I only woke up because I could smell smoke. Not house-burning-down type smoke. The lightly-toasted skunk-flavored smoke that meant someone had weed nearby.
I rolled over with a muffled moan, which was followed by an entirely unmuffled yell. Jessi was sitting right there, back against the footrest, spliff in her hand.
She took a nonchalant toke. “So you’re here.”
“Um, you’re in my bedroom.”
“What is this—a be-more-obvious contest?”
“No, it’s a…” I was way too nonconsensually naked for banter. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugged and kept on smoking. For all her half-closed eyes and general stoner air, you didn’t have to be Jean Grey to notice she didn’t seem entirely happy. She was wearing New Rocks, suspender tights, and a barely there T-shirt dress with the Rolling Stones Sticky
