We make small talk about the resort, work, and school while we consume liquor, food, then more liquor. It’s nice, like old times—mostly. I hate that I’m noticing that the exposed flesh of Echo’s breasts playing peekaboo with her dress are a few shades lighter than the rest of her.
Is that as pale as her skin gets…or are there other parts of her not only unseen by any man, but the sun?
I shouldn’t speculate about that. I shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. And the way X is looking at Echo, I’m convinced he’s wondering the same thing. I want to throttle him.