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I saw why Chase was unconcerned with security. There was no driveway, no road... just a helipad. And a helicopter, but goddamn it, my driving skills did not stretch that far.
"Fuck you, dick," Lucas muttered. "I stitch like a damn sewing machine."
"I'm okay." "You're not," he argued, "and that's okay."
"Watched? You ate about three bowls of soup and six slices of bread just to test it." Cass gave an unapologetic shrug. "Dead-man De Rosa is a good cook."
My feet had mostly healed up, but the muscles all through my legs were still aching, so my speed was roughly that of an arthritic tortoise.
Except logic and trauma occupy two totally separate areas of the brain, and no, they don’t talk.
"Nah, we had to do about sixteen rounds of rock paper scissors. Handled it like men, beautiful."
"Beats me, Boss," Rodney replied, as helpful as a lump of dog shit on the sidewalk.
"Is it noticeable?" Zed tilted his head, squinting at my butt, then gave me a confused look. "What was the question?"
"Oh. You're not here about the dead guy? Wow. This is awkward now."
“Sure did. I’m locked up tighter than a nun’s cunt.”
"Did you just display feelings? Ew, what the hell? Are you feeling okay? Oh my god, don't tell me you're pregnant! Ah, I fucking knew it; you ate so much fucking pie at Nadia's the other day!"