RANSOME
The dress lying on the floor is made of sequins.
It looks like something out of a mobster movie. Something from the prohibition area. The reason those girls burned their bras is because flapper dresses were too tight to hold a decent set of tits.
I pick it up and hold it out. There is no way her ass wasn’t hanging out. When I look over at the bed where Amara is still passed out, I can’t decide if I am angry or turned on. Those two emotions have a tendency to go hand in hand for me.
She went out with Electra last night. To a speakeasy. I can only imagine how many men had to tuck it in their belts when they saw her.
Crazily enough, I don’t question her loyalty. But I do question her choices. And I absolutely question this dress’s ability to hide her juicy little ass. I’m going to let it slide that she was out with her friend, though. If this is going to work, I need to allow her a certain level of trust as well. And I guess, if I can trust her with the El Paso Deal intel, I can trust her nightlife choices.
I don’t, however, condone sloppiness. And the hint of tequila wafting through the air as she mouth breathes in a coma tells me she is very much hungover.
I rip the curtains open and the sunlight pours in, assaulting her mercilessly.
“No…” Amara moans, rolling onto her stomach. “Turn the lights off.”
“That’s the sun,” I say flatly.
“Well, turnthatoff, then!” She mumbles into the pillow. “It’s too early for it.”
“It’s noon.”
“Do I have to work today?”
“Not at the office, but you’re still getting up.”
“Ransome…” she begs.
I walk over to the bed and rip off the covers. She’s in her bra and underwear and nothing else. If I wasn’t worried about being puked on, I’d crawl into bed with her.
“You have to shower,” I tell her.
“Do I though?” Amara rolls to look at me.
I set coffee and Tylenol next to her on the bedside table. “Yes. We have a lunch to go to.”
She moans.
“It’s formal,” I add.
Another moan.
Amara drags herself upright, takes a sip of coffee, and pops the pain killers. Then she stumbles her way to the bathroom, where I turn the shower on and strip her down.
“Who’s this lunch with anyways?” she asks.
“Family. So you need to be sober.”
“I am sober,” she huffs. “I’m just hungover.”
“Clearly,” I say before shoving her into the shower.
Amara shrieks and hugs herself. “It’s not even warm yet!”
“Oops,” I answer with zero empathy. Considering the string of questions I could be asking right now, she’s lucky a cold shower and black coffee are her only punishment.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch me?”
