“Did you not hear me when I said ‘discreet’?”
A newspaper hits Hannah's face. It smells like ink and vinegar, and it nearly makes her gag herself awake. It's still early in the afternoon, which she knows without glancing at the time because Monica wouldn't be hounding her ass like some fucking lunatic at the crack of dawn.
"'m not readin’ all ‘at." She slurs after taking one bleary-eyed look at the newspaper, tossing it off the side of the bed and turning her back to her boss. She’s only glad her tousled hair over her face covers any potential sight of her. Who even reads newspapers anymore? Pretentious douchebags, that’s who.
Get with the times.
“Your only job is to do what I say. You could've been out of there in less than an hour, but you stayed—" Monica grabs her shoulder and forces her to roll onto her back, hand grabbing her jaw and forcing her dim, unamused gaze back onto the newspaper, "—and shot him in the dick! Would that look like an accident to you?"
"Maybe he was reeally drunk."
"His toxicology report will say otherwise."
"Maybe he was stupid."
"Maybe you're stupid." Huffing in resignation, Monica lets go of Hannah's face and tosses the newspaper down on her nightstand. "This is getting pulled out of your payroll."
"I should pull you waking me up out of your payroll, bitch."
Only Hannah could get away with speaking to her that way. In her defense, she's cranky if you wake her up before her body says it's time to do so.
She really does have a soft spot for her. Gross. Useful, but gross.
Once the sound of footsteps storming off and away from her room reaches her ears, she begrudgingly sits up to rub the sleep out of her eyes.
She looks a mess, but she'll look like Picasso's next goddamn masterpiece in about a few hours, just like always. She could thank mommy dearest for those genes, at least.
