Rock, hard place. Frying pan, fire. Pick whatever damn metaphor you want. I am the whipping boy and reality is the dude with the whip. Except… if it whips me then reality stops existing… so the reality is… wait… Maybe I’m beyond metaphors. “Oh fuck.” Tabitha sums it up far more succinctly than I ...
I’m propped up against a tree near the still-sleeping Tabitha. My arm is just an arm. It’s soaking wet, but it’s an ordinary arm. Actually, all of me is soaking wet. Clyde is kneeling down next to me. Probably the one who threw the water on me to wake me up. Kayla stands behind him, looking at me...
On the other hand, a flat in Knightsbridge seems relatively close. I was a little worried we’d have to go through the phone book looking up every Coleman in London, but fortunately the arrogant arsehole had given Devon his card. On it he wrote, “Any time. Any position. xxx...