We spend the next hour rotating through what passes for breakfast. By that, I mean, protein bars, the worst coffee known to man, a can of fruit cocktail that might've expired during the Nixon administration. I watch them eat like it's a funeral.
The atmosphere is so quiet, solemn, and a little gross.
Pretty Boy stumbles out last, shirtless, with wild hair, and eyes squinty like he's wandered into the wrong dream.
Bea perks up like a meerkat spotting a steak.
"Morning," he says, voice all sleepy rock and confusion. "Why does it smell like burnt tires in here?"
I grin. "Bea's coffee."
Bea flips me off without looking.
Pretty Boy gives me this bleary, soft-eyed smile that does things to me and sits beside me, his thigh pressing against mine. His body heat seeps into me like a slow burn.
Bea watches that contact like it's a war crime. Yes, bitch, cry!
Yara sighs, eyeing me and Pretty Boy. It seems we were very obvious.
"You two are going to get us all killed, you know that?"
