Page 61 of Mayhem and Minnie

“You need jeans, shirts, sweaters, and a few dresses. A coat as well. And underwear…”

“Oh, like those?” Before I can reply, she dashes to the other side of the aisle where the lingerie is and haphazardly picks up a few pieces. She seems quite proud of her selection. A mix of white-and-red frilly things, including some lace underwear and a rather provocative bra.

“That won’t fit,” I note to the bra she just threw into the cart.

“What?” She blinks.

“I think you need a bigger cup.”

She glances down at the bra and then back at me.

“You think so? I’ve never worn a bra before,” she adds pensively.

“Never?” I ask, horrified.

She shakes her head.

“But it looks nice, so I wanted one.” She points to the ad pictures on the wall featuring models in lingerie.

I stare at her. I didn’t think she could surprise me more, but here she is.

“Get a few sizes and you can try them on,” I say.

She does as told, and then we fill the cart with more clothing items for her to try on. When there’s no more space in the cart, we finally head to the changing rooms.

I’ve been shopping with my mother before. Many times, in fact. Before I left my family’s house, that was her favorite pastime.

I always hated it.

It was dull and boring, and it consisted of my mother spending hours on end trying on clothes before leaving an exorbitant amount of money at check-out.

I should have hated this too. But for some reason, I find it rather interesting—sans the overwhelming male attention. Frankly, I could do without any of that.

But I like observing Minnie. It’s an opportunity for me to learn what she likes and what she doesn’t—to learn what makes her tick. It will come in handy at some point.

The more I know, the easier it will be to manipulate her and make her behave as I want her to.

I take a seat while Minnie goes inside the dressing room.

One after another, she tries on the outfits and comes out to get my opinion.

I tell her honestly which ones look good on her and which do not. She doesn’t seem particularly impressed with my frankness, but alas. If I’m footing the bill, I will not have her walking around in cheap, ill-fitting clothes.

We’re almost done sifting through the clothes when Minnie is down to the bras she’s chosen.

“Uhm, Marlowe?” she calls out, a tinge of worry in her voice. “I don’t think this works,” she adds in a defeated tone.

“What do you mean?”

She doesn’t come out, so I feel compelled to go after her. Pulling the curtain aside, I stop dead in my tracks.

This is my fault. I walked into this trap with my own two feet.

She’s wearing a lacy red bra that’s one or two sizes too small, her breasts spilling out of the cups. Luckily—for my sanity—she’s still wearing her pants.

“This is the biggest size I got and it still doesn’t fit.” She sighs as she turns to me, motioning toward the generous cleavage that’s now directly in my line of view.

I gulp down.

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