“You can’t have him, okay,” she said from behind the wire barrier. “Mm-hmm,” I whispered. “This is certainly a beautiful neighborhood.” “Yeah, I guess.” “I will scratch those eyes out of your ugly head.”

“Wait, what are you doing?” She could apparently hear the strain in my voice as I craned my neck from side to side. “I’m trying to see past a little girl on my hood."“Oh. Isn’t that dangerous?” “Normally. But she has a knife.” “Oh, well, then, I guess it’s okay.”

“Did you get checked out?” “Yeah, by a hot blond who sat in the corner of the bar and made googly eyes at me.” “I meant by a doctor.” “No, but a balding yet bizarrely hot paramedic said I’d be fine." “Oh, and he’s an expert?” “At flirting.”

“Make it quick," I said when I picked up. "Okay. Two men from the FBI are here." Cookie said. Quickly. Crap. "Men in black are at the office?""Well, yes, but they're actually in more of a navy."Crapola. I so don't have time for men. In any color. "Okay, two questions. Do they look mad, and are they hot?"After a long, long, pause, Cookie said, "One, not really. Two, no comment at this time. And three, you're on speakerphone."After another long, long pause, I said, "Okie dokie then. Be there in a jiff.”

“Want coffee?" I asked, as I headed that way."It's three thirty in the morning.""Okay. Want coffee?”

“You would use your body to get what you want?""In a heartbeat."He was hurt. I could feel it echo through him. He stepped closer again, leveled his face inches from mine, and whispered in the softest of voices, “Whore.”

“But, you're his son," I said, trying really hard to hate him. "You're the son of Satan. Literally.""And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson."Wow. That was a bit harsh, but, "Okay, point taken.”