Page 79 of So This Is War
“Yup, hey, hello. Just changing.”
“Oh, are you leaving?”
“Going out,” I shout and slip on my tennis shoes because I don’t care right now. I don’t care what I look like.
Well . . . I kind of care. I don’t need people recognizing me. So I grab a bucket hat and toss that on my head, followed by a pair of sunglasses, and for the hell of it, I wrap a scarf around my neck and up to my chin.
There.
Unrecognizable.
Knowing I’ll be able to walk around undetected, I proudly step out of my closet and straight to my door, opening it to find Wylie on the other side, worrying her lip.
When her eyes meet mine, the worried expression morphs into humor.
“What . . . what are you doing?”
I adjust my sunglasses and say, “It’s called going incognito.”
“You think you’ll go undetected walking around like that?”
“Yes. People won’t notice me.”
“They’re going to notice the six-foot-four man walking around with a scarf around his neck.”
“Not the people I’m walking by.”
“Oh-kay,” she says, giving me a once-over. “At least tuck your shirt in.” She reaches for the hem of my shirt, but I booty blast the air, backing that ass up so quick and folding over at the waist.
“Penis,” I shout.
“Huh?”
“Uh, don’t touch my penis.”
She stands back. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to suggest tucking your shirt in.”
I stand taller, prouder.
I flip my scarf over my shoulder, and with my chin held high, I say, “And I suggest you don’t touch my penis.”
“Okay, suggestion received, but I wasn’t going to touch it.”
“As long as we’ve made that clear.” Shoulders back, I walk past her—painfully—and head for the door.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Her hand touches my back, and it feels like lava scalding my skin.
“Everything’s fine,” I yelp and hop away from her, my dick nearly acting like a pogo stick for me. “Just fine.”
“Levi, you can talk to me.” She corners me in the entryway, her hand caressing my arm.My cock’s trying to dig a hole through the fabric of my jeans. It’s a wonder it hasn’t popped through and knocked Wylie on the ovaries, saying “Let me in, let me in. Please let me play with your skinny, skin, skin.”
“I know I can talk to you. You’re a great listener.”
She studies me for a second and asks, “Was it the bologna?” She steps in just close enough that her breast rubs against my arm. “I can get different?—”
Her nipple caresses my arm hair . . .
“It’s not the bologna,” I yelp. “The bologna is delicious. Top-notch. I fucking love bologna.” And with that, I grab my keys and wallet and bolt out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
