Beating Around The Bush Quotes

Dude, the bush is ready. Why you still beating around it?” “I’ve lived a long time, kid, and I’ve never heard anyone mutilate the English language quite like you.

Good customer care representatives will possess good knowledge to answer any questions without beating around the bush and delaying the issue for a few more days until they find somebody else to look into it.

We also have to give up the notion of a divine savior, which has nothing to do with what religion we belong to, but refers to the idea of someone or something who will save us without our having to go through any pain. In fact, giving up that kind of false hope is the first step. We have to be with ourselves. We have to be real people. There is no way of beating around the bush, hoping for the best. If you are really interested in working with yourself, you can’t lead that kind of double life, adopting ideas, techniques, and concepts of all kinds, simply in order to get away from yourself.

Let’s not beat around the bush; I love life — that’s my real weakness. I love it so much that I am incapable of imagining what is not life.

I think that if you use the so-called "strong words" you'll get your point across faster and you can save a lot of beating around the bush. Why are people so afraid of words? Sometimes the dumbest thing that gets said makes the point for you.

You don't have to beat around the bush about it, Mila. If you want to be there at sunrise, just pack an overnight bag when you come out.

Her mom always encouraged her to ask for things. Tell the truth. Ask permission. Unless you have to do something you know is right and can’t wait for permission. Then ask for forgiveness. But always be true to yourself and be honest with your feelings. No point beating around the bush when life is short.

I said, 'We have dreamed, dear friend. Another time, we might awaken. Let it be a dream forgotten at morning.' That seemed a better way of saying it than, 'Never remind me of this, for fear I should stick a knife in you.

I think you can tell by now that I'm not the type of man to beat around the bush. I'll tell you exactly what I want from you." Maxon took a step closer. My breath caught in my throat. I'd just walked into the very situation I feared. No guards, no cameras, no one to stop him from doing whatever he wanted. Knee-jerk reaction. Literally. I kneed His Majesty in the thigh. Hard. Maxon let out a yell and reached down, clutching himself as I backed away from him. "What was that for?" "If you lay a single finger on me, I'll do worse!" I promised. "What?" "I said, if you-" "No, no, you crazy girl, I heard you the first time." Maxon grimaced. "But just what in the world do you mean by it?" I felt the heat run through my body. I'd jumped to the worst possible conclusion and set myself up to fight something that obviously wasn't coming. The guards ran up, alerted by our little squabble. Maxon waved them away from an awkward, half-bent position. We were quiet for a while, and once Maxon was over the worst of his pain, he faced me. "What did you think I wanted?" he asked. I ducked my head and blushed. "America, what did you think I wanted?" He sounded upset. More than upset. Offended. He had obviously guessed what I'd assumed, and he didn't like that one bit. "In public? You thought...for heaven's sake. I'm a gentleman!" He started to walk away but turned back. "Why did you even offer to help if you think so little of me?" I couldn't even look him in the eye. I didn't know how to explain I had been prepped to expect a dog, that the darkness and privacy made me feel strange, that I'd only ever been alone with one other boy and that was how we behaved.

God Jewel: When someone offers to help you, tell them exactly what you want. Don’t beat around the bush. If you’re not crystal clear about what your ask is, chances are you won’t get anything.

We have a predator that came from the depths of the cosmos and took over the rule of our lives. Human beings are its prisoners. The Predator is our lord and master. It has rendered us docile, helpless. If we want to protest, it suppresses our protest. If we want to act independently, it demands that we don't do so... I have been beating around the bush all this time, insinuating to you that something is holding us prisoner. Indeed we are held prisoner! "This was an energetic fact for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico ... They took us over because we are food for them, and they squeeze us mercilessly because we are their sustenance. just as we rear chickens in chicken coops, the predators rear us in human coops, humaneros. Therefore, their food is always available to them." "No, no, no, no," [Carlos replies] "This is absurd don Juan. What you're saying is something monstrous. It simply can't be true, for sorcerers or for average men, or for anyone." "Why not?" don Juan asked calmly. "Why not? Because it infuriates you? ... You haven't heard all the claims yet. I want to appeal to your analytical mind. Think for a moment, and tell me how you would explain the contradictions between the intelligence of man the engineer and the stupidity of his systems of beliefs, or the stupidity of his contradictory behaviour. Sorcerers believe that the predators have given us our systems of belief, our ideas of good and evil, our social mores. They are the ones who set up our hopes and expectations and dreams of success or failure. They have given us covetousness, greed, and cowardice. It is the predators who make us complacent, routinary, and egomaniacal." "'But how can they do this, don Juan? [Carlos] asked, somehow angered further by what [don Juan] was saying. "'Do they whisper all that in our ears while we are asleep?" "'No, they don't do it that way. That's idiotic!" don Juan said, smiling. "They are infinitely more efficient and organized than that. In order to keep us obedient and meek and weak, the predators engaged themselves in a stupendous manoeuvre stupendous, of course, from the point of view of a fighting strategist. A horrendous manoeuvre from the point of view of those who suffer it. They gave us their mind! Do you hear me? The predators give us their mind, which becomes our mind. The predators' mind is baroque, contradictory, morose, filled with the fear of being discovered any minute now." "I know that even though you have never suffered hunger... you have food anxiety, which is none other than the anxiety of the predator who fears that any moment now its manoeuvre is going to be uncovered and food is going to be denied. Through the mind, which, after all, is their mind, the predators inject into the lives of human beings whatever is convenient for them. And they ensure, in this manner, a degree of security to act as a buffer against their fear." "The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were quite ill at ease with the idea of when [the predator] made its appearance on Earth. They reasoned that man must have been a complete being at one point, with stupendous insights, feats of awareness that are mythological legends nowadays. And then, everything seems to disappear, and we have now a sedated man. What I'm saying is that what we have against us is not a simple predator. It is very smart, and organized. It follows a methodical system to render us useless. Man, the magical being that he is destined to be, is no longer magical. He's an average piece of meat." "There are no more dreams for man but the dreams of an animal who is being raised to become a piece of meat: trite, conventional, imbecilic.

A hedgehog flies from the safety of a bush, startling me. It darts past us in a terrible hurry. Kartik nods toward the furry little thing. "Don't mind him. He's off to meet his lady friend." "How can you be sure?" "He has on his best hedgehog suit." "Ah, I should have noticed." I say, happy to be playing this game-any game-with him. I put my hand on the tree's trunk and swing myself around it slowly, letting my body feel gravity's pull. "And why has he worn his best?" "He's been away in London, you see, and now he has returned to her," Kartik continues. "And what if she is angry with him for being away so long?" Kartik circles just behind me. "She will forgive him." "Will she?" I say pointedly. "It is his hope that she will, for he didn't mean to upset her." Kartik answers, and I am no longer sure we speak of the hedgehog. "And is he happy to see her again?" "Yes," Kartik says. "He should like to stay longer, but he cannot." The bark chafes against my hand. "Why is that?" "He has his reasons, and hopes his lady will understand them one day." Kartik has changed direction. He comes around the other side of the tree. We are face to face. A palm of moonglow reaches through the branches to caress his face. "Oh," I say, heart beating fast. "And what would the lady hedgehog say to that?" he asks. His voice soft and low. "She would say..." I swallow hard. Kartik steps closer. "Yes?" "She would say," I whisper, "'If you please, I am not a hedgehog. I am a woodchuck.'" A small smile plays at Kartik's lips. "He is fortunate to have so witty a lady friend," he says, and I wish I could have the moment back again to play differently.

Let’s just call it an adjustment of priorities.” Nick saw no reason to beat around the bush about this next part. Pallas was a good guy, and an excellent agent. “There’s more. You and I both know that Davis has been thinking about retiring. I told him today that when that happens, I’d like to be considered for the special agent in charge position. I wanted you to hear it from me first. Thought you might be eying the job, too.” Jack considered this. “I’ve given it some thought,” he admitted. “But politically, I doubt it would go over well if the special agent in charge of Chicago and the U.S. attorney of the same district were involved in a personal relationship.” His expression was one of pride. “And since Cameron got there first, it looks like I’m adjusting my priorities, too.” He paused. “Plus, I hear that people think I’m cranky.” He rubbed his jaw, musing. “Not sure why that is.” “Maybe it’s all the brooding and glowering.” “No one complains when you break out the don’t-fuck-with-me face.

You’ll have to excuse my daughter, King Ula. When she hears an asshole blabbering drivel from his fool mouth, she tends to not beat around the bush. I have tried many times to teach her to be respectful to those who are weaker of mind than she, but she does not listen. I haven’t a clue where she picked up the trait.

Poetry, you were talking about,” Julie smiles, touching Faye’s cheek. Faye lights a cigarette in the wind. “I’ve just never liked it. It beats around bushes. Even when I like it it’s nothing more than a really oblique way of saying the obvious, it seems like.” Julie grins. Her front teeth have a gap. “Olé,” she says. “But consider how very, very few of us have the equipment to deal with the obvious.

When Chinese vaguely express an idea or an opinion, the real message is often just implied. They expect their conversational partner to be highly involved and to take an active role in deciphering messages, as well as in mutually creating meaning. In Chinese culture, pang qiao ce ji [beating around the bush] is a style that nurtures an implicit understanding. In Chinese culture, children are taught not to just hear the explicit words but also to focus on how something is said, and on what is not said.

I am. I’m rude because I don’t conform to society’s standards that white lies are inconsequential. I don’t believe in hiding behind words that aren’t truthful. I’m an impatient man. I don’t beat around the bush. If you ask me something, I won’t lie to you.

I don’t beat around the bush. Especially since I like my women clean shaven.

No use beating around the bush when the bush is just a bare stump at this point.

What is it?” she asks as she begins undressing. “Nothing.” Temper snorts. “Bitch, we’ve been friends for nearly a decade. Stop beating off the bush—” I wince. “Around, Temper. Beating around the bush.

Askim,” I hear my mother yell from downstairs. “Do you want to come join us downstairs? Or do you want to be by yourself and have a sad, lonely year?” Mom has never been a fan of beating around the bush.

Be that as it may, we do need you in particular to complete this assignment. (Syd) What is it with you government assholes that you just can’t say anything in plain English? You always have to beat around the bush and use euphemisms or fucked-up acronyms for everything. (Steele) Fine. We need you to kill an assassin before he executes his target. Either you eat the bear, or the bear eats you, Mr. Steele. Or, to humor you, in plain English- you find and kill the assassin, or we kill you. End of story. (Syd)

There were many ways to extract information if you have more time? but if you were in a rush, they recommended flaying, crushing digits, or electrocuting the genitalia.(Say what you will about the Russians, they certainly didn’t beat around the bush.)

I looked around the lot. “Is he dead anywhere nearby?” I really wanted a no on this one. I’d already had my millennium quota of dead. “You see that big bush by the Dumpster?” Jackie said. “Yeah.” “You see that ugly-ass foot sticking out of that big bush?” Oh boy. She was right. There was a foot sticking out of the bush. “Shit, Jackie,” I said. “You didn’t kill that foot, did you?” “No, I didn’t kill that foot. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Someone jacked me over. I’ve been sitting out here, freezing my ass off, waiting to kill that sonovabitch Cameron Brown, and someone beat me to it. It isn’t fair!

Don’t beat around the bush, it will only get you into the thorns. Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Dude, the bush is ready. Why you still beating around it?

The first time someone asked about Riko's and Kevin's tattoos, Riko hadn't beat around the bush. He was the best striker in the game, he said, and he wanted everyone to know it. The story changed a little when Jean made his first public appearance with a "3" on his face. Riko was supposedly handpicking the future US National Team. He called it the "perfect Court", and even though it was unofficial and unbelievably arrogant, his talent and upbringing gave some credibility to the idea. "Oh," Neil said. "You mean this." He peeled the bandage off his face and let the reporters get a good look at his tattoo.

Did you even stop to eat?” As soon as my question is out, another thought follows. Emmy Harris better not try anything while I’m gone. We covered the pie situation, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. Logan Brantley is nobody’s fool and picks up on my tone. “What are you really asking?” I’m not beating around the bush. “Did Betty Crocker Barbie try to bring you a picnic basket tonight because I’m not around?

But what I really want to know is how you feel about Kat.” “I like her too.” “As in ‘I like her because she can pour a nice glass of wine’? Or ‘I like her because she makes my dick hard’?” “You get to the point.” “I don’t have time to beat around the bush, so to speak,” she says, and turns to me, rubbing her belly. “If you’re going to be an ass, just say so now so I can kick your ass and boot you out of here.” “You’re

We also have to give up the notion of a divine savior, which has nothing to do with what religion we belong to, but refers to the idea of someone or something who will save us without our having to go through any pain. In fact, giving up that kind of false hope is the first step. We have to be with ourselves. We have to be real people. There is no way of beating around the bush, hoping for the best. If you are really interested in working with yourself, you can’t lead that kind of double life, adopting ideas, techniques, and concepts of all kinds, simply in order to get away from yourself. That is what we call spiritual materialism: hoping that you can have a nice sleep, under anesthetics, and by the time you awaken, everything will be sewn up. Everything will be healed. In that case, you do not have to go through any pain or problems. In

Don’t waste time beating around the bush with people, get straight to the point. When a person is being too negative, shut them down; when a person keeps operating in the same behaviors and then asking for your advice, shut them down. If someone asks you to do something for them and you can’t do it, just say so. You don’t need to be rude, just be firm and let people know what your boundaries are so that they don’t cross them.

American men’s information-focused approach to talk has shaped the American way of doing business. Most Americans think it’s best to “get down to brass tacks” as soon as possible, and not “waste time” in small talk (social talk) or “beating around the bush.” But this doesn’t work very well in business dealings with Greek, Japanese, or Arab counterparts for whom “small talk” is necessary to establish the social relationship that must provide the foundation for conducting business.

In the end, it was a Bach motet that shooed me away—choristers weren’t damnably bad, but the organist’s only hope for salvation was a bullet through the brain. Told him so, too—tact and restraint all well and good in small talk, but one mustn’t beat around any bush where music is concerned.

If he didn’t drag you into the closest dressing room and make you see God, you sucked at flirting.” Ariel points her finger at me as I swipe at my chin with the back of my hand. “Men are dumb. You need to speak in slow, short sentences and be direct. Don’t beat around the bush or he’ll never beat inside your bush.

Let’s not beat around the bush. Life is one great big wonderful but terrifying adventure. It can be as brutal as it is beautiful. There are no do-overs. We get a single shot to make it home. And guess what? We all wander and find ourselves lost from time to time. Enter our Savior. The One whose love and power to heal and example to guide is so magnificent that our frail human minds can’t begin to comprehend.

Later on that night when King and I were in the bed I decided to bring up the topic. I wanted to see if he was going to tell me who told him that bullshit. I wasn’t the one for beating around the bush so I went right in and asked him. I was on top of him and he was singing to me. Since he was in a good mood I dropped the question on his ass. “Babe who told you that I was with a nigga at the party?” King had a dumb ass look on his face. Nigga better not get quiet now on me. “Why the fuck you asking me some shit like that now?” “It was on my mind and I want to know.” “Come on babe you killing the moment.” King said. I agreed to let him have this one since he didn’t want to tell me, and if it was meant for me to know I would find out. I fucked King’s ass to sleep. He was snoring. Seconds later I noticed his phone lighting up. I picked it up someone had sent him a text message. I went to use the

And here’s what I realize: she would never wear mittens shaped like kittens or a dress with a Peter Pan collar. She would never say, Love your dress, if she fucking hated your dress. She would never say, How are you? if she didn’t care how you were. She would never eat a lavender cupcake that tasted like perfume or wear a perfume that made her smell like a cupcake. She would never wear lip balm for cosmetic purposes. She would never wear it unless her lips were seriously, seriously cracked. And even if they were, she’d still put Lady Danger on them, which is the name of her lipstick, this bright blue-red that looks surreally beautiful on her but when I tried it on once made me look insane. Her perfume smells like rain and smoke and her eye makeup scares small children and she wears pumps even though she’s at least two inches taller than I am and I’m a freak. Why? Because life is shorter than we are, she says, so why beat around the bush?

We went to dinner that night and ordered steak and talked our usual dreamy talk, intentionally avoiding the larger, looming subject. When he brought me home, it was late, and the air was so perfect that I was unaware of the temperature. We stood outside my parents’ house, the same place we’d stood two weeks earlier, before the Linguine with Clam Sauce and J’s surprise visit; before the overcooked flank steak and my realization that I was hopelessly in love. The same place I’d almost wiped out on the sidewalk; the same place he’d kissed me for the first time and set my heart afire. Marlboro Man moved in for the kill. We stood there and kissed as if it was our last chance ever. Then we hugged tightly, burying our faces in each other’s necks. “What are you trying to do to me?” I asked rhetorically. He chuckled and touched his forehead to mine. “What do you mean?” Of course, I wasn’t able to answer. Marlboro Man took my hand. Then he took the reins. “So, what about Chicago?” I hugged him tighter. “Ugh,” I groaned. “I don’t know.” “Well…when are you going?” He hugged me tighter. “Are you going?” I hugged him even tighter, wondering how long we could keep this up and continue breathing. “I…I…ugh, I don’t know,” I said. Ms. Eloquence again. “I just don’t know.” He reached behind my head, cradling it in his hands. “Don’t…,” he whispered in my ear. He wasn’t beating around the bush. Don’t. What did that mean? How did this work? It was too early for plans, too early for promises. Way too early for a lasting commitment from either of us. Too early for anything but a plaintive, emotional appeal: Don’t. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Don’t let it end. Don’t move to Chicago. I didn’t know what to say. We’d been together every single day for the past two weeks. I’d fallen completely and unexpectedly in love with a cowboy. I’d ended a long-term relationship. I’d eaten beef. And I’d begun rethinking my months-long plans to move to Chicago. I was a little speechless. We kissed one more time, and when our lips finally parted, he said, softly, “Good night.” “Good night,” I answered as I opened the door and went inside. I walked into my bedroom, eyeing the mound of boxes and suitcases that sat by the door, and plopped down on my bed. Sleep eluded me that night. What if I just postponed my move to Chicago by, say, a month or so? Postponed, not canceled. A month surely wouldn’t hurt, would it? By then, I reasoned, I’d surely have him out of my system; I’d surely have gotten my fill. A month would give me all the time I needed to wrap up this whole silly business. I laughed out loud. Getting my fill of Marlboro Man? I couldn’t go five minutes after he dropped me off at night before smelling my shirt, searching for more of his scent. How much worse would my affliction be a month from now? Shaking my head in frustration, I stood up, walked to my closet, and began removing more clothes from their hangers. I folded sweaters and jackets and pajamas with one thing pulsating through my mind: no man--least of all some country bumpkin--was going to derail my move to the big city. And as I folded and placed each item in the open cardboard boxes by my door, I tried with all my might to beat back destiny with both hands. I had no idea how futile my efforts would be.

Lucy,” came the call again, neither her father’s voice nor Peter’s. She sat up, trembling with excitement but not with fear. The moon was so bright that the whole forest landscape around her was almost as clear as day, though it looked wilder. Behind her was the fir wood; away to her right the jagged cliff-tops on the far side of the gorge; straight ahead, open grass to where a glade of trees began about a bow-shot away. Lucy looked very hard at the trees of that glade. “Why, I do believe they’re moving,” she said to herself. “They’re walking about.” She got up, her heart beating wildly, and walked toward them. There was certainly a noise in the glade, a noise such as trees make in a high wind, though there was no wind tonight. Yet it was not exactly an ordinary tree-noise either. Lucy felt there was a tune in it, but she could not catch the tune any more than she had been able to catch the words when the trees had so nearly talked to her the night before. But there was, at least, a lilt; she felt her own feet wanting to dance as she got nearer. And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving—moving in and out through one another as if in a complicated country dance. (“And I suppose,” thought Lucy, “when trees dance, it must be a very, very country dance indeed.”) She was almost among them now. The first tree she looked at seemed at first glance to be not a tree at all but a huge man with a shaggy beard and great bushes of hair. She was not frightened: she had seen such things before. But when she looked again he was only a tree, though he was still moving. You couldn’t see whether he had feet or roots, of course, because when trees move they don’t walk on the surface of the earth; they wade in it as we do in water. The same thing happened with every tree she looked at. At one moment they seemed to be the friendly, lovely giant and giantess forms which the tree-people put on when some good magic has called them into full life: next moment they all looked like trees again. But when they looked like trees, it was like strangely human trees, and when they looked like people, it was like strangely branchy and leafy people—and all the time that strange lilting, rustling, cool, merry noise. “They are almost awake, not quite,” said Lucy. She knew she herself was wide awake, wider than anyone usually is.

The unexpected dinner invitation from the budgerow started Mr Doughty off on a journey of garrulous reminiscence. 'Oh my boy!' said the pilot to Zachary, as they stood leaning on the deck rail. 'The old Raja of Raskhali: I could tell you a story or two about him--Rascally-Roger I used to call him!' He laughed, thumping the deck with his cane. 'Now there was a lordly nigger if ever you saw one! Best kind of native--kept himself busy with his shrub and his nautch-girls and his tumashers. Wasn't a man in town who could put on a burra-khana like he did. Sheeshmull blazing with shammers and candles. Paltans of bearers and khidmutgars. Demijohns of French loll-shrub and carboys of iced simkin. And the karibat! In the old days the Rascally bobachee-connah was the best in the city. No fear of pishpash and cobbily-mash at the Rascally table. The dumbpokes and pillaus were good enough, but we old hands, we'd wait for the curry of cockup and the chitchky of pollock-saug. Oh he set a rankin table I can tell you--and mind you, supper was just the start: the real tumasher came later, in the nautch-connah. Now there was another chuckmuck sight for you! Rows of cursies for the sahibs and mems to sit on. Sittringies and tuckiers for the natives. The baboos puffing at their hubble-bubbles and the sahibs lighting their Sumatra buncuses. Cunchunees whirling and tickytaw boys beating their tobblers. Oh, that old loocher knew how to put on a nautch all right! He was a sly little shaytan too, the Rascally-Roger: if he saw you eyeing one of the pootlies, he'd send around a khidmutgar, bobbing and bowing, the picture of innocence. People would think you'd eaten one too many jellybees and needed to be shown to the cacatorium. But instead of the tottee-connah, off you'd go to a little hidden cumra, there to puckrow your dashy. Not a memsahib present any the wiser--and there you were, with your gobbler in a cunchunee's nether-whiskers, getting yourself a nice little taste of a blackberry-bush.' He breathed a nostalgic sigh. 'Oh they were grand old goll-mauls, those Rascally burra-khanas! No better place to get your tatters tickled.' Zachary nodded, as if no word of this had escaped him.

There's no sense beating around the bush, it doesn't burn that many calories." from Split the Uprights

heated. I mean, if she wanted to be with him, then I would rather she let me know than beat around the bush.

Oh, fuck," he barks out a laugh. "You always did just blurt shit like that out." "Well, someone has to state the obvious while everyone else pointlessly beats around the bushes.

Secures are not afraid of intimacy and know they are worthy of love. They don’t have to beat around the bush or play hard to get. Ambiguous messages are out of the mix, as are tension and suspense. As a result, your attachment system remains relatively calm. Because you are used to equating an activated attachment system with love, you conclude that this can’t be “the one” because no bells are going off. You associate a calm attachment system with boredom and indifference. Because of this fallacy you might let the perfect partner pass you by.

it was better to get right to things. Beating around a bush only gave the bush time to grow gnarled branches, thorns, and thick roots. It was better to hack down the bush, pull up the roots, and toss it all into the hottest part of the fire.

Then I heard a long, loud ripping sound. It reminded me of a Velcro shoe being torn open. My heart skipped a beat as I moved closer to the shrubs. I heard a moan, soft and weak. And then I stopped when I heard the chewing. The crack of bone breaking. Loud chewing … chewing … chewing … I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to see what was on the other side of the shrub. With a pounding heart, I moved around the bushes, looked down at the ground—and opened my mouth in an endless scream. A deer was sprawled on its side in the tall grass. Its head had been torn off. The head sat straight up a few feet from the body. One eye stared blankly at me. The other eye had been yanked out. The body had been clawed apart. Pale white bones and bright red meat poked out through the torn fur. A swarm of flies already buzzed around the opening.

As they entered, Charles whispered to Vincent, "Don't be offended: no one will tell you their name. It will be a little confusing for you at first, but you'll quickly find your footing. Don't be put off by my companions' bluntness. They don't beat around the bush. Say what you know, ask your questions without fear, and do not be ashamed of what you do not know.

Key learnings You can boost your brand and get more people to trust you by doing interviews with top industry leaders. By spending time with them asking questions, you get associated with their image and people will perceive you as an expert as well. Processes are key. If you want to get people from the top of the ladder on your podcast/interviews you need to start small and then keep leveling up. Communities die, families prosper. Your team will be the most important success factor of your company as you grow. The key source of talented people is actually the people you’ve already hired. Your team reflects your company culture. That’s why they need to be 100% involved. Making people’s lives easier is one of the most underrated skills in business. Transparency leads to trust. Don’t beat around the bush, tell it like it is and people will see they can trust you.

A pompous, arrogant, narcissistic intellectual came up to me at a conference and said rather boastfully. "You must feel really good about yourself to be the nice guy all the time! But let me tell you something - it takes balls to say what's really on your mind. You might have heard, the best defense is a good offense..." He went on and on for a while, and the more he spoke the more his intolerant nature became evident. I listened to everything he had to say, then heaved a soft sight, and replied with a smile. "You are absolutely right! Ama senin gibi şerefsiz olmak insanın lazım yok - porque, no soy un hijo de puta como tú - nu okka chetta na kodakkala behave cheskovachhu, kaani naaku anthaa scene ledu." He looked rather annoyed, because all my words went over his head, so he flared out, "don't beat around the bush, man - say, what you want to say!" I spoke calmly. "I'd love to speak my mind, but I wouldn't want to give anyone an inferiority complex. Bad behavior don't make us cool, it only exposes the fool we are. If bad behavior made the world better, we'd already be living in utopia, instead of still struggling for basic human rights." I didn't want the argument to linger any longer, so I asked him to join me for lunch. You see, self-regulation is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of strength. It doesn't take any character for the animal to be animal, but the true test of character is to behave human, upon conquering our inner animal.

We know we’re unable to spare the time and/or energy. We realize the answer must ultimately be no. But instead of giving the requestor a direct response, we beat around the bush and delay the inevitable.

If we’re going to do this, you should probably know that I’m a straight-shooter. Beating around the bush in my line of work can get someone killed. So if you want to know exactly what I mean when I say something, just ask.

Equating obscurity with rigor, while at the same time equating a clear and creative language with lack thereof is one of the most serious ills one faces in Western academia. Neither of these equations are accurate. They are certainly not mutually exclusive. Often feeble minds with mediocre arguments hide behind obscure and convoluted language. I am sure most readers have seen enough examples of clear writing that is profound, deep, and able to convey very complex ideas clearly. We simply must be careful not to confuse complexity with rigor and profoundness, as drunk people mistaken their foolishness for wisdom. Nor should we dismiss a clear language simply because it is conveying the point without unnecessary complexity or beating around the bush.

I can take your blood and power from you,” I agreed as I let my gaze wander down her tempting body. This wasn't some game or anything to do with me being an Heir and her being a Princess. I just wanted her. Simple as that and I really wanted her to want me too. “But I desire more than that. And I’m a Taurus; when we set our minds on something it’s not easy to turn us from it.” She scoffed, still giving me that suspicious look, though I was hoping I could convince her to trust me, at least for long enough to let me make her pant my name the way I ached to hear. “You didn’t seem so against the idea the other night,” I urged while she stayed quiet. “That was drunk Tory,” she said firmly. “She’s notorious for making bad decisions so I wouldn’t get too excited about anything you think she might have done with you. You shouldn’t presume anything that happens when I’m wasted will have any bearing on sober Tory.” “And you think I’d be a bad decision?” I teased because she might have been right about that, but I still wanted to be one she made. My lips twitched and I was almost certain I had her convinced. “I’ve been with enough bad decisions to recognise one when I see them,” she said. “How many, exactly?” I asked, leaning in to kiss her neck, my stubble grazing against her skin as I fought against the urge to take a bite. “Enough to let me know that it’s a terrible idea.” Her breath caught as I reached the corner of her lips with my kisses and I paused to hear her decision, though if the way she was pulling me closer again was anything to go by, I was pretty sure I was about to get my wish. “Probably not enough to put me off entirely.” I chuckled darkly, leaning back to gaze into her deep green eyes. I wanted her to say it, beg for it. Though that may have been a little ambitious with this particular princess. The words didn't escape her full lips, but as her gaze darkened with desire, she reached out and unhooked the top button of my shirt, making her decision clear. I held myself still as she worked her way down every single button until she pushed her hands inside my shirt and dragged her hands across the hard lines of my muscles. A shiver raced through my skin and my dick was working really hard to bust right through my fucking fly, so I stopped beating around the damn bush and claimed her mouth with mine once more. (Caleb POV)

Lotte, I asked without beating around the bush, what decade would you choose—the sixties, the seventies, or the eighties? She fell silent for a moment and gave the best answer that can be given to such a question: I’d like to be twelve years old in each of them. That would be my answer, too.

I’ve never been good at making plans, Scarlet... even worse at keeping them. I kind of just get up and go and hope for the best.” “Any idea where you might be going?” “Depends.” “On what?” “On how long it takes you to quit beating around the fucking bush and tell me what it is you want,” I say. “Because the rate you’re going, I might not ever make it out of this chair.

I'm not a beat-around-the-bush kinda guy, so here it is: you're not human. You're Fae. Which means you have an un-Awakened power in you defined by the stars themselves. You belong in Solaria: a mirror world of earth where Fae rule. Are we keeping up?

Don’t beat around the bush. If you hesitate or waver, toxic people will sense weakness and try to change your mind. Be clear and concise.

Hello, Mr. Larsen.” “Hello, Brother.” I didn’t bother beating around the bush. Andreas’s smile disappeared.

Good. Because now that I’ve had you, I’m not letting any other man within five feet of you. You’re mine. In every form of the word, you are mine. Got it?” She nodded, and I bent slightly to press my lips to hers, kissing her gently. “That’s my good girl,” I whispered against her lips.

This was torture. Why did people have to go around being honest with each other? Why couldn’t everyone accept that polite society was built on a grand tradition of lies and evasion, of reading between the lines, beating about the bush and never having to hear the damning words out loud? How did you tell a person the truth to their face without immediately bursting into flames?

Michaels dug and pulled on Judge’s beard because it was hot to do and it really got the big man fired up. He was sucking the fuck out of his cock while jerking his own with his other hand. He was letting himself loose and Michaels wanted that. Judge went down and buried his nose in Michaels’ thick bush, his throat working the head. Michaels grunted hard, his lower back forced up off the bed by the amount of desire flooding him. Judge gagged and pulled off, looking pleased at Michaels’ spit-slicked cock. Few more seconds of this and he was going to come… explosively. Judge moaned around the blushed head, working hard at getting both of them off. Michaels didn’t want to come like this; he wanted more. His ass was just starting to feel relief and he wanted to beat it up again. Oh, hell yes. He pulled on Judge’s hair. “Enough,” he groaned. “I want you to come,” Judge answered, his voice just as sexy and husky. “I will.” Michaels opened his legs wide. He reached his hand down and skimmed over his balls, gathering some of the spit there, reaching lower. Judge gasped when Michaels pushed two fingers inside himself. The

In these pages, I don’t beat around the bush to say shit I want to say. I don’t send people on wild goose chases looking for clues. I keep things straight. So don’t go trying to interpret mess, alright?

Several years ago, I was playing basketball with our son Jonathan. We’ve played one-on-one for years. For the first time, he beat me, fair and square, 15--14. I gave him a high five. Then I told him he was grounded! During the game at one point Jonathan dribbled around me and went up for a shot. I came out of nowhere, timed it just right, and blocked his shot. I swatted the ball away and it went flying into the bushes. I felt like an NBA star. A couple days later, we went to the gym to play with some friends. Jonathan said, “Dad, tell everybody what happened the other night.” I said, “Oh, yeah, Jonathan went up for this shot, and I must have been this high in the air and I blocked it, and it was something else.” He said, “No, Dad, I meant tell them how I beat you for the first time!” What’s funny is, I didn’t remember my defeat, I remembered my victory The first thing that came to my mind wasn’t that I lost the game to him, but the fact that I did something good. It’s because I’ve trained my mind to remember the right things. For many people it’s just the opposite. They won the game, but they remember all the mistakes they made. They never feel good about themselves. They’re always focused on something they didn’t do good enough. It’s all in how you train your mind. It depends on what channel you’re watching. Don’t make the mistake of remembering what you should forget, whether it’s your hurts, your disappointments, or your failures. Don’t forget what you should remember--your victories, your successes, and the hard times you overcame.

Most of most politicians’ answers are long-winded implicit ways of saying: ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t want you to know’.

The old woman nods and settles back in her chair. She seems to approve. Molly feels some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Excuse my rudeness, but at my age there’s no point in beating around the bush. Your appearance is quite stylized. Are you one of those—what are they called, gothics?” Molly can’t help smiling. “Sort of.” “You borrowed that blouse, I presume.” “Uh . . .” “You needn’t have bothered. It doesn’t suit you.” She gestures for Molly to sit across from her. “You may call me Vivian. I never liked being called Mrs. Daly. My husband is no longer alive, you know.” “I’m sorry.” “No need to be sorry. He died eight years ago. Anyway, I am ninety-one years old. Not many people I once knew are still alive.

Here’s an unsavory question: If Rebecca did behave just like Robert, exhibiting his kind of self-assuredness, what would her boss think then? All the evidence suggests that Rebecca wouldn’t fare so well, whether her boss was male or female. For women, this is the big conundrum of confidence. A host of troubling studies now show that we pay a heavy social and even professional penalty when we act as aggressively as men do. If we walk into our boss’s office with unsolicited opinions, speak up first at meetings, and give business advice above our pay grade, we are either disliked, or—let’s not beat around the bush—labeled “a bitch.” The more a woman succeeds, the worse the vitriol seems to get. It’s not just her competence that’s called into question; it’s her very character.

When two people who are already committed to Christ come together, they complement each other. Those two whole people don’t have to beat around the bush when it comes to what they will or will not accept in a relationship.

there is hardly a page in this book that doesn’t imply or directly describe something each of us can do to contribute to Homegrown National Park. But no more beating around the bush—in this chapter, I briefly outline ten concrete steps each of us can take to make Homegrown National Park a successful reality.

No? Oh come on, let’s not beat around the bloody bush here. We both know who we work for, and what he does. That’s how you get your roof done and your bathroom tarted up. It’s how I make my business purr like a jaguar on speed.

Yet many of us are still tempted to stall for time when someone asks us for help. We know we’re unable to spare the time and/or energy. We realize the answer must ultimately be no. But instead of giving the requestor a direct response, we beat around the bush and delay the inevitable.

5 Thumb Rules to Follow for Outsourcing 3D Character. Outsourcing has become one of the basic requirements of the digital industry. Be it software, websites, architecture rendering or 3D character modelling, companies look forward to outsource these tasks to reliable names. Reason is simple. When it comes to value for money, 3D Art Outsourcing Service stands to be the most viable option as setting up in-house production often isn’t considered a wise ROI choice. But, this necessity has also given rise to possible frauds. There are countless companies waiting to gulp your money in the blink of an eye. There are many more who are ready to lure you with lucrative offers when it comes to 3D character modelling concept. Since not everyone is familiar with the technicalities of this field, companies can easily get trapped with fake promises of giving top notch services well within their reach, only to find out that the whole thing was neither worth their time nor money. However, all the sham can be avoided if companies follow the six thumb rules while Game outsourcing character modelling tasks to animation studios as these will lead them to the right names. 1) Take a Tour of the Website Although you will find expert comments on not to judge a company by its cover, there is no denying the fact that website plays a decisive role in company’s credibility, especially when it comes to art and animation studios. A studio that claims to offer you state-of-art results must first focus on its own. A clean, crisp website with appropriate content can actually say a lot about the studio’s work. A poor design and inappropriate content often indicate the following things: - Outdated and poorly maintained - Negligence towards its virtual presentation - Unprofessionalism - Poor marketing A sincere design and animation studio will indeed feature a vibrant website with all its details properly included. 2) Location Matters Location has a huge impact on hiring charges as it largely decides the price range one can expect. If you are looking forward to countries like India, you expect the range to be well within your budget chiefly because such countries have immense talent, but because of the increasing demand and competition in the field of outsourcing, hiring charges are relatively cheaper than countries like UK or USA. This means that once can get desired expertise without spending a fortune. 3) Know Your Team Inside Out Since you will be spending your hard earned money, you have every right to know the ins and outs of your team. Getting to know the team can assist you in your decision. Do your part of homework and be ready with your queries. Starting from their names to their works, check everything you can, and if need be, go for one-to-one conversation. This will not only help you to know them better, but will also give you an idea of their communication, their knowledge about their work and their sincerity. A dedicated one will always answer you up to the point while a confused one with fidget with words or beat around the bush. 4) Don’t Miss Out on the Portfolio While the website of a studio is its virtual representative, it’s the portfolio which speaks about its execution. Reputed names of 3D modelling and design companies house excellent projects ranging from simple to complex ones. A solid portfolio indicates: - commitment of the studio towards its projects - competency of its team - execution and precision - status of its expertise Apart from the portfolio, some animation studios even feature case studies and white papers in their websites which indicate their level of transparency. Make sure to go through all of them.

If you don’t know the answer to a question, do not beat around the bush, There is absolutely nothing wrong with saying “I don’t know

Also, it is at this point that you must correct your tendency to hasten the person in finishing their narration. You may be the type of person who wants to speed conversations up or are just bothered with people beating around the bush. Whatever the case, do not cut a person off so they can get to the point at their own pace.

Uh, yeah. Just two guys and their clubs… uh, swinging their sticks… uh whacking… erm, beating balls around the bush, I mean into the holes, the ones with the sticks in them, I mean….” Meltdown. Complete and total verbal meltdown. Mason closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the cool varnished wood of the counter, linking his fingers behind his neck.

Just saying, man. I think it’s awesome that you’re not beating around the bush—” “Beating.” Robbie grins.

I’m just not so sure you are ready for what I have to offer.” I smiled to myself. I plopped my legs on my desk and leaned back even further in my chair. “My dear, I’m not so sure you are ready for me.” “Then bring it baby.” She replied. I could hear the amusement in her voice. “We can turn this into a marathon. I have no problem fucking you all night.” She confessed. “Oh baby, I love it when you talk dirty.” I heard her laugh through the receiver. “I can do much more than talk it.” I was starting to get so turned on. “Mmmm, I know my darling. I was a happy participant.” “So are you available tonight. I could really use a good hard dick inside of me.” She definitely doesn’t beat around the bush. I like that! “Well baby, as much as I would love to come over

Your hard-to-resist charm makes you incredibly sexy and keeps guys coming back again and again. You are dominant in AND out of the bedroom, making you a hot commodity to a lot of guys. Your quote should match the confidence you have in yourself because THAT is what makes you sexiest. You don't need to beat around the bush when you want someone to know how you feel about them, so saying something direct is exactly what you would do. Guys flock to you because you make honestly look so sexy.

he made a mental list: they would have to drive on the right, they would call it gas and not petrol, the letter ‘u’ would be deleted wholesale from words. Just think of the number of saved keystrokes! And there would be no beating around the bush – people would talk straight and say what they meant instead of saying they liked something that they secretly hated.

Wonder what?” Porter asked. Mackenzie, never one for beating around the bush, answered for Nelson. “Why he’s decided to go active now,” she said. Then she added: “And when he’ll kill again.

The waves lapped onto the shore in quiet, relentless ripples. A seagull screeched from somewhere down the shoreline, and another bird replied. She missed home, the comfort of her padded swing, her tall shade trees and scented lilac bushes. If she closed her eyes and blocked out the sound of the waves, she could almost imagine that she was back home in her garden, dozing on her swing under the tall oak— “Hey, Meri!” Jake’s voice shattered the illusion. She craned her head around, following the sound of his voice to an upstairs window. His elbows perched lazily on the ledge. She glared up at him. “Meridith.” “Wanna come take a look?” She’d rather beat the smug grin off his face. “Be right there.” Her bones ached as she climbed the main stairway, a repercussion of her night on the hard floor. Just beyond the guest loft, Jake stood in front of the doorway, making some final adjustment to the latch. It looked different with the area closed off from the hall. The smell of wood and some kind of chemical hung in the air. “What do you think?” He’d already hung the drywall, and the patching was drying, which explained the smell. He swung the door open, showing her the thumb-turn on the other side, then closed the door and demonstrated the lock with the key. Thank you, Vanna. “Are both doors keyed the same?” “Yep.” He threw her the new set of keys, and she caught it clumsily. She’d keep one set in her room and find a hiding spot in the kitchen for the other. He gathered his tools and supplies. Now that he was finished, maybe she could take the kids to the driving range. She could teach them how to tee off. Jake capped the drywall compound, then walked through the new doorway toward the family suite. “Where are you going?” Meridith followed him down the hall. “Patching up the other partition.” “I thought you were done.” “If I get them both patched, they’ll be ready to sand and paint on Monday. You got any more of this green?” “What? I don’t know.” He trotted down the back stairway and unlocked the new door’s thumb-turn. Meridith stopped at the top of the steps, sighing. The sooner he finished, the sooner he’d be out of her life. Out of the house, she corrected herself. That man was not in her life.

The sun seemed to take a long while to sink from the sky. The colors of the heavens were blood red, surrounded by shades of orange and pink. As the moon appeared, the clouds covered it like a thin veil. A ring appeared around the moon like some terrible omen. The forest was dark, eerily silent. Tendrils of fog wound low to the ground around tree trunks and bushes. A gentle wind lazily pushed the clouds, brushed at heavy branches, and tried vainly to disperse the smell of smoke that lingered persistently in the forest. The wind fingered the black ashes and burned beams, the blackened stones, all that remained of what had once been Mikhail Dubrinsky’s home. Two wolves nosed at the blackened remains, lifted their muzzles skyward, and howled mournfully. Throughout the forest other wolves answered, sang out their grief. Within a few minutes, the echoes of their tribute died away. The two wolves circled the charred ruins and sniffed at the two shadowy sentinels they found standing sharply alert near the wrought-iron gate. The wolves swung quickly away, finding something menacing in the two lethal figures. They trotted briskly back into the darkened interior of the forest. Silence once more blanketed the mountains like a shroud. The forest creatures huddled in their dens and holes, rather than face the smell of the ashes and the death of the home of one who was so much a part of them. Below the earth two bodies lay motionless, lifeless. Into the silence, a single heart began to beat. Strong, steady. Blood rushed, receded. A long, low hiss of air heralded the working of lungs. Dark eyes snapped open, and Mikhail searched the grounds above him.

Good writing is flexing your faculty to beat around the bush while still getting directly to the point.

Three men were standing in line to get into heaven one day. Apparently it had been a pretty busy day, though, so Peter had to tell the first one, "Heaven’s getting pretty close to full today, and I’ve been asked to admit only people who have had particularly horrible deaths. So what’s your story?" So the first man replies: "Well, for a while I’ve suspected my wife has been cheating on me, so today I came home early to try to catch her red-handed. As I came into my 25th floor apartment, I could tell something was wrong, but all my searching around didn’t reveal where this other guy could have been hiding. Finally, I went out to the balcony, and sure enough, there was this man hanging off the railing, 25 floors above ground! By now I was really mad, so I started beating on him and kicking him, but wouldn’t you know it, he wouldn’t fall off. So finally I went back into my apartment and got a hammer and starting hammering on his fingers. Of course, he couldn’t stand that for long, so he let go and fell, but even after 25 stories, he fell into the bushes, stunned but okay. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the fridge and threw it over the edge where it landed on him, killing him instantly. But all the stress and anger got to me, and I had a heart attack and died there on the balcony." "That sounds like a pretty bad day to me," said Peter, and let the man in. The second man comes up and Peter explains to him about heaven being full, and again asks for his story. "It’s been a very strange day. You see, I live on the 26th floor of my apartment building, and every morning I do my exercises out on my balcony. Well, this morning I must have slipped or something, because I fell over the edge. But I got lucky, and caught the railing of the balcony on the floor below me. I knew I couldn’t hang on for very long, when suddenly this man burst out onto the balcony. I thought for sure I was saved, when he started beating on me and kicking me. I held on the best I could until he ran into the apartment and grabbed a hammer and started pounding on my hands. Finally I just let go, but again I got lucky and fell into the bushes below, stunned but all right. Just when I was thinking I was going to be okay, this refrigerator comes falling out of the sky and crushes me instantly, and now I’m here." Once again, Peter had to concede that that sounded like a pretty horrible death. The third man came to the front of the line, and again Peter explained that heaven was full and asked for his story. "Picture this," says the third man, "I’m hiding inside a refrigerator..." A

Corinne La Mer’s heart beat like wild drums as she ran through the forest. Her bare feet stumbled over the dead leaves and protruding roots of the forest floor. She strained her eyes in the dappled sunlight to keep track of the small, furry agouti that scampered away from her. Occasionally, light glinted off the smooth rock tied to the animal’s hind leg. It called to Corinne like a beacon. When she got close enough, she pounced on the ’gouti and missed, grabbing only a handful of dirt. Corinne grunted and threw the dirt aside. The animal ran beneath a bush and Corinne squeezed down to the damp earth to crawl after it. Her skirt got caught on branches, but she ripped it away, determined to reach the animal. On the other side, the creature cowered against a rock and the roots of a large tree. In her eleven years of life, Corinne had learned that with nowhere to run, a wild animal might try to attack. She hung back. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said in her calmest voice. She eased closer. “I just need that thing on your leg. You’ll be able to run much faster without it, and I won’t be chasing you . . . so . . .” She moved with care toward the ’gouti and gently untied the silk cord. The animal’s coarse fur shivered and its pulse beat as fast as her own. Corinne closed her fist firmly around the stone pendant and crawled back out of the bush. She rubbed the stone with her thumb. Over years of constant handling, she had worn a smooth groove that fit her finger perfectly. The pendant had been her mama’s, and when she put her thumb into the little hollow, she imagined her mama’s hand around her own. Corinne breathed a sigh of relief now that it was back in her possession, but her relief did not last long. She didn’t know this part of the forest. And it was darker here. The branches of the mahogany trees were so thick that barely any light came through. It even smelled different, of wood and wet earth, while Corinne was used to the smell of the sea. She had no idea which way was out. Somewhere between the leaves, Corinne thought she saw a pair of lights shining. They were close together, like eyes. Her skin prickled, but then the lights disappeared and Corinne tried to shake off her fear. The little bit of light must have been reflecting on something. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself.

I reach up to my hair, lifting it, squeezing water out of it down my back, and I know that the movement summons Luca’s attention back to me. I can feel his eyes on me now as I move closer to Evan on the lounger, looking at his hands moving on the strings, the typical girl admiring a boy playing a guitar. Evan flashes me a smile and keeps strumming away, quite unaware of the little drama being enacted around him. “Don’t forget, Vio-let,” he croons softly. And though I can’t really sing, not properly, I know the tune now, and my head leans in toward his as I join in on the last two words: “Dive in!” He finishes on a last, rising chord and lifts his head, our faces close now. The sunshine beats down on us; the blue water of the swimming pool glints brightly in the heat, the breeze raising tiny ripples on the surface. Evan’s eyes are as clear and blue as the water, with no hidden currents, no unexpected, dangerous undertow. The rosemary and lavender bushes planted around the verge are wafting a lovely, sun-warmed scent, bees buzzing in the lavender. It’s paradise. It should be paradise. In the parking lot below, tires screech. We all jump. Luca must be executing the tightest, sharpest three-point turn in history: the car scrapes, churns, tears up the gravel, and shoots out of the lot and down the drive so fast we wince. It snaps back and forth like Road Runner as he speeds downhill. Only a very good driver could make those switchback turns so fast without crashing--and he’s very lucky he didn’t meet anyone coming up. “Wow! I guess they have somewhere they really need to be,” Paige observes. “More like someone to get away from,” Kelly says dryly under her breath, so only I can hear her.

Good writing is the uncanny ability to beat around the bush and still get right to the point.

So many private schools beat around the bush with names like Dalton and Spence, why not just say what it is? Crosley School for Rich Kids, or the Teeter School for Troublemakers, Lionsfront Last Chance Before Juvie Academy.

Zen is really extraordinarily simple as long as one doesn't try to be cute about it or beat around the bush!

Maybe I beat around the bush for too long when I was younger, maybe because I didn’t know what I wanted. But now I do. I know very well. She’s right beside me. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she stays there.

Are you so afraid of yourself?” “Go to the devil, Mikhail.” Raven set her foot on the path and began walking quickly away before he could charm his way around her. And he could, she knew it. It was his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the little grin he gave her when he was deliberately provoking her. The fog was very dense, the air wet and heavy with it. With her acute sense of hearing, she could hear every rustling in the bushes, every swaying of the branches, the beat of wings in the sky. Mikhail paced behind her. “Perhaps I am the devil, little one. I am certain that has crossed your mind.

In the eyes of my people, in the eyes of God, we are.” There was an implacable resolve, a my-word-is-law, in his voice that set her teeth on edge. “What about in my eyes, Mikhail? My beliefs? Do they count for nothing?” she demanded belligerently. “I see the answer in your eyes, feel it in your body. You struggle needlessly, Raven. You know you are mine…” She stood up quickly, pushed the chair out of her way. “I don’t belong to anyone, least of all you, Mikhail. You can’t just decree what will be in my life and expect me to fall in with your plans.” Raven rushed down the three steps to the path winding into the forest. “I need some air.” Mikhail laughed softly. “Are you so afraid of yourself?” “Go to the devil, Mikhail.” Raven set her foot on the path and began walking quickly away before he could charm his way around her. And he could, she knew it. It was his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the little grin he gave her when he was deliberately provoking her. The fog was very dense, the air wet and heavy with it. With her acute sense of hearing, she could hear every rustling in the bushes, every swaying of the branches, the beat of wings in the sky. Mikhail paced behind her. “Perhaps I am the devil, little one. I am certain that has crossed your mind.” She glared at him over her shoulder. “Stop following me.” “Am I not a gentleman, obligated to see his lady home?” “If you laugh at me one more time, I swear I won’t be responsible for what I do.” Raven became aware of the slinking figures then, the burning eyes following her. Her heart nearly stopped, then began to pound. “Fine!” She whirled around and glared at him. “This is great! Just great, Mikhail. Call in the wolves to eat me alive. I find the idea so ‘you.’ So logical.” He bared his white gleaming teeth at her like a hungry predator and laughed softly, teasingly. “It is not the wolves that would find you delicious.

I didn’t waste time beating around the bush. This had been two years in the making, ever since I stepped onto her driveway and saw her staring back at me with those big, blue eyes. Bridget von Ascheberg was mine and mine alone. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t mine to take. I was taking her anyway, and if I could tattoo myself onto her skin, bury myself into her heart, and etch myself onto her soul, I would.

Abby just walked into the kitchen while I was unloading the dishwasher four nights ago and announced, “I don’t want to be married to you anymore.” There was no beating around the bush. It didn’t get any clearer than that. This wasn’t an I’m confused and need some time to figure things out or I’m not sure I want to do this anymore. She was out. Just like that. In the blink of an eye.

No more beating around the bush - you are what you've been searching for.

Are you coming back?” I didn’t have the time to beat around the bush. Another sigh, even heavier. “The thing is, I’m working for my dad now. I can’t really leave him in a lurch, and I’ve barely started making money. The flight back isn’t really in the budget.” Deep down, I’d known this was coming, but hearing him say it—really say it—made the bottom drop out of my stomach. I was free-falling with no net. Liam had taken it with him to another continent. “Just say it, Liam,” I uttered. “Kit, fuck, I’m sorry.” There was rustling like he finally decided to get out of bed. “It’s just…I need to be here, helping my dad out. And I met someone—

get down to Front Street, Anthony never remembered. It was as if the whole thing were happening in a dream, as if some force outside himself were moving him around from place to place. All he knew was that sometime after he got dressed and slipped out of the house, he was down on Front Street and crouching behind a bush in the side yard of the old Winterborn place, shivering with the cold. And he was mad at himself because he hadn’t brought any tools with him. His heart was beating fast, and his body felt prickly all over. His blood was pounding in his ears. He felt very strange, but he was there,