Page 76 of So This Is War
“Huh?” she asks, sitting back.
“B-bologna.” I keep my hands placed in front of my aching cock to block her view of my obvious bulge. “Did you, uh, did you get me bologna? At the store. Did you secure the bologna?”
“Um, yes,” she says with a quizzical tone. “The bologna has been secured.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s important. The bologna is important, Wylie.”
Her brow pinches together. “Yes, I’m sure. The bologna has been purchased and properly placed in the fridge.” She studies me for a moment. “Is everything okay, Levi?”
No.
Everything is not okay.
I have a raging hard-on, I’m fumbling around like a jackass, and I’m pretty sure tonight I’m going to whimper myself to sleep from the thought of the tip of your nipple on the sensitive flesh of my bulging bicep.
But instead of vocalizing my innermost thoughts, I nod. “Just love bologna is all, and someone has been eating my bologna at the arena, so I want to make sure I have some on hand because I like to eat a sandwich before every game. Kind of a tradition, and I really like the way it tastes, makes me feel like I’m gearing up for a takedown. Like a beast. A man beast. A man beast on the ice. That should be my new hashtag.” I nervously laugh. “Man beast on the ice, powered by bologna. And without that bologna, I’m no good. Just wreckage out there with no purpose. Garbage. Trash. Some might say an abomination in skates. So I just want to make sure the bologna is there. So I can be the best man bologna beast out there, you know?” I nervously laugh again, and it comes out more like a giggle which, in return, makes me want to take my own skate to my dick.
“Bologna makes you feel manly?” she asks almost with a sneer.
“Very,” I say. “Like I have a lot of muscles. And with great muscles comes great responsibility, Wylie.”
What the fuck am I saying?
Just shut the fuck up, man.
“Hmm, I wouldn’t have put you in the category of being built on bologna, but okay. And also, your bologna at the arena, the one in the cafeteria? That was yours?”
What the hell does she mean . . . that was yours?
My heart’s beating wildly as I stare down at her. “What do you mean when you ask, that was yours?”
She crosses one beautiful leg over the other and casually says, “Well, I saw it in the cafeteria, and I thought it was up for grabs. I made myself a few sandwiches. I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was yours.”
The world stands still as I blink a few times, my brain catching up with her words, processing them, sitting deep in the wrinkles of my cranium, stirring and festering . . . and dipping me right into a frenzied tailspin as my ears boil and my pulse pounds through my veins.
She can’t be . . .
No.
There’s no fucking way.
“Hold on . . .” I take a deep breath, trying to make sure my voice doesn’t come out shaky. “You . . . you like bologna sandwiches?”
“Love them,” she answers with a smile.
Mother.
Of.
Fuck.
This is the worst-case scenario out of all scenarios.
This . . . this is blasphemy.
This is bullshit.
This can’t be the world I’m living in.
