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206 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 5, 2013







Here sat— no, stood— no, sat— Lydia the fruit fly, hyped up on the meth of anxiety and possibility.
Mike’s jaw felt about as tight as a reconstructed virgin on her twenty- fifth wedding anniversary
His hand itched to touch her but he held back, knowing that she was the human equivalent of an injured animal and that he could either bond with her by gaining her trust right now, or threaten her and watch her shut down.
“Virgin” was to Mike as “intelligent” was to Snooki.
...and how gender discrimination is a worse evil than, than— than even not composting!
“Eww, eww, eww. I have to interact with him, Lydia! Don’t tell me this.” Fingers in her ears, Krysta mouthed lalalalala.
He held a praying mantis on his arm. Oh— no, just an underfed socialite. They all had arms like eleven- year- old girls.
“That’s fine, Diane. You go have fun.” He leaned in and whispered in Joe’s ear, “Toothpick with boobs.” Eyebrows shooting up, daggers coming out of her eyes, she snapped, “Did you just say something about my boobs?” Faux offended and searching for the drama, her voice ticked up just enough to capture the turned ears of Diane’s true class, the class of desperate socialites. He turned on the charm. “What I said, Diane, is meant to stay between two gentleman.”
Only once had it involved law enforcement, but that one had been a doozy, when Jeremy had attempted to procure the services of three different prostitutes at once, two of whom were underage and one of whom was an Interpol agent.
“Oh… tha’s my best friend Kristin… Krysta… Kristie,” she slurred
Mike already knew how the night was going to go, and it wasn’t going to go his way. Lydia was the kind of drunk he felt protective about, not attracted to. It was’t that she wasn’t sensual, and lovely, and delicious, and certainly wanting right now— which made his own willingness difficult to tamp down— but he wasn’t that guy. He didn’t take advantage of drunk women, no matter how incredibly luscious they were.
A few derisive laughs, a few genuine laughs, and a couple of shouts of “Thank you!” and “Awesome!” and a few of women talking about the overpriced fruity drinks that they would get.
“Grandma!” Lydia screamed, lunging at the woman, who looked like a raisin impersonating a human being.
Krysta laughed and she, too, reached over and fondled the most over- touched piece of plastic on the planet other than, perhaps, the keys on Perez Hilton’s keyboard.
He was still reeling from the fact that Madge— cranky old, bitter, dried- up Madge— was tender and sweet with Lydia, of all people.
Another glare from Madge. “What? I probably get more than you do. When’s the last time you had a threesome?” Whatever desire he’d had a moment ago vanished, the pie turning to garbage in his mouth.
“So your clean- up crew dropped the ball and you expect me to completely rearrange my connecting flights, my meetings, and for my business to lose money because your business couldn’t do the most basic of tasks?” A man and a woman in suits, obviously air warriors who flew frequently, did a polite clap.
The polite term was “lady of the night,” and the impolite term would be “nasty old crackwhore.” The stench was what hit him hardest— a mixture of mold, Boone’s strawberry wine, and Ben Gay. As she opened her mouth to smile he realized why the stench was so disturbing. About half her teeth were gone and her smile looked like Gollum’s grin from Lord of the Rings.
She had been ridden hard, put back wet, and was about as appealing as a dead zombie with lice.

