“I don’t know who she is,” he said, taking a step away from the wall and steadily raising his voice, no doubt trying to rouse the sleeping woman, “but I do know her father.”
Baz smiled as he found his pair of worn gray slippers and stepped into the pair. “What, who’s her father?”
Baz smiled as he found his pair of worn gray slippers and stepped into the pair. “What, who’s her father?”
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“Ah, fuck, you’re right. Fuck, fucking spindle fuck,” he cursed, finding a robe draped over a chair.
“I’m sorry sir.”
Baz waved Paul off. “No, it’s – and he’s no newsman, he’s a bullshitter.”
“We give him the bull, and, and,” Baz stammered, “and he shitters it out. I don’t know what the fuck that expression means anyway.” He hurried over to the bed and began shoving at its corner. When this didn’t work, he began shaking the naked woman by her ankles. “Honey, Helena, uh,
This did the trick, and the naked woman was soon sitting, pushing herself to the headboard and covering up with pillows. She rubbed at her eyes, smearing eyeliner down her cheek. Baz saw the eye makeup all over the silk
“Honey,” he said, trying to remember her name and now feeling like an idiot for not being able to do so. Judging by the mess, the packets of fliff, they’d been in this room for days.