Bea watches me over the rim of her mug like she's trying to decide if she should pity me or push me down a flight of stairs. Probably both.
Her eyes trails to the hallway I came from, then back to my chest. Subtle, she is not.
I take another masochistic sip of the coffee-from-hell and raise an eyebrow. "You want a picture or something?"
She shrugs I far too casual way. "Just wondering if you always walk around like that after… a good night's sleep."
Translation: I know you fucked him.
I stretch deliberately, just to piss her off with my arms overhead and my too-small top rising until I hear the elastic sigh in protest. Her nostrils flare like she's trying not to show how jealous she is.
But it's not just the outfit. It's him. Pretty Boy.
Of course she wants him. That's what girls like Bea do. Pretty boys, chaos, betrayal—it's her preferred brand of breakfast.
"I sleep great," I say, with a little smile. "Did you?"
