Good.
“Yo,” Jordan pipes up, “you see that girl from med? The one with the eyes?”
He whistles low. “Fuck, I’d fake a shrapnel wound for her.”
“Which one?”
“You know which one. The blonde. Tight mouth, looks like she’d punch you for bleeding on her floor.”
“That’s all of ‘em,” someone mutters.
“Nah,” I say, voice low. “He means Monroe.”
A few of them pause.
Torres smirks, like the name tastes sweet in his mouth.
“Monroe’s got moves,” he says, leaning back, hands behind his head. “Cute little smile. Even laughed at my jokes.”
I see red.
I take another swig.
“Probably just felt bad for you,” I mutter.
“What was that?” he grins.
I shrug. “Said it must’ve been pity. You’re not exactly funny.”
A few guys snort.
Burke raises a brow. “Shit, Dax. You drunk already?”
“No.”
Lie.
Another swallow.
My throat is on fire.
Good.
Let it burn me clean.
Torres keeps grinning. He’s too fucking relaxed. “So what’s the deal, Kingston?” he asks, eyes flicking to mine. “You and Monroe got a thing?”
“Do I look like I have a thing?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say you did. Just saw the way you look at her.”
I stare at him. Long enough for him to shift slightly. Just a flicker.
I smile slow. Mean. “You don’t want to know how I look at her.”
Silence.
Then laughter, scattered and half-uneasy.
