“Mortification of the flesh. Oh man, was she mortified. She started to scour her arms and body with the midget bar of soap, but stopped when she caught herself visualizing the shot. Norman Bates was due through the shower curtain with a big old knife any minute. Come on, babe, you can do better. Shivering, she rubbed water out of her eyes. Shit. When would life take over and drive this damn thing for her? She had some calls to take, at least, once the London offices opened. The LA operations did...n’t open until mid-afternoon, although Quentin knew no one really gave a small damn for her field reports. Well, this time it would be different. This time she would almost certainly have something to say about the miserable idea of luring Lallie to Hollywood. Stepping out of the shower, her hungover brain careened in her skull no matter how tenderly she moved her head, a ball of pressure that flared into a sullen pain whenever it collided with its cave of bone. Who drank brandy? Not even cognac, an ascot-and-red-setter kind of enhancement of the mood, but the crap the hotel bar had to offer, which was called ‘Three Barrels’ – Hugh had joked about this, Ah, I see they serve Three Barrels – in needy double-snifters.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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