“Poor chick looks like her head’s already about to burst,” the one Dexter had called Slade chuckled from across the table as he picked at his chipping black nail polish. “Don’t worry, girlie, I’m sure your femalian brain will adapt to all this new information. And if it doesn’t? Well, at least you’ll still have your good looks.” “Which is a hell of a lot more than you can say for yourself, isn’t it?” I snapped back.
