Pants And Roses

Chapter 3

READ TILL THE END FOR A COOKIE 🍪 😁. SHARE TO A FRIEND AND THE FRIEND OF A FRIEND

The morning after the disaster at the restaurant, I woke up thinking it was all just a dream. Maybe I never dressed like a girl. Maybe I never spilled drinks on people. Maybe the tattoo girl never whispered "Pants Boy" while I wore lipstick. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But no. The universe had better plans.

I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, and there she was again. The tattoo girl. Standing outside the gate with her motorcycle, leaning like she owned the whole street. She had another bunch of roses in her hand, wrapped up in shiny paper.

My stomach turned.

She saw me. Smirked. Lifted the bouquet and mouthed the words I hated most-

"Pants Boy."

Not loud. Not soft. Just enough for my sister and two neighbors passing by to hear. My sister didn't even look back. She just opened the gate, took the bouquet, rolled her eyes, and walked away like it was nothing.

I wanted the ground to swallow me.

At school, I couldn't stop thinking. She knew my secret. She had power. She could say one word in public, and boom-my social life would be dead.

At lunch break, I saw her again. She was waiting under the mango tree near the school gate, a helmet in one hand and chewing gum like she had all the time in the world.

I decided to face her.

"Why are you following me?" I asked.

She blew a bubble. It popped. "Relax, Pants Boy. I'm just doing my job."

"Stop calling me that!"

She laughed. "Okay, fine. Pretty Pants."

"That's worse!"

She tilted her head, her tattoos peeking out from under her jacket. "You embarrassed me last night. You ruined half my shift. You think you can just walk away?"

My throat went dry. "I didn't-"

"Deal," she said suddenly, cutting me off. "You help me with deliveries today. Carry bouquets, run errands, smile at customers. In exchange..." She paused, leaned closer, and whispered, "...I don't tell the whole world about you in panties serving rich boys wine."

I almost fainted.

So after school, I found myself on the back of her motorcycle, clutching a bag full of roses like my life depended on it.

First stop: an old man's house. She gave me the bouquet and pushed me forward. I rang the bell. The man opened, squinting through his thick glasses.

"Ah, finally," he said, grabbing the roses. "She'll think I'm the most romantic man alive."

I frowned. "She?"

"My girlfriend. She lives abroad. But I send her roses every week. She'll know I care."

I nodded, trying not to laugh. The man had no girlfriend. No one was abroad. He just wanted to feel loved.

Second stop: a familiar address. Too familiar.

My math teacher's house.

I froze. "No way. I can't deliver here."

Tattoo girl shoved the bouquet in my arms. "Go, Pants Boy."

I tiptoed up the stairs and rang the bell. My teacher opened. For one horrible second, his eyes scanned my face. I prayed he wouldn't recognize me.

"Delivery," I muttered, voice cracking.

He took the roses, sighed, and whispered, "Don't tell anyone about this."

I almost laughed. "Same."

The third stop was chaos. A teenage girl opened the door, squealed, and shouted, "I knew it! He loves me! He finally loves me!" She grabbed the bouquet, hugged me, and screamed, "Wait here, I need to call him!"

Before I could explain, she ran inside.

Tattoo girl was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her bike.

"Not funny!" I shouted, running back.

"Very funny," she said, wiping tears.

By the fourth stop, I was sweating, tired, and smelled like ten different flowers. But something strange was happening. The more I watched her work, the less scary she seemed. She wasn't just some tattooed psycho laughing at me. She was hustling, moving from place to place, carrying roses heavier than me, dealing with rude customers, late payments, and crazy people.

She didn't complain. She just worked. And sometimes, she even laughed for real. Not the fake laugh she gave me at first, but a real one.

For the first time, I wondered what her story was.

It was past sunset when she dropped me in the middle of the street, holding one last bouquet. My arms were tired. My shirt was dirty. My face felt like it had been dragged through pollen.

She looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Not bad, Pants Boy. You survived."

I glared at her, bouquet in my hand. "This is torture."

She smirked. "Maybe. Or maybe it's just the beginning."

Then she drove off, leaving me standing alone under the streetlight, clutching roses like some tragic Romeo who forgot his Juliet.

YOU'VE JUST EARNED A COOKIE 🍪.

SENDING HUGS 🤗.