“If I don’t text you by ten, assume I’m dead and send someone cute to look for my body.” The idea made him snicker a little as he navigated the depths of the arena. Like, imagine the cops delving into his app history and finding out he’d set up a meeting with someone claiming to be Grady Armstrong, and Armstrong having to answer questions about his Grindr use. He’d look like a wet, grumpy cat, and he’d be about as friendly about it. Max was getting a warm, fuzzy feeling. Sure, in this hypothetical scenario he’d be dead, but he’d be dead and still pissing off Grady Armstrong. God was good, et
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