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First published November 21, 2015
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— Jamie (@booksandladders) January 24, 2016
"My family owns the media," he said, unbothered as he twiddled his knobs. The big knob twiddler.
[Tennyson] had the same dark hair and pale skin, same ethereal beauty, but there was an edge to it, a wildness. Rather than moonlight, he seemed formed from a supernova, from the chaos of total destruction, and I could well believe that if you got too close to him, you'd be pulled in; you'd collapse on yourself.
"You're always complaining that your butt looks big, but I don't see you swapping out those Doritos for a salad," I heard a girl say as I passed the door to the house kitchen.
"Didn't hear your boyfriend complaining when he was grabbing it in the common room last night," said the other girl.