"Can I
help you?" I ask dryly without standing.
"Don't
you get snotty with me, you trashy bitch," she hisses back at me.
"Who do you think you are? There are rules here, and low-class sluts like
you follow them or else."
Snotty?
Me?
Momentarily
taken aback by her hostility, it takes me a few beats to register the rest of
her words. Trashy bitch, I can handle. Low-class, well, she's not entirely
wrong. But slut?
Nuh-uh. No way, no day.
I stand,
pulling myself up to my full five feet eight inches, and get nose to nose with
Fascist Barbie.
"Look,
princess, I'm sitting over here, minding my own business. What the fuck have I
done to offend your delicate sensibilities? Nothing. You don't fucking know me.
So. You. Don't. Get. To. Call. Me. A. Slut." I fire each staccato word at
her. Though I’m genuinely bewildered by this girl’s unmistakable hatred towards
me, I am also seriously pissed off by her shitty attitude. "Back the fuck
up, Barbie, and leave me alone. Shoo." Flicking my fingers at her
dismissively, I stand my ground, waiting for her and her minions to leave. To
my surprise, she leans in even closer, her cloyingly sweet perfume wrapping
around me like a candy-scented lasso.
"That's
not how it works here. You don't get to just show up out of the blue and jump
the line." She peers spitefully down her clearly after-market nose at me.
"There are rules, and just because you're a Bradleigh, don't think they
don't apply to you.”
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