Chapter Eighteen
The Rabbit
Lubricant is a girl’s best friend.
With a Marilyn Monroe saunter, Perfect Eyebrows appeared beside me, followed by the clipped march of Short Back and Sides.
I fumbled about with words, trying to describe what I was looking for, and they watched like a toddler pulling wings off a fly.
“I was sort of wondering . . .” I muttered.
“What, luv?” said Perfect Eyebrows.
“About getting . . .” I faltered. “It’s just that . . . well.”
“Hmmm?” they said in unison like two Gothic undertakes.
“It’s my first time . . .” I blurted.
“Bit overwhelming, pet?” Perfect Eyebrows flashed his teeth.
“There’s so many . . .”
“I know.” He patted my arm.
“. . . sizes, shapes, and colours,” I muttered. “That one”—I gestured with the silver bullet—“looks like it’d block a toile
