She points to me as she pleads with him, but he shakes his head and keeps his hand up, blocking her way. I rush over to the door and say, “It’s okay, she’s with me.” “Nobody but Prom Queens and Wannabes in this room,” he says gruffly. “Fine.” I take...
says Josh, pronouncing soirée in his fake-snooty voice. “My friends would love to rub shoulders with your friends.” “Ick!” I shudder as I serve dinner for the two of us. “I can imagine Dylan trying to rub more than shoulders. Amanda might think his pathetic boob obsession ...
I’ve got a surprise guest!” Over the years he’s done this thing where he’ll randomly bring home clients he finds especially memorable or unique. Usually they’re semi-famous musicians or superquirky artists who start out in his tattoo chair and end up at our dinner table. I look to the doorway. Sq...