Row
McMonster: Hi.
McMonster: You can’t be mad.
McMonster: I’m not even your boyfriend, I don’t need to tell you where I go and when I leave.
McMonster: London is lovely this time of the year.
McMonster: You should come visit sometime.
McMonster: You should also come, period.
McMonster: It would help loosen all this pent-up rage.
McMonster: I volunteer as tribute.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Row
“Heaven’s sake, Ambrose, is that duffel from Target?” Tate Blackthorn, the CEO of GS Properties, leaned an elbow against his red Gulfstream G650ER, ripping his Ray-Bans off his eyes.
“Walmart,” I corrected. “Nice wheels.”
Tate scowled disapprovingly in his Tom Ford suit, fighting his gag reflex. “Yeah. Bill Gates owns the same model. His is older, though.” He yanked off his dark leather glove
