Page 14 of Heartfelt Pain
Isolde glances behind her and steps out into the alley. The door leading into the kitchen closes. It’s just us and the trash and the rats.
“Take off your pants,” she orders.
“What?”
“Underwear,” she corrects her British terminology.
I make a face. But I won’t lie, I’m tempted.
And Isolde is serious. She motions at me to undress.
I give her a look. “They’re already waiting. And you know the Aoki’s are impatient as fuck.”
Isolde waves the concern away. “Take off your pants. You know it’ll help.”
She’s not wrong. Going commando and hot compresses are an ingrown hair’s worst nightmare.
“I can’t go to a meeting without wearing underwear.” It’d be weird.
“They’re not going to know.” Isolde’s thick accent elongates the words. “Now, hurry up and take off your underwear.”
“Right here?” I squeak, glancing in both directions. Sure, it’s empty, but the last thing I need is someone getting a shot of my naked ass.
“Hurry up, it’s fine,” she assures me with more confidence than I feel. Figures, since she’s not the one getting naked. “Right here, the camera is angled away.”
“I thought you had Abe’s dad fix that?” I ask suspiciously.
“Abe’s dad barely knows how to use his mobile. I told him I’d fix it and I haven’t gotten a chance. Come on, hurry up.”
“I am not putting my bare feet on this ground.” But I unzip my trousers. Isolde holds my arm as I lift my foot out of my heel, ensuring I never touch the ground. I wiggle out of the underwear. The next side follows and then I’m standing out in the alleyway with my underwear in my hands.
“What do I do with them?” These pants are too tight. It’d be obvious I have something strange in my pockets.
“Throw them away,” Isolde suggests, pointing at the dumpster.
“I’m not throwing away two hundred dollar panties.”
Everything covert about the operation goes out the door when Isolde shouts, “Why the fuck are you wearing two hundred dollar panties?”
“They’re La Perla.”
“You should be fucking ashamed,” she tells me. “Two hundred dollar panties.”
“I like you because you don’t judge.”
“Put that somewhere,” she demands of my panties.
“Here,” I hold my hand out.
“Are you fuck—” Sighing, she swipes them out of my hand and stuffs them in her hoodie pocket.
We turn to find Abe standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “This is why people don’t understand if you’re gay for each other or not.”
Isolde and I share a look. And then shake our heads.
“No offense,” Isolde says.
I shrug. “I’m not gay for you either, it’s fine. Thanks for saving my underwear, though.”
