Ramirez Gonzales.
“Ramirez, you can’t—”
“I can’t do what? Tell you your job description?” I defend, watching her red lips pursue.
I catch the way her lashes flutter and I take a moment to look at her clothes. A simple t-shirt, clinging just right at her waist, and a pair of baggy shorts. If the situation weren’t so serious, I might have laughed at the ridiculous yellow cartoon socks peeking from her shoes. But now isn’t the time for amusement.
“But—” she begins again, probably analyzing the situation, trying to find a way out, but I’ve practiced this. Over and over, I’ve rehearsed how I’d say it. How I’d make her come with me without giving her too much time to think.
“Shut up. Follow me.” My words come out cold, final. I don’t wait for her response as I stride out of the hallway.
