“You are not one of the heroes in your fucking street operas,” Dash shouts, his voice strangled. “You’re not.” Verrel pauses and looks back. “And neither are you.” “I never bloody claimed to be.”

“Do you think I don’t care what happens to her?” He shakes his head. “No. I just think that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a friend instead of an agenda.” “Fuck off then,” Dash says. His anger is back, controlled, focused. “I hope you find her, but if you don’t, I won’t mourn either of you.” “I never expected it.” Verrel’s mouth twists in an awful parody of a smile. “I hope your scheme works, Dash, and that you get whatever it is you want.”

“It [the trip] captured five very long hours. If you want to know why, it is because Grandfather is Grandfather first and a driver second. He made us lost often and became on his nerves. I had to translate his anger into useful information for the hero. "Fuck," Grandfather said. I said, "He says that if you look at the statues, you can see that some no longer endure. Those are where Communist statues used to be." "Fucking fuck, fuck!" Grandfather shouted. "Oh," I said, "he wants you to know that that building, that building, and that building are all important." "Why?" the hero inquired. "Fuck!" Grandfather said. "He cannot remember," I said.”

“So fuck you, Los Angeles, fuck your palm trees, and your highassed women, and your fancy streets, for I am going home, back to Colorado, back to the best damned town in the USA - Boulder, Colorado.”

“Of course I remember you." My voice is a strangled whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut. "You were the only one who ever looked at me like a human being.”

“What is it about you Keira, that has a man wanting to fuck you senseless into submission one minute and strangle the breath from your body the next?”