It went a little something like this:
Karen: Hi honey, I'm home from the women's conference my shrink sent me to. Guess what? I want a divorce.
Dillon: Aw, man! Is it my leather fetish?
Karen: Ew! Get out.
Dillon: Man, living in this motel sucks. At least I'm a hotshot stockbroker so I can use my 2 hour lunch to do my favorite thing: shop at Nordstrom's!
Hot Chick: You like what you see?
Dillon: Wow! It's a girl dressed in black leather! Shaaa-WING!
Dillon's Boss: Hey, honeybuns. C'mere.
Dillon: Yessum? By the way - I love how you're all bossy and stuff. If only you wore black leather, and weren't hideous...
Dillon's Boss: Knock it off, hotshot. Hey, here's a primo career opportunity. Invest this union group's retirement fund. And don't screw it up. See ya later, sweetheart.
Ring-ring-ring
Dillon: Hello?
Hot Chick: It's exactly midnight. Isn't that significant and erotic? Just wanted to mesmerise you with the sound of my voice. From here on out, you'll be ridiculously obsessed with me and my black leather outfit.
Dillon: Umkay.
Hot Chick: Meet me at x bar. Tomorrow. I'll bring my cigarettes.
Dillon: Hot dawg!
Hot Chick: Jeez, is this 1986 or 2001? Why am I dressed like Tawny Kittaen in a Whitesnake video?
Dillon: I'm sorry. Did you say something? I can't stop watching you smoke cigarettes and drink alcohol. Shaa-
Hot Chick: Yeahyeahyeah, I know - shaa-WING. Here. Let's make out in the parking lot, and then I'll make sporadic midnight phone calls to you over the next few weeks.
Karen: Dillon, what are you doing here? I'm going out to see my new friend. Who is suspiciously similar to YOUR new friend. I don't have time to talk to you.
Dillon: Er. Alright. I don't really know why I'm here anyway.
Karen: Wait! I think I still love you!
Dillon: Squee! Really!
Karen: No. Nevermind. Just kidding.
Dillon: Aw.
Karen: I might love you again if you didn't have that that icky leather fetish. It's just so...so...fetish-y. Blah.
Dillon: That's ok. Cuz I have a girlfriend who calls me at midnight, sometimes. And she let me kiss her once. And she gave me some really tasty inside stock information that I completely trust, because she's always wearing black leather, and I made the most important client investment of my whole career based on her tip. All of our money is tied up in it, too. Oh - and, um, she dresses in black leather all. The. Time.
Karen: God, I hate you.
Hot Chick: Well, Dillon, now that we've slept together, I feel, like, so, connected to you.
Dillon: Gulp - I can't believe you actually have a tattoo. Your edginess knows no bounds. I love you. Black leather. Gaaaaaaaahhhhh...
Hot Chick: Meet me on Monday at blahblah hotel in Canada. I made your flight reservations. When you arrive, sit at the bar till x o'clock. Flirt with the male bartender. At x o'clock, not one minute sooner, go up to the room. I'll be watching - if you don't follow instructions - no dice.
Dillon: Sha-WINNNGGGG!!!!!
Benjamin: You missed your last appointment, Dillon. What, do you think I'm JUST a psychiatrist? How am I supposed to be established as a minor character with potential if you never keep your appointments?
Dillon: Yeah. Sorry about that. Should I tell you some more about my mother?
Benjamin: Absolutely.
Dillon: Wow. That bartender wasn't the least bit interested in me. He must not be gay. He should've been all OVER this. And - oh, holy crap! There's a hog-tied, naked, fat dead guy in this hotel room! Eep! It's Mr. High Society! OMG! I think...I think...OMG, I think Hot Chick set me up! Wait. I know. I can fold up that fat man, stow him on the bottom shelf of this room service cart, and hide him with the table cloth. Then, I'll put him in the trunk of his car, and drive him to his house and ditch the car. That'll put Hot Chick in hot water. Heh. See what I did there?
Hot Chick: Wow, men sure are stupid. Here, want some more wine?
Karen: Yeah. Wine always makes me tell you even more secrets about Dillon. I'm so glad I met you at that women's conference that my shrink, Benjamin, sent me to. Between the two of you, you managed to convince me to kick Dillon out of the house. You can knock it off with the backrub, though. That's kind of weird.
Dillon: Thank goodness this multi-million dollar estate doesn't have a security system, or any staff on site. Otherwise, I'd never have been able to get into the house after I left Hot Chick's husband's car in the garage.
Hot Chick: Dillon! What are you doing here?
Dillon: Setting you up.
Hot Chick: Nuh-uh. [executes plot twist] I'm setting YOU up. Now you're a suspect in my husband's disappearance, AND your career is in the toilet because of that fake stock tip.
Dillon: No. [reverses Hot Chick's plot twist] I'm setting YOU up. Now you think I'm in love with you, and you think we got rid of hubby's body, but it's really in my freezer.
Hot Chick: Dude. [tries another plot twist] I'm totally setting YOU up. Now you think I'm buying your stupid plan and I'm gonna give you a million bucks.
Dillon: Whatever. [undoes Hot Chick's plot twist and tries one of his own] Now YOU think I'M buying YOUR stupid plan, AND I figured out that you and Benjamin have been in cahoots since the beginning, AND I've got the detective who investigated your last murder on my side. We've got a plan.
Hot Chick: Wait. I lost track. I have no idea what's going on anymore.
Karen: It doesn't matter. Because even though I'm in the process of divorcing Dillon, and I kind of thought I hated him, when he asked me to help him plant a 3 day old corpse in the engine room of his lover's yacht, and then spend a couple hours in there with it while the rest of the plan played out, how could I say no? After that, though, I'm going to throw a wrench in everyone's plans, because I came up with a plan that doesn't suck.
Hot Chick: Oh. I thought it'd be over sooner. Like, 30 pages sooner.
Karen: Nope. Because after I lose the catfight, I end up hog-tied and almost suffocate while Dillon tries to kill you. He doesn't quite do it, but then Benjamin busts in and surprise! He finishes you off and cuts my ropes, then sails away with your corpse on the yacht. Or...something. Dillon and I get back together, though. And sometimes, I smoke cigarettes and wear leather gloves.
Hot Chick: Sigh.
The End.
Three stars - two for the book itself, and one because I had so much fun snarking it while I read.