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What the hell is taking him so long in there?
— Hey, Zach, what the fuck are you doing, casting a candle spell or something? — I snapped, adjusting this damn dress that hugged my hips so tight it felt like it’d rip if I so much as breathed.
He’d been fiddling around in the kitchen for like ten minutes. I sat there like some damn painting, hadn’t even touched that strawberry crap he poured me. The candle on the table crackled, and the whole scene felt way too... dumb and staged. Like I was stuck in some idiot’s romantic fantasy, probably dreamed up by a horny little French dude. Would’ve been better to just stay home and order food. But no. The fucking feds had to come in with their shit again:
“Blend in. Live like a normal girl. Act natural, Johnny, and go on a date with this Zach guy at least.”
Ugh... A date. What a fucking nightmare. It wasn’t enough that they turned me into a chick over that goddamn witness protection program glitch, and now for two months straight they’ve been feeding me the same bullshit — “we just need more time” to make a new model. So for now I’m stuck as this fucking “Hailey.” Ugh. And that call center job!
But what the fuck else can I do?! They said it’s temporary. They said, “Get used to it, or someone’s gonna blow off the balls you don’t have anymore.” And now here I am, in a dress with white fucking polka dots, on a first date with a guy I already don’t like.
— Sorry, Hailey! — came Zach’s voice from somewhere in the next room. — I thought you liked caramel syrup, but we’re out. I found vanilla though!
Zach. That Zach from Computer Analytics — classic quiet type with teeth too white to be real and a way of talking like he’s always five steps ahead of you. He’s been getting on my nerves, asking me out a few times already. Ugh… I still like chicks, assholes! Nothing’s changed! Fuck it. Whatever.
What do I care? I used to bury people for unpaid debts — if I’ve gotta be a “little doll” to save my ass, then so be it. Not like I’m gonna fuck him or anything... Fuck, even the thought gives me the creeps. I don’t even want to kiss him. I don’t want to kiss any guy!
— Here, try this — said Zach, finally showing up from the kitchen, holding two glasses and, for some reason, napkins. Like we’re about to spill that vanilla crap all over ourselves. — I added cinnamon too. My grandma used to do that, always said it... warms you up.
I looked up at him like that bitch agent Carrie taught me — all “don’t arouse suspicion, flirt a little,” but I probably had such a sour look on my face that even this analyst dweeb should’ve figured it out: I wanted out. Right now. Immediately.
— Mmm, cool... — I muttered, touching the glass with just two fingers. It was warm. Disgustingly warm. Like piss after a run. — It’s cozy here...