“He took three shots a night-no more, no less.He switched from whisky to straight gin. The bum compensated for the scant volume.Three shots tweaked his hatreds. Four shots and up cut those hatreds all the way loose.Three shots said, You project danger. Four shots or more said, You're ugly and you limp.”

“But I fired four shots more into the inert body, on which they left no visible trace. And each successive shot was another loud, fateful rap on the door of my undoing.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was shot?” he finally asked with a mischievous glint in his black eyes. Cameron stared at him. “Shot? Like, shot? By a gun?” Julian tilted his head and nodded. “It’s hard to be shot with a knife.”

“Love walked in the door like a dusty cowboy, and I looked that cowboy dead in his eyes and said, “I thought I shot you.” And his eyes never blinked, wavered, or watered as he said, “You did. You shot me in the leg. But you can’t kill love that easily. And today you’re going to learn how deadly Love can be.” That was over four years ago, and I’m still alive. So that was his plan all along, to serve me up a super slow death. Sort of like torture, only imperceptible and more pleasant.”

“Shots, shots, shots!”

“I need another drink!” I said as a second attempt to change the subject. “Shots!” America yelled. Shepley rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah. That’s what you need, another shot.”