The momentary satisfaction faded and Bridget looked for something else to throw. She eyed the alarm clock, but decided against it. She wouldn’t put holes in the walls. Something told her Micah wouldn’t be so forgiving if she redecorated his room. She wanted to scream. “Rat bastard, putting me in his bed.” She stumbled to her feet, righted her clothes, and went into the adjoining bath where she shrieked at her appearance in the mirror. Her mascara had smeared and her hair was a wreck. Bridget snatched Micah’s brush off the counter and worked through the knots in her long tresses before turning on the water. She used the soap in the dish to scrub the makeup from her face. “Not much of an improvement,” she muttered, turning her face from side to side as she studied her reflection. She wasn’t so vain that she had to wear make-up every time she left her house, but it certainly improved her features when she did. She followed the sounds of a party and made her way through the back of the house.
