2
Rye
"If you think anyone's going to buy this," I told Uncle Chris grimly, "you're even more psychotic than I thought." We were walking out of the Loon Lake Country Club, where he'd talked business while I’d pretended to moon over Izzy Van Sant.
In actuality, I'd been saying things like, "you should think about getting into rehab," and "no thanks, I'll pass on the threesome." If anyone in the rarefied community of Loon Lake knew how to read lips, we'd be busted quicker than you could say "junkie."
"They'll believe it if it suits them. Now there might be a camera or two near the valet stand, so get your smile cued up."
I gritted my teeth in a smile-approximating grimace. I probably looked like a gargoyle. "It's not normal to smile all the time, Uncle. Even with long-lost asshole famil
