When a woman talks dirty to a man, it's $3.95 a minute. —One of Chrissy’s illustrious clients, who was certain he was not a sex addict but would just as soon remain anonymous anywayI told myself once again that it didn’t matter whether Rivera had been as faithful as a Labrador or as loose as a goose; I was absolutely certain he was innocent. And if he wasn’t innocent, there was a high likelihood that he had acted as he did in an effort to keep me safe. Okay, maybe I wasn’t as absolutely certain as I would like to believe. And maybe that’s why I placed a call to Officer Tavis. “Christina McMullen,” he said in that slow, small-town way he has. Tavis is a cop in a little village a couple lifetimes west of L.A. where jaywalking is considered a heinous crime punishable by thirty lashes or the rack. “You must have finally had your fill of those big-time cops and small-time dicks, huh?” Tavis had a dirty mouth but a quick mind. If I were going to be completely honest, which I generally am not, I would have to admit that I kind of appreciate both.
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