Their blouses were unbuttoned just enough to flash lace bras and the promise of lawsuits. Knee-high socks completing the "Catholic reform school runaway" fantasy that had launched a thousand therapy bills.
They radiated that specific brand of cheerleader-adjacent energy—actual cheerleaders.
The vibe was pure solar flare: We're hotter than the surface of the sun, we know it, and your retinas should thank us for the privilege of going blind.
The blonde on the left had her hair yanked into a high ponytail so perky it looked like it was trying to escape her skull. Lip gloss shiny enough to signal aircraft, catching the dying light like a distress flare from someone who'd never needed rescuing in her life.
Next to her, the redhead—legs for days, the kind that could kickstart a midlife crisis from across a football field, eyes screaming "I'll ruin your credit score and you'll thank me."
