Page 31 of Bad Influence
I cap the bottle and set it on the counter. “Did you listen to an incel podcast?”
She gives a sharp nod, her grey eyes bright with anger. “While I was doing the laundry.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I’m not walking around without underwear, Killer. This isn’t Paris.”
I nearly choke on my own breath at the thought of Caroline walking around the apartment without underwear. It’s bad enough seeing her in tiny dresses. I already feel like I’m seeing more of her than I should be.
“Why were you listening to an incel podcast?”
“I couldn’t focus on my book so I thought I’d try a podcast,” she says. “When I searched, it came up as a popular one and I thought it was going to be innocent. Boy, was I wrong. Why do men have to ruin everything?”
“I don’t know, but the next time we have a meeting, I’ll ask.”
Caroline crosses her arms, which causes her tits to push up. What sins have I committed in a past life to be subjected to this torture?
“Are you making fun of me?”
“As if I ever could.”
She narrows her eyes, gauging my sincerity. Once she realizes that I’m not making fun of her, she breaks out into the brightest smile.
“Okay, good, because I think you should do one.”
“Do what?”
“A podcast,” she says, like it should be obvious.
“An incel podcast,” I say flatly.
“Ew, no.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “You can talk about art or tattoos. How do people choose to adorn themselves?Teaching people about art. That kind of thing. Like Bob Ross, except grumpier.”
“I can’t imagine anything I’d hate more,” I say.
“That’s because you’re not giving it enough thought,” she says. Pushing back her hair, she leans across the counter. The only thing keeping my eyes from dropping down to her tits is her animated face.
“I don’t have to, the idea is enough to make me hate it.”
“You hated the idea of me living here,” Caroline counters.
I nod. “Can’t say I’m not regretting changing my mind.”
Sticking her tongue out at me, she walks around to the fridge and grabs a pitcher of lemonade.
She moves to grab a glass and I shift out of her way. In the process, I bump against her and since the pitcher is almost full, the lemonade splashes over onto the floor and my shirt.
Caroline gasps. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.”
“I’m the one who bumped into you. Let me clean this up.”
Removing my sticky and wet shirt, I put it aside before taking the pitcher from Caroline’s hand. Taking her hand, I pull her away from the spilled lemonade so she doesn’t accidentally slip and hurt herself.
“Wait, I can clean it,” Caroline protests.
“I’m not going to make you clean up my mess,” I say.
Taking a roll of paper towel, I crouch down to clean up the spill. I stand once it’s all cleaned up and throw the wet towels into the trash before washing my hands. Glancing at her, I see the tips of her ears are bright red.
