I crouched next to Kim first, her head lolled to one side, lips parted, one arm slung across Jasmine's waist. She looked peaceful, but that tank top was riding up, and I remembered her griping once over drinks—how she hated sleeping in her bra, said it dug into her ribs and made her tits ache by morning.
I slid my arms under her—one behind her shoulders, the other under her knees—and lifted her easy, her weight soft and warm against my chest. She mumbled something incoherent, breath hot with wine, but didn't stir.
"Wonder which room is yours…"
The stairs groaned under my boots as I carried her up, the wood worn smooth from years of use. At the top, I nudged open the first door I saw with my elbow. The room was small, bare-bones: a double bed with a lumpy mattress, faded blue quilt tossed messy over it, a single lamp on a rickety nightstand casting a dull yellow glow. One window, blinds half-drawn, showed nothing but black outside. Smelled like dust and old wood, but it'd do.
