Hollywood Dirt
Page 90
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“There are still security cameras in Walmart.” He shook his head at me. “No.”
I twisted my mouth, then got an idea.
CHAPTER 99
“We’ll look like robbers.”
Summer looked at the two bags laid out on the dining room table, with a serious face. “You’re right.” Her forehead wrinkled, and then she looked back at him, an excited look on her face. “We should decorate them.”
He scowled in response, a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. She clapped her hands in excitement, and it was official: he’d never be able to tell her no.
“This is stupid.” He pulled at the bottom of his paper bag and scratched an itch the paper was causing against his neck.
“Shut up,” Summer chirped, leaning over the gearshift and adjusting it, his eyes suddenly better lined up with the holes. They were face to face, her own paper bag covering her features, her eyes the only thing visible, shining through two oval circles, her holes much more ‘feminine,’ according to her, than Cole’s basic circles. She’d added blue eye shadow, giant lashes, and carefully drawn eyebrows, courtesy of a thirty-pack of markers they’d found in the study. “Your eye makeup looks fantastic,” he whispered and became suddenly aware of her hand, on his thigh, where she was resting her weight.
“Thank you,” she whispered back and giggled. “Though you should get that mole looked at. It’s worrisome.” Oh yes, the mole that she’d felt the need to add, drawn on his cartoon cheek. She’d added a thin hair coming out of the top of it, and just like that, his paper bag self was suddenly ugly. He’d compounded the issue, drawing worry lines on the forehead and bags under his ‘eyes.’ “He looks stressed,” she had said, then added a cigarette, limply hanging from his mouth. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Now he has a reason.”
“Lung cancer?” Cole had guessed.
“No!” When she’d shoved at his shoulder, he’d wanted to sweep the bags off the table and take her, right there, the markers pushed to the end of the table, her hair spreading out on the walnut surface. He hadn’t. He’d let her finish. “Bad breath and teeth staining,” she’d said somberly. “They are very serious side effects.”
“And that makes my bag man worry.”
“YES,” she’d stressed, picking up a watermelon pink marker and filling in the lips of her woman.
Now, he stared at those lips, then impulsively leaned forward, the paper bag crinkling as he pushed his lips against hers through two layers of brown papers. Her hand tightened on his thigh, then it was over. Her eyes laughed at him. “Are you done romancing? I want to get inside before you smear this super-expensive Crayola lipstick.”
“I’m done.”
“Then let’s do this.” She fist-pumped and opened his door, opting to crawl over his lap and out rather than return to her side. He didn’t mind, helping her on her way out, his hands friendly, and she shrieked out a protest before both feet landed on the ground.
At almost eleven at night, they were the fifth vehicle in the lot, if you ignored the line of employee cars parked on the far side of the building. Cole’s steps slowed as Summer strode toward the entrance, her feet hopping over a parking curb. Her head turned to him, and she saw his lag, her hand reaching out and grabbing him. “Come on, chicken. Grow some balls.” She tilted her head at him, the giant bag making her look like a bobblehead, and he grinned behind his mask.
It was stupid.
It was ridiculous.
It was also her idea, and she was laughing, and he would be damned if he interfered with that. He let her pull him forward and they stepped up to the front door. Wearing paper bags pulled over their heads. The greeter, a short older man with a belly, turned, a smile on his face, and paused, the unlit cigar hanging from his mouth drooping.
“Hey Bob,” Summer chirped, snagging a cart from his hand and pushing it forward.
“Hey Summer,” the old man drawled, the cigar fully dropping from his lips as he watched her pass, his nod in Cole’s direction slow and cautious. “Hey Mr. Masten.”
Cole smiled out of habit, then realized the man couldn’t see his mouth, and nodded. “Good evening.” He jogged a few steps, catching up with his paper bag girlfriend, and lowered his head to her. “He knows it’s us,” he murmured.
“Of course he does,” she said, her giant head turning to look up at him, her hazel eyes shining. “Now, Mr. Masten, let me properly welcome you to the beauty that is Walmart.”
She stopped, in the middle of the wide, main aisle, and spread her arms. Spun around a little and stopped. Did a curtsy for no apparent reason and then laughed.
“The list,” he reminded her.
“Oh yes.” She dug in her purse, her head tilted down, hand holding her mask in place against her mouth. “Here.” She shook it out and, from a register halfway down, a blue-aproned employee walked to the end of her aisle and stared at them. “Corn, string cheese, pasta, spaghetti, cabbage, berries, dried peas, plastic bottles, ice cream and whipped cream.” Her words ran together in a line, the last set as one long mashed together word.
“Whipped cream?” he repeated the last one, confused.
She tugged at the bottom of her bag as if to make sure that it was still on. “I always wanted a guy to lick whipped cream off me. Scott was never that adventurous.” She shrugged her shoulders, and the bag moved slightly as she shook her head. “You might be my last chance.”
I twisted my mouth, then got an idea.
CHAPTER 99
“We’ll look like robbers.”
Summer looked at the two bags laid out on the dining room table, with a serious face. “You’re right.” Her forehead wrinkled, and then she looked back at him, an excited look on her face. “We should decorate them.”
He scowled in response, a grin pushing at the corners of his mouth. She clapped her hands in excitement, and it was official: he’d never be able to tell her no.
“This is stupid.” He pulled at the bottom of his paper bag and scratched an itch the paper was causing against his neck.
“Shut up,” Summer chirped, leaning over the gearshift and adjusting it, his eyes suddenly better lined up with the holes. They were face to face, her own paper bag covering her features, her eyes the only thing visible, shining through two oval circles, her holes much more ‘feminine,’ according to her, than Cole’s basic circles. She’d added blue eye shadow, giant lashes, and carefully drawn eyebrows, courtesy of a thirty-pack of markers they’d found in the study. “Your eye makeup looks fantastic,” he whispered and became suddenly aware of her hand, on his thigh, where she was resting her weight.
“Thank you,” she whispered back and giggled. “Though you should get that mole looked at. It’s worrisome.” Oh yes, the mole that she’d felt the need to add, drawn on his cartoon cheek. She’d added a thin hair coming out of the top of it, and just like that, his paper bag self was suddenly ugly. He’d compounded the issue, drawing worry lines on the forehead and bags under his ‘eyes.’ “He looks stressed,” she had said, then added a cigarette, limply hanging from his mouth. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Now he has a reason.”
“Lung cancer?” Cole had guessed.
“No!” When she’d shoved at his shoulder, he’d wanted to sweep the bags off the table and take her, right there, the markers pushed to the end of the table, her hair spreading out on the walnut surface. He hadn’t. He’d let her finish. “Bad breath and teeth staining,” she’d said somberly. “They are very serious side effects.”
“And that makes my bag man worry.”
“YES,” she’d stressed, picking up a watermelon pink marker and filling in the lips of her woman.
Now, he stared at those lips, then impulsively leaned forward, the paper bag crinkling as he pushed his lips against hers through two layers of brown papers. Her hand tightened on his thigh, then it was over. Her eyes laughed at him. “Are you done romancing? I want to get inside before you smear this super-expensive Crayola lipstick.”
“I’m done.”
“Then let’s do this.” She fist-pumped and opened his door, opting to crawl over his lap and out rather than return to her side. He didn’t mind, helping her on her way out, his hands friendly, and she shrieked out a protest before both feet landed on the ground.
At almost eleven at night, they were the fifth vehicle in the lot, if you ignored the line of employee cars parked on the far side of the building. Cole’s steps slowed as Summer strode toward the entrance, her feet hopping over a parking curb. Her head turned to him, and she saw his lag, her hand reaching out and grabbing him. “Come on, chicken. Grow some balls.” She tilted her head at him, the giant bag making her look like a bobblehead, and he grinned behind his mask.
It was stupid.
It was ridiculous.
It was also her idea, and she was laughing, and he would be damned if he interfered with that. He let her pull him forward and they stepped up to the front door. Wearing paper bags pulled over their heads. The greeter, a short older man with a belly, turned, a smile on his face, and paused, the unlit cigar hanging from his mouth drooping.
“Hey Bob,” Summer chirped, snagging a cart from his hand and pushing it forward.
“Hey Summer,” the old man drawled, the cigar fully dropping from his lips as he watched her pass, his nod in Cole’s direction slow and cautious. “Hey Mr. Masten.”
Cole smiled out of habit, then realized the man couldn’t see his mouth, and nodded. “Good evening.” He jogged a few steps, catching up with his paper bag girlfriend, and lowered his head to her. “He knows it’s us,” he murmured.
“Of course he does,” she said, her giant head turning to look up at him, her hazel eyes shining. “Now, Mr. Masten, let me properly welcome you to the beauty that is Walmart.”
She stopped, in the middle of the wide, main aisle, and spread her arms. Spun around a little and stopped. Did a curtsy for no apparent reason and then laughed.
“The list,” he reminded her.
“Oh yes.” She dug in her purse, her head tilted down, hand holding her mask in place against her mouth. “Here.” She shook it out and, from a register halfway down, a blue-aproned employee walked to the end of her aisle and stared at them. “Corn, string cheese, pasta, spaghetti, cabbage, berries, dried peas, plastic bottles, ice cream and whipped cream.” Her words ran together in a line, the last set as one long mashed together word.
“Whipped cream?” he repeated the last one, confused.
She tugged at the bottom of her bag as if to make sure that it was still on. “I always wanted a guy to lick whipped cream off me. Scott was never that adventurous.” She shrugged her shoulders, and the bag moved slightly as she shook her head. “You might be my last chance.”
