“I didn’t love Lance anymore,” Jenni moans, “but I didn’t want him to die like that. I didn’t want him to die with all that Goosedown and Gortex sucking the air out of his lungs and not giving any back.”
I’d told him that using a knife might hurt less than a gun. I was trying to be the voice of reason here, but within my reasoning, I could not deny that his missing pinkie tip would look pretty badass.
“It’ll cost you a hundred bucks for me to keep quiet about this,” I told Nadine when she got out of the minivan.
“I don’t love Tommy enough to pay you a hundred bucks,” she said.
“How about ten dollars?” I asked.
“That sounds about right,” she said.
Someone set our oxygen bar on fire, probably for insurance, probably because an oxygen bar was a stupid fucking idea, probably my dad.