Her blue eyes go wide as she realizes what I’m asking. The fear gets flushed out by indignation.
“I’m not a f*****g hooker, asshole!” she spits.
I shrug. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Furious color floods her face as she leaps out of bed and starts stumbling around in search of herclothes, huffing in anger. She has to step over several empty bottles of whiskey to get to the sequinedsilver dress lying on the ground next to my bar cart.
She bends over to snatch up her dress and wiggle it on. I remember now why I picked her from thecrowd last night: those t**s are the work of a very talented plastic surgeon.
Once she’s grabbed her f**k-me Manolo Blahnik stilettos and neon-red Bottega Veneta clutch, sheturns to me.
Her bloodshot eyes are rimmed with
