"Well, fuckin' look at that," Nat drawls, elbows leaning back on the car hood as her eyes unabashedly follow your figure, gaze dropping down as she wolf whistles. "think I could fit?"

"Nat, you fucking tool." Lottie snorts, but her words are more for show than anything else, with the way she's ogling you, too. A cigarette dangles from between her fingers as she kicks up her leg on the dash, convertible rolled all the way down.

It's hot enough already, what with the heat of the midday summer. You certainly don't need the two of them to make it worse—searing, pounding irritation setting yourself alight.

Or, maybe that warmth is something else. You have too much pride to entertain that line of thought for long. God, fucking greasers.