Chapter one
Arrow
In med school, we had gloves to deal with butt-stuff. Here at The Intimate Closette, I was expected to untangle thong underwear with my bare hands. I pinched the edge of a string waistband with trepidation.
Was this sanitary? We didn't even have thin stickers to protect the crotch, let alone a coating for the string that wedged in people's booties. But people still bought them.
I guessed five dollars was a bargain, despite there not being much material. Fashion wasn’t always pragmatic. After all, my sister Kat had an affinity for fishnet stockings, and those didn't exactly keep the heat in.
Thongs must be more like an accessory. For the butt. For, um, confidence. Like the lady wearing one of these in that grayscale ad.
Wait, was I holding the waistband of this thong? Or was this the butt-end? I inspected the twisted fabric with the puzzlement of solving a cat's cradle.
The store owner, Giselle, strode up, her long black sweater swishing around her ankles like a cape. “Question?” she prodded in her faint French accent.
I flinched and dropped the underwear into the pit of stringy fabric. “I was just... Sorry, I wasn’t sure if people could try these on.”
“Of course they can. Over their underwear.” She gestured to the front of her tailored pants.
“But wouldn’t it be too close to other things? What if they...soil it?” I winced, not sure how to phrase my question.
Giselle’s eyebrow twitched. “You got this job because you're comfortable with human bodies, yes?”
“Yes?” Some aspects of them.
“And you can do sales, yes?” she asked.
“Y-yes.” I hadn’t made any yet, but that was because I’d spent the past two days tidying dressing rooms and getting trained on the register. Today, I had butt floss to contend with.
“So, sell it to them,” she commanded.
“Uh-huh,” I squeaked. Was that a threat? I couldn’tmakepeople purchase anything.
I swallowed against a lump in my throat and picked up a ball of panties. “Is ‘you stain it, you buy it’ a store policy I can use or more of a preference?”
She eyed me with mild disdain. “Use your best judgment, Victoria. We'll do the same.”
“It’s Tori,” I said, but she had already swished away to talk to her daughter, Meg, by the register.
Heat ironed the inside of my chest. They were going to judge me and my performance.
Meg, with her cloyingly sweet voice and baby-doll bangs, glanced at me and nodded.
Oh no. This job was supposed to be a safety net. I couldn’t lose it for being awkward about butt-stuff and lingerie.
I had to sell something today. Now, in fact. To the next person who walked in.
A gentleman with white feathered hair strolled into our heavenly paradise, his elegant face obscured by designer sunglasses. He was draped intailored black slacks and a partially unbuttoned dress shirt. Chances were, he knew what he wanted, and he could afford it.
This was the perfect chance to prove myself.
Older men loved my bedside manner. And masculine-presenting customers usually wanted to get what they came for and leave ASAP. It was an easy sale as long as they knew the size they needed.
Meg slunk out from behind the register. I had to get to him before she did.
He made his way to the back half of the store. Closer to Meg.
She couldn't have him.
