I LOVE IT!!!!!!!! :-) :-) :-) :-)
You guys rock—really!!! *contented sigh* I feel loved again…although a bit guilty. Honestly, I didn't mean to whine and complain and be obnoxious…but this whole "review" thing is just so damned cool—I'm totally addicted. When I finally finish this story (quite a while from now, since there are fourteen chapters and an epilogue in the Grand Scheme), I'm gonna have to find a new muse fast, cuz otherwise I'm gonna go into withdrawal, and that's not gonna be pretty…
ANYwho, thanks so much to everyone who's been so sweetly reviewing, especially the Repeat Reviewers—you know who you are!!! ;-) You guys are the best!
And for those of you (Baloo?) who were wondering how in the frilly heck I'm managing to update so fast…it's very simple. Basically everybody who's anybody in the administrative upper echelon of my company are all in Hawaii this week (it was a corporate sales-incentive kinda deal), which means that my two bosses, their bosses, and their bosses' bosses are all AWOL—leaving me with lots and lots of time, no work to do, and a computer in front of me… You do the math. ;-) But—I have plans all day Saturday (mini Star Trek convention—yay!), and all the big dogs will be back to work on Monday, so I'm sad to say that the updates will have to be spaced a bit farther apart after this one. Don't despair, though!!! I won't forget you guys (remember: review addiction is a good thing!), and I will keep writing—it'll just take a little longer.
Now, buckle your seatbelts, and get ready for another pile o' angst,
DA style ('cuz it's just so much fun!)… ;-)
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{{Spiral}}
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chapter 6 - Little Rejections
when will I stop leaving, baby?
when will I stop deserting, baby?
when will I start staying with myself?
all these little rejections—how they add up quickly
one small sideways look, and I feel so ungood
all these little projections—how they fail to serve me
your hand pulling away, and I'm devastated
all these little rejections—how they disappear quickly
the moment I decide not to abandon me
—@—@—@—@—@—
"Aiight, boo—give it to Original Cindy, shtraight up. What's your drama?"
The two girls had been pedaling in silence for several blocks, and Max had become so lost in the maze of her own thoughts that the sound of OC's voice startled her. Her arms jerked slightly on the handlebars, sending her veering out into the thick mid-morning traffic for a moment before she corrected her course.
Dark brown eyes glanced at her sidelong, before refocusing on the sidewalk ahead. "L'il jumpy this mornin'?"
Max could practically feel her face tense, like a thin layer of ice slipping over her features, and when she spoke, her tone was curt. "You could say that."
Her roommate nodded serenely, shrugging slightly to readjust the backpack full of 'hot run' packages that rested against her shoulders. "Yestaday's sewer-crawl dealio still got you freaked, huh?"
Max sighed inwardly. Cindy had an unerring sense that told her when Max was unhappy, and she could be as tenacious as a terrier—nasty, yippy little rat-dog things!—when it came to ferreting out the cause. Over the years, Max had learned that it was usually easier to simply yield to the inevitable and confide in her best friend. Otherwise, she'd end up on the receiving end of one of OC's infamous threats to 'put the smack down on yo ass'—and although Max was pretty sure she could take her, it was a theory she'd never particularly cared to test.
"Yeah, I guess—I mean, we got really lucky," she responded slowly, as they weaved unerringly through the pedestrian traffic with an ease born of long practice. "If anything had gone wrong, White would've had us all. But…"
"But what?" OC's tone was derisive, but her face was gentle. "On top of them breedin' cult wack-jobs, th' whole 'transgenic scare' this city got goin', your no-deal wit Logan, an' Joshua almos' gettin' hisself killed…you got somethin' else you worryin' about? Damn, girl…it's a wonder yo head don' explode, all that shit you got bouncin' around in there…" She shook her head ruefully, a swish of brown ringlets beneath her brightly-colored knit cap. "C'mon, now—tell it t' Original Cindy. It ain't doin' you no good turnin' it over an' over—just goin' in circles."
Max had to smile slightly at that. When the girl's got a point, she's got a point. A faint crease appeared between her dark eyebrows, warring with the upturned corners of her lips, as she tried to frame the words to describe her nebulous fears. The frown won out over the smile as she opened her mouth to speak, but OC held up a hand, bringing her bike to a halt as she signaled to Max to wait. Max hit her brakes, as well, coming to a stop alongside her friend.
"Hold that thought, boo," Cindy said earnestly. "If we don' get these babies—" she cocked a thumb over her shoulder at the contents of her backpack, "—out to their anxiously waitin' mommas, Normal's gonna be all over our asses, big time." She rolled her eyes expressively. "An' I don' think I wanna have this talk on wheels, so…whaddya say we finish up, head over t' Crash, an' chat dis bitch up right?"
Max's grin swiftly reclaimed the facial territory lost to the frown.
"Sounds like a plan," she replied. And maybe by then, I can figure out
how to say it all…'cuz right now, I'm not even sure how to think
it and have it make sense…
—@—@—@—@—@—
An hour later, she stared blankly into her glass of beer, no closer to having a rational explanation for the odd fluttering in her gut. OC sat facing her across the booth, leaning both forearms along the edge of the table as she waited for her friend to put her thoughts in order.
After several long moments of silence, Max sighed heavily. "I don't know…what my problem is." She shook her head. "I feel all twitchy, like I know a storm's coming and I'm standing out in the middle of a field, or something wack like that," she said slowly, her face twisting in frustration, "like I can feel something coming that I have to run from, or hide from. But it's more than that, somehow. 'Cuz I've been running and hiding since forever, and it never felt like this."
Original Cindy looked at her compassionately. "Yeah, but you never come up against somebody like White before, sugah. I mean, that other guy—Ly-dickhead or whatever—he jus' wanted you back. Dis new bad boy wants you dead. 'S enough t' get any girl growin' eyes in th' back of her head."
Max shook her head, becoming more animated as she tried to make the other woman understand. "That's the thing, OC—it's not really White and his shit that's getting to me. It's like…if it was just that stuff, I could deal…but there's something on top of that…" Her eyes narrowed as she scoured her brain for any inkling of the mysteries locked inside her well-fortified skull.
Cindy's voice was frank. "'S it yo thing wit Logan?"
Max suppressed the reflexive urge to dismiss that possibility immediately, and reluctantly examining it for a moment. Claiming that her break-up with Logan was the cause of her unease didn't feel quite right…but it wasn't entirely off-base, either…like it was related, somehow…
She ambushed that tiny clue, plotting to throttle it mercilessly until it squeaked and begged to confess. "Not exactly…" she responded uncertainly to OC's question, trailing off into silence as she fixedly prowled the dark alleyways of her mind.
Why bother? snickered a small voice tucked away in a shadowy corner. She'll never really understand. She's not like you. There's no one else like you…no one who will understand. You're all alone…
That thought made her blink. It tasted familiar—like worry, and despair…and that unidentifiable sizzle that was setting her nerves on edge. Ah HA! She pounced on that stray voice, sinking triumphant mental fangs into it and listening to it squeal with grim satisfaction. Gotcha!
"I think…it's like I've got nowhere left to turn," she said thoughtfully, sounding out the words as she spoke them, testing them for their truth. "I mean, I made a choice to end it with Logan, and I still think it was the right thing to do…but now that's one less thing I can count on if I get backed into a corner, y'know? I closed that door for a reason…and I feel like if I ask too much from him, I'll just be begging for it to open up again when I'm not looking. And then we'll be right back where we started!"
Original Cindy nodded, frowning. "Aiight, I get ya there," she said. "But you got more goin' for you than jus' Logan, boo! You got me…Joshua…your boy Alec…" She ticked each name off on her long fingers.
At the sound of her friend's words, Max felt the hollow ache in her gut blossom. "See, that's just it," she broke in anxiously. "It seems like the others—not you, but Joshua and Alec—are…withdrawing, somehow. Growing apart, maybe?" She took a careful breath, struggling to explain herself while fending off the delicate tendril of fear wrapping around her heart. "Things between me and Alec were actually alright for a while, but now he's all closed off again—you saw how he was acting yesterday morning… Well, today when he came in he looked like death warmed-over, and even more distant. And Joshua's all holed-up in his house with his paintings, and moping about putting Annie in danger and not being able to see her, and he just won't snap out of it…" As she went on, Max could almost feel the air being sucked out of the booth—the more she thought about this, the more panic seemed to foam up into her throat.
"They're all fading away from me, OC…" she said miserably. "I pushed Logan away, and now everyone else is deserting me, too—and I can't handle all the rest of this stuff on my own!" She was horrified to feel tears stinging her eyes, and willed them back. "I spent so many years, always alone and running…but I don't think I can live like that anymore…!"
"Hey—" Two cocoa-skinned hands shot across the table, latching on to Max's trembling ones with a grip of steel and perfumed satin. "You listen up good, girl! First of all," Cindy directed one long-nailed finger firmly toward Max's nose as she spoke, "you gotta come correct on this: you ain't never gonna be alone, 'cuz I always got yo back." She shrugged in momentary self-deprecation. "I know I ain't got yo revved-up genes, but Original Cindy ain't no whinin' pansy-ass, neither!"
OC grinned when that remark earned her a very small smile from Max. "An' as fo' yo boys," she went on gently, "I'm bettin' that you been chewin' on dis all by yoself, an' never told 'em…" When Max wouldn't meet her eyes, she nodded to herself. "Talk to 'em, boo! They in th' same mess as you, an' prob'ly feelin' jus' as wacked out—but ain't nobody gonna get any better if y'all don' get it together!"
Max watched as her best friend raised her glass and drained the last drops of alcohol from its depths. "Now," she said, after swallowing, "you get yo ass over to Doggy-Dog's crib, sit him down, an' give it to 'im shtraight. Y'all are family—you gotta stick together through dis bitch." She grinned widely as a wicked twinkle lit her dark eyes. "An' then you track down yo boy, an' spend some quality time kickin' his ass fo' havin' his head up it."
Max had to laugh out loud at that. She cocked her head to one side. "Wow…just thinking about it, I feel better already," she joked, mirroring OC's devious grin.
"You three 'freaks' come correct, an' there ain't nothin' y'all can't beat," Cindy said seriously, an affectionate smile on her face. "Go talk t' yo boys, I'll cover with Normal." She slid out of the booth and stood up, prompting her companion to do the same.
Max just smiled at her for a moment. "Thanks, OC," she said sincerely, pulling her best friend into a quick, hard hug. "I can always count on you to have your head on straight, even when the rest of us are all outta wack—what would I do without you?"
Cindy pulled back, raising her finger between them again. "Hey now, boo—no need t' be insultin' me…callin' me shtraight," she teased.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Max responded, shrugging into her jacket. "Next time we're here, I'll make it up to you— scrounge you up a nice honey."
"Original Cindy rather find her own sugah-honeys," was the sassy reply, "thanks all th' same."
Max could only shake her head and grin. "I'm gonna blaze, then. I'll try to call if I'm gonna be very late tonight…" Her voice trailed off as she moved away toward the door of the club.
Cindy's eyes followed her, affection and concern swirling together in
her gaze. You come correct wit yoself, boo...an' on that day,
ain't nothin' in this crazy World gonna touch you…
—@—@—@—@—@—
Several sectors away, a thin, nervous-looking man walked into a dim, greasy bar. His wing-tips were well-shined, his neatly-trimmed mustache was combed just so, and the material of his dark business suit showed no signs of thinning at the knees or elbows. The man swallowed convulsively, feeling horribly out-of-place in such a crass establishment, but there was a glow of anticipation in his eyes that even the haze of smoke hanging in the air—from cigarettes and cigars, as well as other, less legal narcotics—could not dim.
His name was William H. Leakey III, and he was about to come face to face with his own, personal Deep Throat.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light, Bill scanned the few patrons clustered around tables stained by age and scarred by the graffiti carved into every wood surface within reach. He was looking for the object his Deep Throat had promised to carry, so he could recognize the informant he'd never met…
There! At the booth in the far corner, a man sat with his back to the door. Resting on the table by his elbow, in a hollow carved out of the wood by some ambitious 'artist' with a pocketknife, was a single, enormous marble—a white 'cat's eye,' almost an inch and a half across.
Straightening his bow tie and swallowing once more, he made his way through the maze of tables and chairs to the stranger's table. He cleared his throat timidly, and spoke up in a thin, nasal voice. "Ahh, excuse me, sir…may I presume that you are the gentleman I am to meet?"
The man turned his head to look up at Bill, who felt a sudden chill run down his spine. The man's eyes and hair were dark, his face creased and pinched-looking beneath thick, ominous eyebrows. The first thought to cross the reporter's mind was, sneaky looking…like a weasel…or is 'slimy' maybe a better word? No matter how he chose to phrase it, he was left with an almost palpable sense that this man was not someone to be trifled with.
He was dangerous.
"That depends…" the dark man replied slowly, his vowels flattened slightly by a faint accent that Bill couldn't immediately identify. "…on who's asking," he finished, eyes narrowing, a look of appraisal on his unsmiling face.
"Ah, me? Oh, yes—that is…Bill Leakey," he stuttered, shoving his hand forward awkwardly in greeting. "Channel 3, investigative reporter."
"White," the stranger responded, ignoring the other man's outstretched hand to turn back toward the table.
Bill stood uncertainly for a moment, then hesitantly took a seat across the table. "So…you did ask to meet with me?"
The appraising look was back, as White steepled his index fingers against his lips, elbows resting comfortably on the table. "I did."
The newsman let out a nervous breath, relieved and excited by the opportunity to finally forge a real connection with this man…who had known so much about the new transgenic threat, and had been so willing to share that knowledge—at such a low price, too…! And now, White had promised him a new 'angle'—some tantalizing and totally classified information about a mysterious new player in the transgenic drama, a group by the name of the Kariff Mo'Os…
Bill was practically salivating with anticipation. After all, hadn't he become a journalist for just this reason—to be the first to know about things, to uncover the most shocking headlines before anyone else even suspected them, and astound the world with his near-omniscience? Thanks to 'White,' he might finally be getting his chance…!
"Ah, well…good, then!" He pulled a portable recording device from one inside pocket of his suit jacket, and a small steno notebook from another. "I've got a few questions, if you…"
White didn't let him finish. He laid one hand over the recorder, and Bill was unsettled all over again, by the cool, leathery feel of the other man's skin. Like a snake…
"No recordings."
The nervous reporter's mouth fell open. "B-but…how do you expect me to take your statement, make my notes…?"
The grin White turned on him was almost feral. "The old-fashioned way," he said, pulling a pre-pulse ball-point pen from his pocket and offering it to the discomfited journalist. "And as soon as the story goes to print, you will burn all of your notes…drafts…everything. Once this news becomes public, I don't want any evidence of this conversation, other than what I can read on the newsstand." The words unrolled from his tongue in a gruff but quiet tone, which nevertheless had a steel thread at its core. "If you want more, we can meet again. Got it?"
Bill blinked, swallowed twice, and nodded without speaking.
White almost laughed at the abject fear in the sniveling reporter's wide eyes as he accepted the terms of the deal. The man was a pathetic worm…but even worms could be useful, if properly groomed to their purpose.
And they do make excellent bait…the perfect bait for my hook.
"So," White continued, as Leakey struggled to uncap the unfamiliar writing
instrument. "What do you want to know?"
—@—@—@—@—@—
"Joshua?"
Max carefully let herself into the dilapidated old mansion, her nose assaulted by the usual overpowering scents of mildew, turpentine, and sweaty dog. One of these days, you'd think I'd get used to that smell…
Her call was rewarded with a mournful, "Here, L'il Fella," from the living room.
She paused in the doorway to take in the scene. Joshua was kneeling on his shins in the middle of the floor, ass resting on his misshapen feet, surrounded by images of Annie. Annie smiling…Annie crying…Annie with her hair in a ponytail at the nape of her neck…Annie with her hair falling in a wild halo of dark ringlets around her head…Annie sitting…standing…dancing…reading…grooming Billie…
The paintings weren't quite of Joshua's usual caliber—but that was forgivable, considering that all seventeen works had been completed within the past three days. But every image boasted the same almost-beautiful face, on a backdrop of either white canvas, or a particular dull-greenish tint that perfectly complimented the color of the girl's startling tawny eyes. Max suspected that, given enough time and paint, all the Annies would be given the same background hue.
And he hasn't moved since last night when I left… The object of Joshua's thoughts was patently obvious, but Max hated to see him so…so diminished by his first real experience of the World, beyond this house of sanctuary that Max had helped him to create.
"Hey, Big Fella…" she offered weakly. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to say. What she really wanted to do was grab his meaty shoulders and shake him until he woke up and realized that his life wasn't over, but even Max—who could usually be counted on to react first, act second, and think only a very distant third—could see that that might do more harm than good. "I thought I'd spend some time with you this afternoon…maybe teach you how to cook something besides mac n' cheese…I could even sit for you, if you're really nice to me…"
Joshua had been trying to get Max to let him paint her portrait for months. Almost from the first day he discovered his artistic talent, he had been manufacturing excuses to get her to his house, only to assail her with whines, pleas and puppy-dog eyes. He'd had no luck so far—Max was remarkably resistant to puppy-dog eyes.
She wasn't stupid, of course—she was fairly certain that somewhere amid his first twenty or thirty works, there were a couple of abstract pieces that were supposed to be 'Max,' in the same way that his first painting had been 'Father,' and Joshua #57 was supposedly 'Alec.'
But that didn't mean she was gonna let him paint her actual face.
For one thing, it was too dangerous. She didn't want anybody to have random pictures of the transgenic currently topping Mr. Ames White's 'most wanted' list sitting around the house…even if that house was the home of another transgenic. Over the years since her first escape from Manticore, she'd gotten accustomed to avoiding things that might capture her likeness—security cameras, hover drones…even vanity mirrors, which might mask hidden security devices. True, that was partly because she was often in the midst of some illegal activity when she encountered those devices…but still, it was a habit that she wasn't sure she ought to break. After all, White was no less adept than Lydecker had been at tracing her whereabouts…and he was certainly no more hesitant about endangering those around her in the process!
But aside from those merely practical concerns…she just didn't like the idea of having her picture taken.
It wasn't vanity or any silly ideas about not being photogenic—after all, Manticore had created her to be perfect, and they certainly hadn't failed her in the 'looks' department. No…there was just something unsettling about having a moment of your life forever frozen in time…even if the moment was a happy one. There was something so…static and rigid about the idea. The person in that picture would never change, never learn, never grow…whatever faults and foibles to which she had fallen prey, they would be there forever.
It reminded her of Manticore, and the mug shots they used to take once each year for the soldiers' personnel files. Faces forever frozen, unchanging…children arrayed in precise lines, minds sterilized and regimented, raised to kill and never to care…
Manticore would love to be able to freeze their creations in a single, unfeeling instant, bound forever into the rigid, military mindset the program upheld…
The memories made her shudder.
And every time he asked, Max refused to let Joshua paint her portrait.
I might even sit for you, if you're really nice to me… She probably wouldn't do it, but if it served to get her friend off of his ass and back to his life, she had no qualms about using the offer as a lure.
Today, even that promise failed to elicit a reaction from her Big Fella, as he sat gazing at the face of the girl whose blind eyes had opened his own. He just heaved another long, heavy sigh and said, "Maybe later."
Max sat down carefully at his side, curling her ankles beneath her. "I know it hurts," she said quietly. "I know you miss her…"
"You don't know!" The words erupted from Joshua's throat with a harsh bark. "Miss her—yes! But that's not what hurts!"
Max refused to be put off by his anger. It wasn't really directed at her—she just happened to be a convenient target. "I know, Joshua…really, I do…"
He turned on her then, his eyes wild and pained, his voice a feral snarl. His kneeling form towered over her, his flattened nose less than an inch from her own as he roared at her. "Stop saying you know! You don't know! NO ONE knows!!"
She met his fierce stare with one of her own, her voice rising angrily. "You think I don't know, Joshua?? That I don't know what it feels like to care about someone, and not be able to be with them? You think I don't get that it's not missing them that really hurts, but knowing that they could DIE—or DID DIE—all because of you??? Having to LIVE with that??? Knowing that you weren't strong enough, or smart enough, or fast enough to save them?!?" By now, she was breathing hard, shouting to hear her own words over the blood pounding in her ears. "YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW HOW THAT FEELS?!?"
Then his big, gentle hands were on her shoulders, and he held her as she screamed at him, pounding feebly on the broad expanse of his chest. "I almost killed Logan TWICE! I broke my own brother's neck, to save him from himself! I let another brother go home to a place he'd never been, so he could live a lie for the rest of his days! I'VE HAD TO GIVE UP EVERY OTHER PERSON I'VE EVER LOVED!!! Don't you DARE tell me that I don't know how you feel!"
Her voice cracked on the last word, as the sudden flood of ire that had sustained her tirade dried up as swiftly as it had come upon her, leaving her feeling parched and drained. "I know, Joshua…I really do know… Don't make me give you up, too…please…"
His arms enveloped her in a massive bear hug as she shook with the force of her long pent-up emotions, the tension gradually trickling from her body. Still, through all of her harsh words, and their aftermath…she would not allow herself to shed a single tear.
When she finally stopped shaking, he spoke again, his voice rumbling close to her ear. "Sorry, L'il Fella…sorry, Max." He released her from their hug to hold her at arm's length, his large, sad eyes meeting her darker, haunted ones. "You do know."
Embarrassed by her melodramatic outburst, she almost had to laugh at that. "You better believe it, Big Fella." Swallowing hard around the lump in her throat, she looked up at him with a pleading expression. "Don't you see? This is why us 'freaks' gotta stick together—we're the only ones who'll ever understand each other."
Joshua's eyes lit up, just as they had the time she'd first taught him that word. "Freaks…" he mimicked delightedly, then his grin faded. "Different…" He added sadly.
"Different from everybody else, but the same as each other," she clarified firmly, laying her head on his massive chest and wrapping him back up in the biggest hug her smaller arms could manage. "We belong together."
He nodded. "Alec, too," he amended. "Max, Alec and Joshua stick together—that's the plan."
Max's frown reappeared at the mention of Alec. "Yeah…I'm worried about Alec, too. He's gotta be hurting just as much as we are, but he's so much better at burying it," she mused aloud. "He says he doesn't want anybody's help…that he just wants to be left alone. But I don't know whether to believe him or not…"
"Manticore," was Joshua's pithy response. "Made him bury things—made him dark inside."
Max could only nod against his chest in reply.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"You don't know what you're talking about."
The bitterness in Alec's voice was a palpable thing, coiling and hissing in her ears like a snake. Max took a breath, trying to control the anger that always threatened to flare up whenever Alec started giving her his attitude. "Then explain it to me."
A small, unhappy smirk twisted his face as he sipped his drink. "I would, see—but you wouldn't understand. You can't understand; you weren't there." His tone almost convinced her that he didn't blame her for that absence, until he went on.
"You ran," he continued, his voice thick with condemnation. "You and your little rug-rat brothers and sisters… "You think life was rough when we were ten? A little schooling, a little brainwashing, some maneuvers outside—you think that was tough?"
Max refused to rise to the bait. "Sucked pretty hard," she answered flatly.
His shoulders were hunched as if under a massive weight, but his face was a soldier's stone façade—with his beautiful features and perfect profile, a polished Adonis in marble—as he said coldly, "Take it from me—later on, it got a whole lot worse." Downing another burning swig of alcohol, he stared into the glass as though he might glimpse all the secrets of the universe floating in its amber depths. "But…you did what you had to do—and you tried to forget. And when you couldn't forget…" he concluded, painful memories roughening his voice, "…they had ways of making you not care…"
~*~*~*~*~*~
He's gonna try to tell me the same thing as Joshua, Max realized suddenly. The 'you wouldn't understand 'cuz you aren't me' defense…I can so see that coming. But the thing is, I do understand. I just have to make him believe that…
She knew she should get up. Joshua would be alright with time—I hope—and she needed to talk to Alec, too. Or, according to OC, kick his ass three-quarters of the way into next week…and I'm not sure I'm up to that right now… She was just too drained at that moment to feel like moving. These emotional-moment things are a real bitch…
Joshua spoke suddenly into the long silence, his deep voice dissipating the cloud of all-too-recent memories still hanging in the air around her, clinging to her hair like the scent of turpentine clung to Joshua's. "It still hurts, Max…"
"I know, Big Fella," she sighed tiredly. "Love still sucks."
—@—@—@—@—@—
Okay, that turned out a bit differently than I'd originally envisioned,
but I think it's better this way—what do you think? I know there was no
hunka-burnin'-Alec in any of these scenes (except for the flashback), and
I'm really sorry about that…I missed him, too. :-( But I do solemnly
swear that the next chapter's gonna make up for that—in spades!!!!
;-) Again, heaps of lovin' gratitude for all the awesome reviews—and heaps
more if you continue! :-)
Coming soon!!!!!!!
Chapter 7 - Hand In My Pocket