hazey haley taco bell begins at 3:17 a.m. in a hotel suite. City glow through half-open blinds stripes her restless body. She can’t sleep, so hazey haley taco bell becomes her lullaby. Slow, almost lazy circles over silk panties gradually soak the fabric dark. In hazey haley taco bell, she pushes them aside instead of removing them—impatient, perfect. Two fingers, then three, stretching, curling, until the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. When she finally comes in hazey haley taco bell, it’s with a muffled scream into the pillow, whole body shaking so hard the mattress springs sing. Dawn finds her asleep in tangled sheets, panties still twisted to the side—proof that hazey haley taco bell worked better than any sleeping pill.