The Hard Sell

by Wright,Lulu

  The Hard Sell

  Lulu Wright

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Lily

  2. Jack

  3. Lily

  4. Jack

  5. Lily

  6. Jack

  7. Lily

  8. Jack

  9. Lily

  10. Lily

  11. Lily

  12. Lily

  13. Jack

  14. Lily

  15. Lily

  16. Jack

  17. Lily

  18. Jack

  19. Lily

  20. Jack

  21. Lily

  22. Lily

  23. Jack

  24. Lily

  25. Lily

  26. Jack

  Epilogue

  Copyright © 2016 by Lulu Wright

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  1

  Lily

  Cocks are in my face all day.

  I see pictures of hot male models with their legs spread showing off our crotch hugging underwear all the time. Boy beef I can’t touch.

  Yeah, I have a lot of cock in my life.

  Sadly, most of it is just a tease.

  My job as a merchandiser for Flash Fit men’s underwear means I get teased every day. I have fifty stores in my territory with high volume retail outlets getting weekly visits, small volume monthly. My job is to make sure the underwear fixtures are filled and “shoppable” and I train the sales associates on how to sell our stuff. Sometimes I bribe them with free swag too. I create visual displays with mannequins and, ooh, butt forms—mannequins that are just belly button to mid-thigh, all tight tushy and benign bump.

  I love my flexible schedule and that every day is different.

  But now that’s all changing.

  Hamilton department stores, our biggest client, is not happy with Flash Fit. Sales have been slumping in their Center City flagship store located in the heart of Philly. This means their buyer might toss us out of all fifteen of their department stores next Spring, which would mean a major loss of money for the company. Mr. Hamilton himself will be walking the Center City store in a few weeks to decide our fate, so there’s not a lot of time for Flash Fit to get it together and make things work.

  My boss, Brenda, has called upon me to fix it.

  Now Hamilton will be my home away from home from October to Christmas Eve. I have three months to sell as many manties as possible, not to mention make sure Mr. Hamilton, the hard ass owner, is happy with what he sees when he visits.

  My whole career is riding on this.

  “You’re an underwear genius, Lily,” Brenda told me with a big smile when she gave me the news. She says shit like that when she wants me to take one for the team. But then she threw in a trophy at the end of the proverbial tunnel. “Make Hamilton Center City work and that regional position is yours. Provided Carol doesn’t come back from maternity leave.”

  Carol has a rich husband. Carol did three years of fertility treatments.

  Carol ain’t coming back.

  I’ve been eyeballing that regional position for years. It’s more money, three times more, but it’s also high profile. I will get to travel and attend the industry conventions and fashion shows. I’ll be somebody—seen in the wider fashion world and not just in the microcosm of underwear sculpting. I’m only two years out of college—if I can land that regional gig, it will change my whole life.

  Hamilton Center City, here I come.

  It’s Monday morning. I print out everything having to do with HCC before I go to the store for the first time. I analyze the numbers over a breakfast of fruit and black tea. Brenda sent me pictures of the department and I can see I have my work cut out for me. To call it a disaster is the understatement of the century. Red Cross should hand out coffee and blankets in that place. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

  My phone buzzes with an email from Carol.

  Have a great day in HCC!

  Jack Stewart expects you at 10am.

  Knock his socks off!

  Brenda Barnes

  VP Merchandising

  Jack Stewart. The department manager, supposedly absurdly hot, also a notorious corporate middle management suck up. I suspect he’s part of the reason why things aren’t working there. Rumor has it he got the last merchandiser fired and is gunning to get Flash Fit out of Hamilton’s stores.

  But I’m not worried. I rock at my job. He’ll either get on board Team Lily, or get out of my way.

  I toss on my merchandiser uniform—all black, which compliments my pale skin and dark brown hair perfectly. Today it’s thick leggings, patent leather Nikes and my off-the-shoulder rayon top that shows off my lacy black bra. I put on the only makeup I wear—my signature red lipstick, Red Hot Mama. Sloppy bun and I am ready to sell some underwear.

  I shove the reports and pictures into my backpack along with a turkey sandwich and my company laptop and cell. I do a quick check of my merchandiser kit, the little black fanny pack in which I keep all the on-hand supplies merchandisers can’t be without on the sales floor. The gel pen is there. My biz cards are too. My nail clippers. My handy wipes. My JIC condom (for when after work drinks lead to banging, not that that’s ever happened. The condom expired six months ago, just before I met Connor, but I keep it as a lucky charm like a horseshoe or a rabbit foot).

  But, fuck.

  Where is my tape measure?

  The memory hits; it’s at Connor’s place. I took it out to measure a window for blinds in his bedroom because the flimsy curtain was providing a live sex show for the neighbors. Well, as “live” as Connor could be.

  Ugh. I could go to the drug store and get a new tape measure, but I love that old tape measure. It’s retractable. It’s bejeweled. It’s got personality. I look at the time on my phone. I’ve got a few minutes to spare before I need to catch the bus to Hamilton Center City.

  Connor lives just a couple of blocks away. Walking there, I think about the dull Hamilton’s Underwear Department the pictures captured. I need Flash Fit’s fixtures to get attention. I need to add butt forms and visuals. I need to fill that space with tons of teaser cock.

  And speaking of unsatisfying cock … Connor. He’s my boyfriend or something like that. What do you call the guy that you go to family events with and have meh sex with about twice a week? Yeah, boyfriend. He’s the person I binge watch TV shows with and bang in the dark.

  I use my key to open the door. Usually Connor’s up by now checking his social media and eating a powerbar. I look around the living room. Yep, the sexy little tape measure is on the coffee table. I grab it and pull out several inches then push the button to hear the satisfying slurp of tape sucking back into the dispenser.

  Just then, the sound is interrupted by a pained-sounding groan from Connor’s bedroom.

  “Connor?” I ask as I stride across the hallway. “You okay?” I’m asking as I open the door.

  I’m greeted with a “Yee haw!” scream that is most definitely not my boyfriend-or-whatever’s voice. The door swings wide open to reveal some chick doing the reverse cowgirl on Connor. She’s wearing a pink cowboy hat with matching boots—she accessorized for this position? Oh, hell no.

  “What the actual fuck,” I say, frozen in the doorway.

  Connor practically throws the girl off of him. “Lily!”

  I’m blind with rage. I race to the living room and grab my backpack as Connor stumbles out of the bedroom with a sheet wrapped around him. “I can explain,” Connor stammers. He smells like sex. He’s flushe
d and sweaty. I can see his hard dick tenting the sheet. He can’t explain.

  “Don’t bother, asshole,” I seethe. “We’re done.”

  I slam the door on my way out.

  The bus ride is a blur. I guess I know now why sex with Connor was as exciting as watching paint dry. He never wanted to do Kama Sutra stuff or role-playing or anything. He was all missionary and the occasional doggie, if he felt a little frisky which was like twice ever. Once I got blindfolds as a bachelorette party favor. When I playfully put them on one night, he asked if we were going to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I thought he was just being an uptight WASP.

  But he clearly has no problem playing sexy games with her.

  The bus moves into Center City, past City Hall. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. It’s fine, I tell myself. I wasn’t that into him.

  But all I can picture is his face while she rode him. He couldn’t even have the decency to break it off with me before he ran to the nearest cowgirl?

  Fuck that guy.

  Actually, no. Leave fucking him to the cowgirl slut. Yippie kai yai, motherfucker. Good luck keeping him interesting.

  Once off the bus, I am a crazy mix of anger, frustration and nerves, but I don’t have time for any of that now because I have to focus. I take a couple of deep breaths and feel the knots in my stomach untie and the lump in my throat loosen. I can’t let Connor and his cowgirl ruin my career. Later, I tell myself, later you can drink about it.

  Right now it’s manty time.

  My notes say the employee entrance is on Market Street. I spot it and whip off my backpack to get my driver’s license. All these stores make vendors sign in with ID. No exceptions.

  Of course, my backpack has eaten my wallet. Shit. It never matters how big or small the purse (or backpack) is, they always manage to swallow the only thing you need, right when you need it.

  I glower at the security door, then back at my bag, still arm-deep in it as I walk blindly toward the entrance. If I’m late because of a stupid ID card, I swear …

  Aha! My hand brushes leather, and I latch on in relief. I’m halfway through pulling the wallet free from whatever black hole grew in my backpack, still wandering toward the door, when—

  Bam.

  “Whoa, watch it!”

  My backpack is on the ground. All the chaos within it has exploded all over the sidewalk. Papers. Lipstick. Tampons. Hand sanitizer. Everything, everywhere. My phone lays on the pavement, lightless and lifeless.

  Its screen is shattered and so is my heart. My baby!

  I scoop my injured phone from the pavement and glare up at the guy who just practically ran me over. “You just broke my phone. Watch where you’re going!”

  He points to a wet coffee stain on his very expensive-looking shirt. “Me? Take your own advice—you got coffee all over my dress shirt.”

  “I hope it burns, asshole,” I snap.

  “Yeah, well, I hope your damn phone is dead.” He flicks a handkerchief out of his back pocket with the flare of a matador. He dabs the coffee stain on his chest but keeps his cold hazel-gray eyes trained on me. “I have a meeting in five minutes. Now I look like I just rolled off of the back of a garbage truck.”

  Oh please. The coffee stain is the only thing about him that isn’t impeccable. His fitted black suit shows off his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He looks like a finance guy or a lawyer, but his tousled blond hair suggests a naughtiness his ramrod straight posture and power tie do not. But right now he’s all elitist boarding school jerk. Owner of sidewalks. Killer of iPhones.

  I dust specks of pavement grit off my precious object. “You suck.”

  “How witty.” He rolls his eyes. “Look up from your phone more often and maybe you won’t run into strangers.”

  I bend back down to continue scooping my belongings into my bag. “That was totally your fault.”

  “Incorrect. You barged right into me.” He says it with such venom, I want to slap him. He’s doing nothing to help me pick up my stuff. He’s just standing there and lording over me. “You owe me an apology,” he adds.

  I punch my belongings in my bag as I look up at him. “I’m sorry you’re a prick.”

  He just continues to glare at me. I give him my best death stare as I stand, finally finished repacking my bag. “Total, and completely asinine prick,” I spit out for good measure.

  Now that I’m standing beside him, I realize he’s tall. Like really tall, maybe 6’2”, with at least 5 inches on me. He’s good looking, too, but his hazel eyes flash anger and his chiseled jaw is stern. “Pay attention to your surroundings.”

  I sling my backpack on my arm and almost hit him with it. I’m almost tempted to take it off and swing it again. Maybe I can knock the rest of his coffee all over those stupid, perfectly pressed dress pants of his. Then they’d match the shirt. “Don’t tell me what to do,” I reply with a toss of my head. Then I stomp into the building without looking back. Hot guys are so full of themselves.

  After tip toeing around the landmine that is store security, I linger in the Women’s Shoe Department to size up the damage to my phone and to catch my breath. I am drenched in the frothy sweat of anger and hate. What a bastard. My phone’s screen is a spider web of sadness. I say a little prayer to the Tech Gods above and hit the on button.

  There is a tech god after all.

  The phone flares to life and I manage to type a quick explanation out to Brenda without cutting my fingers on the cracked glass. Had a rough encounter with unapologetic finance douchebro, phone smashed to pieces. Please advise. She answers back within a minute to tell me I can pick up the latest model at the Apple store today and expense it. Lemons/Lemonade. Sweet.

  Though I am still annoyed. Dude broke my phone, and he didn’t even have the common courtesy to apologize.

  Guys suck.

  As I walk to the Basics Department, I am stunned by the beauty of Hamilton Center City’s chandeliers, marble floors and Greek columns that stretch to impossibly high ceilings. Built before department stores were concrete boxes of blandness filled with lifeless fluorescent light, it’s a beautiful example of Art Nouveau flourishes and the sensibilities of a more elegant time. If it weren’t for the modern fashions, you would swear it was 1906.

  I notice the music is also unique. Most department stores play listen-while-you-work soft rock hits that blend into the background and the edgier stores play ambient music that could put the most caffeinated shopper to sleep. Hamilton’s ain’t got no time for Katy Perry or the droning monotony of some Euro trash DJ. As I strut through the store, I am loving the big band music.

  Hamilton is as classy as shit. I can work with that.

  When I enter the Men’s Basics Department, however, I can’t find the underwear section.

  I stand in the middle of the department and do a slow scan until I spot it tucked in a corner like it’s a naughty secret. I let out a groan because I can clearly see already why nothing sells. All of the fixtures are facing inward and there are no butt forms, no mannequins and no images. A customer could stand two feet from this department and have no clue there is underwear here.

  Pulling out a couple of fixture drawers, I can’t help but compare the state of Flash Fit’s merchandise to a NATO war zone. Each drawer I examine shows a jumbled mess of sizes and styles. A customer would need to dig through every single stack in every single drawer to find a single pair of manties in their size.

  I glance over and see a thirties-ish tubby dude poking around one of our fixtures in the back. Judging by his Jenna Jameson T-shirt and the waves of stench rolling off of him, strong enough that I can smell even from here, the guy loves porn a lot more than he loves soap. His greeting to me is a loud burp in my general direction. It sounds like the death rattle of a beached whale.

  But hey. Every sale counts.

  I yank my rayon shirt off my shoulder and approach. This Neckbeard is going to give me my first sale at Center City. He’s going to have an entire dresser
drawer full of Flash Fit by the time I am done with him.

  “Let me help you,” I say, sliding up to him. “What style are you looking for?”

  He looks surprised a real girl is talking to him and turns up the charm by twisting a finger in his nostril.

  I force my smile wider to keep from barfing a little in my mouth.

  “Oh, hey,” he says. “Boxer briefs?”

  Good at communicating too, I see. “Not a problem.” I keep my tone cheerleader-cheery as he examines his finger for nose gold. “We have boxer briefs.” Flash Fit has five different kinds of boxer briefs in different lengths and fabric, but I already know what he wants. He wants what all 30-year-old virgins want; cotton undies with an open fly. “What size?”

  His finger goes back in his nose. It must help him think. “Uh, I don’t know. My wife usually buys my underwear.”

  I smile. No wedding ring, so by “Wife,” he must mean “Mom.” I size him up and down like I don’t already know he’s an XL. He turns his back to me anyway and flips the waistband of his khakis and underwear. I see dark curly hair spiraling out of his moist butt crack. I don’t know why I looked.

  “Extra large it is.” Suppressing a gag, I leaf around the fixtures to find his size. Due to the disorganization of the drawers, it takes plenty of time. Which gives him ample opportunity to check out my rack. Now he’ll have fapping material for months. Good for him. I pull out ten boxes. I will make sure he buys every single one.

  “Are they on sale?” he asks with a dubious eyebrow raised, as I shove the boxes at him.

  “Unfortunately, no. They’re from our newest line, so they only just came out.” I am not proud that I am batting my eyelashes at him, but all available weapons must be utilized.

  “I don’t want this many then.” He drops the whole stack on top of the counter.

  Time to go nuclear.

  I hand the boxes back to him and let my fingertip graze his hand as I pass them off. “Just try one pair on. I guarantee you’ll wind up wanting all ten, trust me. They’re perfect for you. Exactly your style.” I flutter the lashes again, and add a coy grin this time. “Come on, when was the last time you treated yourself?”