Thoroughly Modern Charlotte: Romance, Third Millennium Style

By Beth Massey

This is the first novel in the series Romance, Third Millennium Style

“I am not romantic, you know; I never was.” This statement made by Charlotte Lucas in ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ expressed her opinion in one of the great disagreements between female friends in literature. Fast forward two hundred years—what choices do third millennium women who are ‘not romantic’ make with regard to marriage?

Meet Charlotte Jane Otis, a 21st century renaissance woman. This modern miss is a native New Yorker, aspiring author, writer of fanfiction, gem stone aficionado, novice rock climber, lover of dancing, Occupy Wall Street arrestee, mince pie baker and Jane Austen scholar. Her current lover accused her of betraying her best friend, giving nothing to their relationship, attempting to manipulate him into marriage and possibly trading sexual favors for contracts. She has been running her family’s business and acquiring advanced degrees since barely out of teens. Tired of obligation and duty, she wants a new life. Ms Otis regrets so very much, but not her tattoo and piercing.

WARNING: This is a sexually explicit novel and is in favor of reproductive rights for women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483544243

Book preview

mystery.

CHAPTER ONE

MS OTIS REGRETS

Surely a 21st century Jane Austen would proclaim that it was a truth universally acknowledged that men were a distraction from a woman’s literary goals. Two weeks before Christmas, in the 11th year of the third millennium, Charlotte Jane Otis wished herself on an island. Slapping her head she said aloud, Yes, yes, to all the precise prose betas she had encountered in her FanFiction life—Manhattan is an island. Too many in that world needed an acquaintance with the concept ‘poetic license.’

She needed a far away deserted island. But no Friday! He was a man and a distraction. Her face twisted in disgust. An unsavory image of a white woman in a loin cloth and thigh-high boots demanding sexual submission had sprung unbidden into her consciousness. Her goal was not to write a metaphor on imperialist domination of either the political or erotic versions. Orgasms were easy to achieve! Finding wifi, now that would be a challenge.

The N C Wyeth illustrated version her mother had read to her as a child had shown Robinson Crusoe with a parrot. That might suffice. Still again, a dressed up volleyball like in Cast Away was an even less intrusive form of companionship.

Her annoyance today was not for strangers who bumped into her and cursed her for being in their way – this was New York City, after all – part of its mystique was anonymous rudeness. What Char needed to be saved from was loved ones who disguise their meddling in fawning protestations of care.

Word would soon reach those who knew them both. Virginia would surely blame her for the break-up– because, after all, Maxwell Pynchon was such a ‘catch.’ Nancy and Diana and even her Poppy would all say she was wrong. What century… no millennium… were they all living in?

Perhaps in Max’s defense, he had merely wanted more than she wanted to give. If so, why was he so obsessed with his cousin’s wife?

Couldn’t anyone see that dating him had been about fun for her? He made her laugh, but being adventurous and proficient in bed was his greatest attribute. She had been ‘excessively diverted,’ nothing more. Her dilemma was why she felt so lousy about losing what they had.

It’s not fair! Without realizing it, she had said that aloud just as she began her schlep across the Brooklyn Bridge. Those who weren’t engrossed in a relationship with their phones gave her a wide berth. The technologically backward folks probably took her for one experiencing a psychotic break.

Char was a born and bred New Yorker; ranting was part of her birthright. Ironically she was coming up on the spot where she had been arrested with 700 other Occupy Wall Street folks a few months earlier. Her picture being restrained had been plastered all over the internet and social media. One of the better pictures of her ever taken—hair down, strong chin up, eyes defiant—a youthful symbol of the Occupy Wall Street movement . Her participation had made her feel in touch with her mother. Lucinda had made the cover of the New York Post emerging from Hamilton Hall back in 1968—a demure young thing with a broad smile and a pixie hair cut participating in taking over Columbia’s campus. She had looked so preppy while Char looked edgy—but both a type defining their different eras. Though she didn’t believe in an afterlife, it was ironic that her third millennium likeness had been captured looking heavenward.

Her mother’s life and death fueled her current anger. How dare that war criminal call me heartless and conniving? She shuffled along for a few minutes before another surge of righteous indignation caused her to again rent the silence. "The schmuck’s real problem is his fixation with Nancy. Sorry, newsflash, Maxwell Smart, your cousin Mark got there first. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize your ideal is totally in love with her husband. He is her Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Get over her!" Having heard from Nancy’s lips how she felt about Mark, Char doubted any other man would have a chance with her best friend.

They had dated for five months, been intimate for four, but she had never seen Max’s eyes as filled with passion—nor had she ever wanted to—as when he accused her of helping to force a naïve Nancy Barlow—now legally Mrs. Rodd—to become a virtual slave to Elite Caterers. A week ago this accusation and that look had shocked Charlotte into stunned silence. Now as she made her way to Brooklyn, she played the scene over and over again in an attempt to critique her battle with the former Captain Pynchon, army ranger.

The image of Lucinda Otis smiling as she cajoled Elise Griswold to accept an untried teenager as a culinary apprentice popped into her head. If she could only spend a few more hours with her mother… get her take on Char’s current dilemmas.

Max should be required to admit that never once in the past seven years had Nan complained of being cheated by the star chef. On the contrary Mr. Know-it-All, she had been thrilled and profusely thanked me and my mother for intervening on her behalf. She ignored the stares of her fellow travelers.

Just as she and Nancy had been friends since childhood, Elise Kozinski Griswold from Cleveland and Lucinda Sorber Otis from Chattanooga had been joined at the hip since their Barnard roommate days. A man lowered his eyes to the pavement and quickened his pace when Char blew a raspberry toward the east side. Nancy had definitely benefitted from connections when it came to winning the internship.

Now almost midway across the span, she turned her memory back to Mad Max’s tirade. What stung the most was that with Elise being like a second mother to her, his insults might as well have been directed toward Lucinda. Fourteen months ago Char had lost her just as she had lost her own mother, Charlotte’s grandmother, Betty, to breast cancer. The death of the woman who had been her best friend, her secret writing partner, her mentor was still a loss with which she struggled every day. She found what she thought were sympathetic eyes in a young woman walking toward Manhattan. An explanation was sent in her direction. Not only had he been devoid of empathy for me, the jerk only cared about poor Nancy who had both her parents and a rich handsome husband who adored her. The west-bound traveler’s eyes went round with apprehension before she dropped her gaze and hurried along.

With no chagrin, Char continued her soliloquy. A big burly man who was also speaking out loud stopped and stared in annoyance as she mumbled epithets and performed another Jethro Gibb slap to her head. She had picked up that bit of pop culture from watching NCIS reruns cuddling with Max after sex. He was such a TV addict. That asshole accused me of being in league with Elise’s plot to dupe his precious Nan. He made it sound positively immoral like I was guilty of enslaving my best friend.

She stopped to look down at the waters of the river, pondering his implication that Elise had provided assistance to Otis Book Store, Inc. in obtaining contracts for textbooks. She remembered the contemptuous look on his ruggedly handsome face when he suggested that the well connected chef, a member of the board for New York City’s new Food and Finance High, had influenced the awarding of the contracts. Never once did he stop with his charges to listen to my defense. My bid was fucking competitive!

Charlotte wished she could have a do over. She remembered her tone as being positively pitiful. If nothing else, it would have been better if she had ended the argument right then and there and slipped into silent disdain. Instead, she had sputtered that Otis Books had the infrastructure to meet the demand.

Then even worse, she had shed her wimp persona without ever stopping at calm, collected and capable. Max had found two of her most painful buttons, the loss of her mother and questioning her competence. She threw her next words toward the choppy water below. The prick even implied there was a ‘special’ relationship between Lucinda and Elise. What’s up with that? They were fucking roommates in the 60’s and sexual experimentation was all the rage. Still, Mama told me everything and she never shared that bit of news.

The appearance of the flowing river inspired her to get moving again. Once on her way, she turned her attention back to her conversation with Max. Beyond being surprised he was such a homophobe, all she remembered of the next few seconds was bouncing expletives off the walls of the alcove where she had been attempting a discreet conversation.

‘Angry people are not always wise.’ That line had made her laugh every time she read Pride and Prejudice, but she had obviously not truly grasped Jane’s nugget. The defense of her mother’s best friend and the family business had been justified, but she should not have been so irrationally livid. After a blast of invective, Char had abruptly stopped speaking—unwilling to stoop to defend herself personally from some rather vile accusations.

Her wall of silence had occurred when Max spit out, Well, I’m sure Otis Books is good – no complaints about services rendered, eh, Char? You know, I am as realistic as anyone about what we must do to survive in business, but Nan was expecting more from her best friend—maybe some human compassion.

Now a week later, she finally thought of a response. How dare you lecture me on morality? Did you show human compassion in Iraq and Afghanistan, Captain Special Ops? Instead, she had just stood in pained silence and allowed Max to give her an accusatory glare, suggesting he was seeing something disgusting. They had rarely ever had harsh words before, despite being opposites in so many ways. What had his phrase ‘services rendered’ implied? Surely he was not accusing her of trading sexual favors for… She gulped, gritted her teeth and refused for the umpteenth time since their argument to cry.

Charlotte felt that Max had not been in the mood to even try to listen and comprehend. For the duration of the bridge expanse, she sorted through the facts and date she should have shared with Mr. Moral ity.

At sixteen, Nancy had been in a very poorly run culinary program at Park West High School. Enamored with cooking since she was a child, Nan had watched the Food Network and dreamed of becoming a top chef. Her aspirations seemed hopeless without the support of her father and mother. Mrs. Barlow would do nothing without her husband’s agreement – except Charlotte thought with a chuckle – emulating Mrs. Bennet in pushing her five daughters toward marriage with rich men. Mr. Barlow, who had never worked a day in his life, lived completely off the revenue from the apartment building he had inherited. He wanted all his daughters to become something sensible like accountants. His eldest, the ever-obedient Diana, had done just that. Nan had known there was no way her father would pay for culinary school. All had heard ad nauseum, Why should I pay all that money so you could get a job flipping burgers at MacDonald’s?

It was as if an impossible dream had suddenly come true when Elise offered Nancy the chance to work at minimum wage while she was still in high school. Since she was earning money, Mr. Barlow had not stood in her way. Nan had a career she might never have had – or that might have taken years of training and drudgework in restaurant kitchens to achieve. A very desirable commodity in the highly competitive New York catering scene, seven years later she was well compensated for her skill and many of Elite’s clients insisted on her services.

It was on one such job for Charles and Beatrice Pynchon that Nan had met their nephew, Marcus Rodd, and it was through Mark that Char would later meet their son, Max. The Pynchon and Rodd families were both wealthy and politically connected. Char had heard an aunt had married a British Lord—she was a countess. Diana had gushed upon hearing that news. "Just like Downton Abbey!"

But when Nan had told her best friend about meeting Mark, it was not his money or connections that had impressed Charlotte. It was his wit and intelligence that had stood out and her Nancy had risen to the occasion and countered him perfectly. She had to admit they really seemed to suit.

Nan’s eyes had sparkled as she had recounted overhearing him haughtily refusing one of her canapés as ‘only adequate and not delicious enough to tempt me.’ Having written her doctoral thesis on Jane Austen, Char had immediately wondered out loud whether his words had been a pick-up line. She told her friend that he had paraphrased Mr. Darcy’s classic put down from Pride and Prejudice.

As best Char knew, Nan had only a fleeting familiarity with the 2005 P & P movie that resulted in a mild crush on Matthew MacFadyen. She had smirked when she heard Char’s observation. That was my thought too. I remembered one of your mother’s FanFiction plots and put it into action. With Keira Knightly eyes flashing, she had continued her tale, Here he was one of the richest and most powerful men in the city and all I could think was, I want to make him laugh. He looked a tad sad, but more importantly, he was cute… no, not cute – boys are cute. He’s a dreamy – handsome – sexy—hot man.

As she made her way off the bridge, Char remembered being both amused and apprehensive at her best friend’s words. Clearly, she had it bad and that might not be good. The sensible, sometimes even hard-boiled Nancy Barlow never reacted to men with such – and Char realized the words that came to mind were unkind – vacuous femininity. But she had kept her face sympathetic as Nan continued the story.

He was discussing books with Bob Kerrey, you know, the President of the New School. Nancy had favored Char with an impertinent laugh as she said, Maybe that was what made him look sad. They both seemed bored. She shrugged and continued, I’ve seen him before at events I have catered. Anyway, I really wanted to get his attention – not Bob Kerrey but Mark Rodd. Then her eyes had become filled with desire. She had shivered and sighed as she said, Even his name turned me on—Rodd. I wanted him. So I walked right over and stuck my gougères under his nose. He must have thought I was mad. She reverted to laughter. I was on a roll, Char. I licked my lips and whispered, this gougère is much more than tolerable. It is my own invention inspired by a recipe the flamboyant and controversial Colette developed, so since you are obviously a literary aficionado, I insist you try them before you decide you’re not tempted.

Titillated despite herself and amazed Nancy had remembered the story she had told her about Collette’s soirees, or for that matter, read Sara Teasewell’s JAFF. Char had asked, So what did he do?

Nan grinned triumphantly. He allowed me to pop the canapé into his mouth, never once taking his eyes off me. At the time, I thought he was afraid I might do something really crazy and that was why he did not refuse. But… Nan smiled mischievously and lifted her left brow, It turned out it wasn’t fear.

Marcus Rodd had laughed and taken the plucky little chef home that very first night – behavior out of character for both. Neither made any excuses or apologies. They were in lust, and perhaps had even been struck by the lightning bolt of love at first sight. Both were convinced that even had it burned only for a single night, they had to have each other. As it turned out, the flame was of much greater duration. The couple married three months later.

Before continuing the final ten blocks home, Char sat down on a bench on the Promenade and stared across the river at Manhattan. As always when she sat here, she reflected on the death defying demonstration of the elevator safety brake personally made by her ancestor, Elisha Otis. His invention allowed buildings to soar skyward and alter 20th and 21st century skylines all over the world. She shared that dare devil’s DNA. She was an Otis, a modern woman, yearning to make her own way to the top.

The lights of Manhattan shimmered in the twilight. How she loved this city. Refusing to let her eyes travel to where the twin towers had been, she preferred to remember the good times. She had dodged a bullet when she chose not to include them in her tattoo—they had been excluded in order to include the Brooklyn Bridge.

Tonight, she preferred to allow the twinkling skyline to evoke memories of decorating the Christmas tree as a family and hearing the back stories for all the ornaments from Lucinda. From that her thoughts segued back to her recent contemplation of sex with Max which prompted her to recall watching porn for the first time with her cousins, including her very gay cousin, David. Being the oldest he had chosen the movie. It had featured the notorious John Holmes. Ginger and Theia had hid their eyes while Callie giggled nervously. She had feigned scientific curiosity, all the while feeling horror. Dave had seemed blasé and not a bit intimidated by his size. From there her mind flitted to practicing the Lady Marmalade bit from Moulin Rouge imitating Christina Aguilera, Pink, Mya and Lil Kim with her sister and girl cousins much as their mothers had performed the Supremes’ Stop in the Name of Love. Oh how she loved her family.

Her eyes scanned the tops of the skyscrapers and she sighed with pleasure. One of her favorite days of all times was helping her Poppy rewrite Cole Porter’s lyrics for You’re the Top to commemorate Lucinda’s fiftieth birthday. They had argued whether they should compare her to the Empire State or the Chrysler Building. He had won out with the Empire State. She had contributed ‘Harry Potter’s wizardry’ and her father had rhymed it with ‘Mohammad Ali.’ Elise had insisted they compare her best friend to ‘bacon.’

Thinking of her Otis ancestor again, she wondered what her accomplishment would be. In the original lyrics to his song, Porter had said the pinnacle was a Shakespeare sonnet or later Mahatma Gandhi. She liked the idea of writing words that would be remembered hundreds of years later, but after being part of Occupy Wall Street, she could see herself charging forward to change the world. That was also in her DNA thanks to both her parents.

Despite her recent musings, she knew her destiny should not be marriage. A favorite quote from Katharine Hepburn came to mind. ‘Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then.’ A big brawny man could live on a neighboring island, an ancestor to Crusoe’s cannibals who was a 21st century vegetarian and organic farmer. He could sail over for a visit now and then. If that was the case, she could dispense with the volley ball and the parrot. Perhaps she could arrange to get marooned with Putz and Gonif for company. They were world class cuddlers.

She had strayed from her current dilemma long enough. The day Nancy abruptly departed from Elite Catering pushed her beloved cats from her mind. It had happened just a month before her wedding with no warning. It was common knowledge that Elise had hoped to step back and promote Nancy to the top executive position and possibly make her partner. Instead, Elise found herself deserted by one of her top chefs at the beginning of the wedding season.

Charlotte had watched the drama between Nan and Elise with mixed emotions. The depth of her best friend’s feelings for Mark touched her, and she also understood why a woman who had suddenly become engaged to wealth might be less enamored of hot kitchens. Chauffeured limousines and shopping at Barney’s versus slaving ten hours over a hot stove – on the surface seemed an easy choice. But Char believed there was a principle involved, and she worried for her friend when the glittery newness of her life started to fade.

Elite Catering was there for you when you wanted a chance, she finally told Nan after too many instances of biting her tongue. Elise gave you a career that you probably would not have been able to achieve as quickly without her help. Besides, if it weren’t for Elite, you would have never met Mark. But now that he’s given you the sweet end of the lollypop, you’ve decided you don’t need Elise anymore and your career counts for nothing. I understand that we all have to take care of ourselves and think ‘me first,’ but damn, Nan, this is badly done. What happens if it doesn’t work out with Mark? Char had continued with the clear knowledge that her next words would be particularly cutting. And, maybe, just maybe, he stiffs you in divorce court—he insisted on a prenup just like every other rich bridegroom, and he can afford the best lawyers. Your decision to give up working could be very short sighted. My mother raised her daughters to believe that financial independence is a girl’s best friend.

Nan had pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. I’m not marrying Mark for his money, Char, and I resent your suggesting that I’m a golddigger who has found her sugar daddy. And as to how your mother raised her daughters, are you sure Virginia got that memo?

For a few seconds all she could do was glare at her best friend with her mouth open in indignation. Then she rolled her own eyes and shook her head, laughing. It was the break in tension the two needed. Nan put her hand on her friend’s arm and said quietly, C J, you don’t know the whole story, so just let it go.

Elise is like a second mother to me and this hurts her.

"Charlotte Jane Otis, let it go," Her eyes had started to spark with anger.

Char had chuckled at her friend’s very formal request and conceded. She had thought they had agreed to disagree, but somehow Max was privy to their dispute, and it was clear whose side he was on.

Maxwell Pynchon decided he should try to make amends with Charlotte after speaking with his older brother. Ever since he left the army he felt increasingly intimidated by his older brother. His life was so much more together than Max’s. If that weren’t enough, Harry Pynchon had found the woman of his dreams. Their parents often complimented him on his accomplishments while expressing dismay for where their youngest was heading.

Then there was his cousin, Mark Rodd. He was nearer in age to Max, but he and his older brother had always shared a much closer relationship. As adults, they were in business together and now they were in love with sisters. In both love and life they were just much more successful than the former Captain Pynchon. Mark’s new wife was sheer perfection and Max could not shake his desire to take his place with her. It wasn’t just lust. It was the way her eyes never wanted to lose contact with her husband’s when they were together—that was the definition of devotion to him. Though small and lively, there was a vulnerability that begged a strong man to protect her. Char had never seemed to need a man until she said during their fight that she would like someone to ‘take care’ of her like Nancy had found in Mark.

Max was struggling to forget his years in the army and trying to define what his civilian life should be. A woman like Nancy would give him a mission and allow room for redemption. He and his cousin Jon, with whom he felt the most affinity, were the only two of their generation still without a serious relationship. Well Mark’s sister Lily was footloose and fancy-free, but she was much younger and a girl – so she didn’t count. Surely Jon would not be able to overcome his fear of relationships anytime soon. He had been very skittish since he tangled with Whit’s sister. Still, Max did not want to be the last.

As Max had explained his fight with Charlotte to Harry, he had consciously softened the impact of his words to make it more about his loyalty to his entire family rather than about Nancy in particular. Harry had waggled his eyebrows and joked, Well, of course, family first – after all, we’re a pretty proud and stuck-up bunch. We deserve and demand no less than total loyalty. But then seriously, Harry continued, Of course, I know Diana is the right one because when I think of what is most important, she is the image that springs to mind. How do you feel about C J? Are you wasting your time with her?

His brother’s stark words led Max to realize that he had been willing to enjoy what they had without feeling pressured by C J to take it further. Still her remark about wanting someone to ‘pay her bills’ had made him wonder whether she was looking for more. He responded to his brother’s question the way he had felt before their fight, She’s an enjoyable date, and we have had some great times together. He caught his brother’s eye and smiled with remembrance. She laughs at my jokes.

Harry grunted, Well, that’s definitely in her favor because your jokes stink.

Max did not reveal that the sex was outstanding, and she had given it freely, no strings attached. Somehow he knew that was an important part of their relationship, and this awareness and his suppression of the information made him slightly uncomfortable.

With her working week over, Char was home in her little walk-up apartment in the dodgy part of Brooklyn Heights. Trying to get back into a routine without the distraction of Max, she ate a lonely dinner and wrote up her notes from the elderly African-American jazz musician she had met recently on a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was her hope the series of interviews she had been conducting would become a book, but she was only at the initial stage of recording the interactions.

Once finished with those tasks, she made herself comfortable in her overstuffed reading chair that had been her grandmother Sorber’s, her feet propped up on the matching ottoman. Wishing Putz and Gonif were with her, she decided on rereading Joyce’s The Dead. After a few minutes she wondered whether Gabriel Conroy’s epiphany was what she needed tonight. Georgette Heyer’s Hugo Darracott in The Unknown Ajax would be a much better mood enhancer. He and Anthea were her favorite courting couple. He was a well muscled giant with a great sense of humor and she was a typical Heyer heroine, witty and independent.

She really missed her cats. Their cuddling would help. The reason for their not being there caused her thoughts to turn again to Max. Why was she so haunted by him? Although she had enjoyed dating him, she had no illusions about being deeply or even shallowly in love with him. He was nice-looking, well to do, he had an impressive and famous pedigree, but she was never overly impressed with either Maxwell Pynchon or his family. Max wasn’t even certain if he was related to Thomas Pynchon. He knew of him and had heard him on The Simpsons. TV was Max’s medium, but there was no real curiosity about such an illustrious literary relative. On the other hand, she would hardly be so bigoted as to refuse to date him because he was rich and well connected, but not very literate. Besides, she enjoyed his moves in the boudoir. Charlotte Jane Otis was not afflicted with either excessive pride or irrational prejudice. Besides, the ‘p’ word that best described her was pragmatic—like Ms Austen’s Charlotte Lucas. "I am not romantic, you know; I never was" those words fit C J to a T.

In the beginning, Char was sure Max was just going along with the flow… following the suit played by his brother and cousin and friend. They probably thought they had found a treasure trove of interesting Upper West Side diversions. Charlotte had suspected that despite Nancy’s marriage, the others would soon tire of their middle-class girl friends and move on to proper women from the best upper sets. But five months later, the couples were still dating, and Di and Harry and Gin and Whit seemed to be getting quite serious. But, she and Max had sparked no magic except in the bedroom. He made her laugh, and he seemed to value her non-judgmental attitude. Several times he had commented that he was able to relax around her. To Char, he always seemed to be trying a bit too hard for acceptance around his family.

She could not help seeing Max as a classic Regency England second son, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, wanting to fit into the society to which he was born but lacking some of the prerequisite amenities.

An air of mystery surrounded him. From the first, it piqued both her curiosity and her libido. She was unsure why he left the army just before achieving the rank of major. His leaving was an obvious disappointment to his parents, and an unseemly act for a West Point grad. He had joked with her that his time in Special Forces had trained him for the role he played at Pynchon and Rodd, but he became closed when she tried to speak with him seriously about either his former or current career. She told herself she was being like Catherine Moreland in Northanger Abbey – seeing shadows and clandestine plots when perhaps it was merely a very dull laundry list. But still – she could not help speculating what services he provided for the wealthy clients of his family’s management consultant firm, particularly the ones outside the United States.

A burst of laughter punctured the silence. She had visualized the conversation she might have had with her mother about Max, anti-war activist Lucinda rolling her eyes and shaking her head in mock disgust. Charlotte Jane Otis, her mother would have said in that voice that even after years of dramatic training and living in New York City still had a hint of a southern drawl. Here I always think of you as my level-headed daughter, and you’re telling me this man’s questionable background enhances his sexual mystique for you?

Char knew how she would have responded at that point, in an allusion to the family’s dear friend Felipe, Oh my, Mama, people who have screwed political gangbangers should not throw stones. In her imagination, the two would have collapsed in gales of bawdy laughter.

CHAPTER TWO

HIS SENSE OF HER INFERIORITY

Their fight had started when Char had introduced Max