“Her bra was cotton and white and, bless its little frickin´ heart, had a front clasp.”

“But Tudor mansions on manicured grounds didn't look right with their grand front doors wide open to the night. It was like a debutante flashing her bra thanks to a wardrobe malfunction.”

“Phury was the only other possibility, but he was a celibate with a broken frickin' heart. Not really man-whore material.”

“...but her eyes had had too much in them and his heart way too little for things to keep going.”

“I'm an angel not a frickin' saint.”

“And speaking of on board, she'd moved into John's room properly. In his closet, her leathers and her muscles shirts were hanging next to his, and their shitkickers were lined up together, and all her knives and her guns and her little toys were now locked up in his fire proof cabinet. Their ammo was even stacked together. How frickin' romantic.”

“Shit, it was so damn girly. Next thing you knew, she was going to start crying at TV ads and doing her nails. And getting a frickin' pocketbook.”