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Knox holds up my white-cotton panties like a trophy. “She’s a purebred fire crotch. The carpet matches the drapes.”
A few guys snicker.
Until Knox sniffs his fingers and makes a face like he smells something rancid. “Bitch smells like tuna though.”
With that, he stalks off.
And I wonder if it’s actually possible to die from embarrassment.
Or from hating someone so much.