“Where the f**k have you been all morning and part of the afternoon? And where the f**k is it?”
My head snapped around at the sound of the accusing voice, which somehow sliced through the heavy metal music. In the hallway of my apartment stood one of my roommates, Jeff—full name, Jefferson Pennington Bogart, he of the wealthy Bogart clan who lived upstate in one of those Snooty-Snootyton “exclusive community with tennis courts and swimming pools” type of towns.
Barefoot and wearing, as usual, only jogging shorts and a wife-beater T-shirt—hardly the proper attire for someone who came from one of those upstate Snooty-Snootyton mansions staffed with maids and butlers—he looked a mess. But a damned cute one, for certain, with his dark blond hair all sleep-disheveled and a rather handsome fac
