“But she'd forgotten. She'd forgotten because she'd been so busy thinking of her own fucking feelings. As if she fucking mattered.”

“It was her problem, and she'd deal with it. Because dealing with personal problems was so fucking high on her list of skills.”

“Fuck. This was bad. It had happened, hadn't it? The thing she thought would never happen, the thing she was always so careful not to have happen. She'd lost count, she'd lost track of what exactly she'd taken, and it had happened.”

“Oh shit, she'd done that wrong, hadn't she? She'd said that wrong, he didn't understand what she meant. She'd thought he would know, that he'd be able to read between the lines and understand, but what if he hadn't? SHould she say more? But how much more?”

“If they were going to have the kind of discussion that ended with her feeling like the world's dumbest bitch, she'd like to at least have some pants on.”

“She'd never been able to resist temptation - especially an unhealthy one - and at that moment he was another pill, another line; one she needed, one she would die if she couldn't have, and her entire body was already vibrating in anticipation.”

“When had being an addict gotten so fucking hard? So exhausting? It had been so easy for so long; she had a steady supply, she kept to herself, nobody bothered her. Now she was constantly up to her ears in intrigue and complications, being torn in every direction but her own, all thanks to her need for those pills”