“I’m just saying,”

Quinn’s blonde hair whips against the open windows, head lolling back against the headrest. She’s got sunnies on, looking every bit like the smoking, bikini-tanning Californian Barbie girl dream, like you’re not both from the backend of the midwest.

Her hand drums on the side of car, knee jostling up and down, up and down. Taking any hunting job near the beach is a surefire way to get Quinn at her most insufferable. Seriously, fuck the siren terrorising wayward tourists in the coast, Quinn's the real monster, here.

Because, seriously—is she trying to kill you?

“Nobody’s gonna see. It’s not like we’re repping a convertible.”

You can’t see her eyes behind the shades, but you can certainly see the upturn of her lips, sun beating down through the half-open windows. She’s made a point to only be decked out, exclusively, in the threads of fabric that serve as her sorry excuse for swimwear, linen shirt tossed over the back of the backseat.

Except, that's not all that's strung up there.

She bats her lashes, head angling towards you, lowering the rims of her sunnies as Iidded, hazel eyes meet yours. “It’ll stain if you don’t Iick it up, you know.”