straight toward us. I feel like I’m in a horror movie trying to escape a killer, and from the pricks of sweat at my temples, my body thinks so too.
It seems to takes Mrs. Eberle a minute to place us, but as soon as she does, she plucks a box of Band-Aids from the shelf and makes her way directly toward us.
Carson frantically smashes buttons on the screen, desperately trying to make the automated system work faster, but it just keeps yelling at her about her fucking Extra Care Card.
“Forget it, we’re caught,” I mutter, seconds before my least favorite high school teacher stops right in front of us, a smile on her face but questions in her eyes.
“Well, hello, you two,” she says, her eyes dropping down to the blue box in Carson’s hand. Carson’s eyes follow Mrs. Eberle’s gaze to the condoms, then dart toward the door, and for a wild a moment, she looks like she might simply throw the box and run.
I ready myself to bolt with her like a thief in the night. I’ll willingly participate in whatever crime she wants to commit.
Instead, Carson plasters on her fakest smile. “Hi, Mrs. Eberle.”
“What are you two doing out so late?” she asks with a pointed look at the condom box.
I’m seconds away from telling the old bat to mind her own business when Carson shrugs. “Wyatt called for a refill. She and Owen cannot keep their hands off each other. We’re on our way over there for movie night, but I highly doubt the two of them will make it throughSpace Jamwithout sneaking off. You know how in love they are!”
The computer beeps and spits out a receipt, which Carson rips from the printer before pivoting on her heel and marching out. She’s clutching the box of condoms so tightly in her fist that the cardboard crunches.
“Space Jam?” I ask as we tumble back into the car. She’s already giggling hysterically.
“It’s the first movie that came to mind!” she says, hiccupping with laughter.
“I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think she bought it,” I say, gesturing to my mis-buttoned shirt and her wet, wild hair. I laugh. “Mrs. Eberle’s going to have quite the story to tell.”
“Owen’s going to kill me,” she says, gasping.
“Owen and Wyatt would absolutely fuck while watchingSpace Jam, and you know it,” I say. I fire up the car and stomp on the gas pedal. That whole scene was hilarious, but now the reality is setting in that there’s a box of condoms in Carson’s lap and an empty house waiting for us no more than a five-minute drive from here. “If you need me to put onSpace Jamwhen we get home to put you in the mood, just let me know.”
“I don’t think I’ll have any trouble getting in the mood with you, Dan McBride,” Carson purrs, sending all the blood in my body straight to my cock.
I barely register the drive home. By the time we screech to a halt outside the little house, I’m practically ravenous for her. I throw the door open and race around the car, taking her hand and dragging her out, then plant a kiss on her lips and slip my hand up her dress before I tug her up the path to the door.
“Down, boy,” she giggles, trotting after my long strides.
“It’s your fault for being so goddamn fuckable,” I grumble.
