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Trust me, true? Butch barked a laugh. Last time you said that i ended up with a vampire cocktail, remember?
J.R. Ward
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It was the wife, John thought. And she was giving this tough guy a tongue-lashing. And the man was taking it. Okay. I love you. Bye. Tohrment flipped the phone closed and put it in his pocket. When he focused on John again, he clearly respected his wife enough not to roll his eyes and make some macho, shithead comment about pesky women.
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But Tudor mansions on manicured grounds didn't look right with their grand front doors wide open to the night. It was like a debutante flashing her bra thanks to a wardrobe malfunction.
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you told me I could beat him. You promised.
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You're looking at that chick like you want to roll her up in a taco and put your hot sauce all over her.
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You are perfect for a female. Not where I come from. Then they're using the wrong standard.
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A hand landed on his shoulder like an anvil. “How’d you like to stay for dinner?” Butch looked up. The guy was wearing a baseball cap and had some kind of marking—was that a tattoo, on his face? “How’d you like to be dinner?” said another one, who looked like some kind of model.
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Come to think of it, that word (choice) shouldn't be applied to people's destinies. Ever. Choice should be relegated to TV and meals: You could choose NBC over CBS or steak instead of chicken. But take the concept any further than the stove or the remote control and the word just didn't apply. - V
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