“I don’t know,” Nash says. “You never struck me as all that odd.” I am blue hair and black nails, skulls and sparkles—or at least, I was. “You’re just saying that because I’m playing normal now.” Nash Hawthorne’s shrugs should be considered deadly weapons. The man shrugs, and it is impossible not to imagine him shirtless. “You seemed normal enough before,” he tells me.
