Page 31 of Blue Collar Hotties

She’s a fashion student. As soon as she tells me that, all the puzzle pieces click together: those sketches, her kooky dresses, the way she’s like a vibrant peacock surrounded by gray doves. Lenore is soalive, brimming with warmth and passion, and clothes design makes perfect sense as her dream.

She likes rollerblading through the city parks in the summer, and knitting wonky hats and scarves in wintertime. Lenore’s favorite food is Thai green curry, and her comfort movie is Clueless. She says the fashion in that movie is unmatched, even after all these years.

I’ll have to coax her into watching it with me someday. Letting me draw her legs into my lap on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn wedged between us, so she can point out her favorite outfits on the screen.

Just the thought of that—of being sodomesticwith her—is like a roundhouse punch to my chest. Want that so goddamn badly.

Not just Lenore’s naughty side—though I’m hungry for that too, especially since she teased me to hell and back on Friday. But her sleepy moments; her rushed mornings; her lazy weekends. Want to see if she gets hangry while I cook her dinner. Whether she’ll steal bites of the ingredients while I stir.

On my lunch break, I pluck up the courage to ask why she’shere.In this boring office with these boring people, instead of working on her designs. Fair enough if she needs the money, but isn’t her family loaded?

Lenore sends back a grumpy emoji and a link to a local news article. It’s coverage of a student fashion show—the college’s summer catwalk where the students show off their best designs. I take a huge bite of cheese sandwich as I skim-read the article, searching for Lenore’s name, and I find it in the caption for a photo.

Lenore Hattworth models her own lingerie design.

A lump of bread sticks in my throat.

“Easy, tiger,” Jimmy mutters as he walks past the bench where I walked out for my lunch, thumping on my back as I cough into my fist. He’s still acting pissy with me, but the old bastard cares.

I swallow, eyes tearing, and zoom in on the photo on my phone. Jimmy’s footsteps fade as he walks away, a paper bag with his own lunch swinging by his side.

Shit. Why have I kept this ancient phone for so long? The screen is terrible, all cracked and blurry, and I never once cared about that until this minute. Lenore’s long limbs are wasted on this screen; her taut stomach and perky tits deserve nothing less than high definition.

My phone buzzes in my hands.My model dropped out at the last second so I filled in,Lenore’s text says.This is my punishment. My family acts like I starred in a porno.

Now there’s an image I don’t need right now. Swigging from the stainless steel bottle of water by my hip, I stare up at the clouds and will my body to calm the hell down.

You should warn a man before sending photos like that, I tell her.Nearly had a heart attack over here.

In a good way? :)

In a very fucking good way. Do you still have that lingerie? Would you wear it for me?

It’s too much, too soon, but I can’t help myself. Lenore sent me that article, knowing full well there’s a photo of her in nothing but three wisps of white lace. I bite down on my fist as I wait for her reply, so riled up that I could sprint twenty blocks. Could swing from the scaffolding like Tarzan.

So you like it, then?she says.

Hell yeah.

I like all her clothes. Everything she’s ever worn. As far as I’m concerned, if Lenore Hattworth touched it, it’s pure gold.

Then I’ll wear it for you. Extra points if you can take it off with your teeth. :)))

This woman will be the death of me.

* * *

Texting is one thing, but getting Lenore alone again is another. Turns out that she’s already working all hours in the day, staying up late each night sewing, just trying to keep up with her college workload. Her family must know they’ve made her life a million times harder, especially with her winter show coming up, but I guess they don’t care.

Assholes. Dangling my girl’s education over her head like that, making her dance on their strings.

Well, it’s bullshit. But I can’t fix it for her, not unless Lenore brings it to me herself.

She lets me come over to her apartment on Wednesday night, on the strict instruction that she needs towork.No distractions allowed.

Fine by me. I bring take-out bags stuffed full of her favorite Thai food, snoop through her bookshelves after we’ve eaten, then keep her hydrated with glasses of water and mugs of blackberry tea as she works on her designs.

Lenore keeps smiling over at me sadly; keeps apologizing every time I get up to make her a new drink, but that’s because she doesn’t get it yet.

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