Twisted Intentions

“Oooh,” moans Brat, clutching her chest and doubling over. “Oooh, oooh, oooh.”

Brows raised, Beamer and I look at each other and then turn to stare at Brat. We’re in the middle of the baby supply aisle when our little sister goes into a full body spasm.

Brat rubs a hand across the front of her shirt and contorts her face. “That has to hurt.”

Beamer stutters a laugh. “What has to hurt?”

“That.” Brat points at the shelves.

Beamer studies the display. “The nipple brush?”

“Oooh.” Brat nods. “Oooh, oooh, oooh.”

I snort as Beamer says. “You don’t use the brush on your nipples, you use it to clean baby bottles.”

“Oh,” says Brat, as she saunters down the aisle, “never mind.”

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