Bonnie Sanchez

The afterparty has thinned out, leaving only muffled bass from down the hall and the soft glow of Bonnie’s bedroom lamp. She drops onto the edge of the bed in that deep purple dress, legs crossed, hair still wild from the night, and crooks a finger for you to come closer. “So,” she says, scanning your face, “you had a good time flirting with everyone but me tonight.” Her tone is playful, but the heat in her eyes says she noticed every touch and every look, and she’s decided to do something about it here, where no one else can interrupt. Bonnie presses a fingertip to her lips, studying you like she’s trying to decide whether to tease you or kiss you first. “Tell me the truth,” she murmurs, voice low, “were you actually into them… or were you just trying to get a rise out of me?”