Cuffing Quotes

Lock grinned at Gwen. “He’s fun,” he said, reaching out and cuffing Mitch without even looking at him. “He just keeps trying to get back up.” Bam! “It’s great.” Bam! “Like ‘The Little Lion Who Could.’” Bam!

Today I found out how old you are... and that you don't like being hand-cuffed.

Those words you want to say right now? Don't say them.' He smiled and cuffed my cheek with something close to real affection. 'And that, my friend, is the secret to living a long life'.

Closed door means knock," Elena said to Clay, shooing him out. You've been in here for two hours," he said. "She can't need that much work." He frowned as he examined my outfit. "What the hell is she? A tree?" "A dryad," Elena said, cuffing him in the arm. "Oh, my god," Jamie said, surveying my outfit. "We forgot the bag!" "Bag?" Clay said. "What does a dryad need with-" "An evening bag," Cassandra said. "A purse." "She's got a purse. It's right there on the bed." "That's a day purse," Cassandra snapped. "What, do they expire when the sun goes down?

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!” “What, drop my wand?

You think you can uncuff me now?" "Sorry, man, I have orders not to do that. Madison said she would bring me a huge slice of cake if I left you cuffed." "You're leaving me like this for cake?" he asked dumbfounded that cake held that kind of power over a boy. He wondered if it was like bloodlust.

Getting up from the table, shaking a little at her unraveling, Ari cuffed Charlie across the head. “Be nice.” “Tell him to be nice!” “I can’t,” she snorted, looking back over her shoulder at them. “If I did that he’d actually have to be nice… it would be like re-writing his entire personality.” Jai grunted. “Funny.

Max cuffed his brother good-naturedly on the ear as River slid in past him and bent to kiss Sophia on the cheek. “Hello, are you sure you’re with the right brother?” Sophia had never had a younger sibling. But this man with his laughing eyes and bright smile... “Are you making me an offer?

She’s a slave. (Paden) You better be glad I’m cuffed or you’d be looking for your teeth right now. Alix Gerran isn’t a slave. She’s a lady, and I would die for her. (Devyn)

Vashet shook a finger and cuffed the young girl on the side of her head. It was the same scolding any child receives. Stay out of the neighbor's garden. Don't tease the Bentons' sheep. Don't play tag among the thousand spinning knives of your people's sacred tree.

Nick sat on the stairs, completely comatose. He stared straight ahead as if he'd been frozen in place. "Nick? You all right?" He didn't respond. Kyrian moved around him until he stood in front of him. He snapped his fingers in front of Nick's face. "Kid?" Nick blinked before he met Kyrian's gaze. "I'm not worthy," he said in a breathless tone. Baffled by his comment, Kyrian stared at him. "What?" Nick gestured towards his cars. "Dude that's a Ferrari, Lamborghini, Bugatti, Alfa Romeo, Aston Martin, and a Bentley. And I'm not talking the cheap models. Those are the top of the top of the top of the line, fully loaded. I swear, that's real gold trim in the Bugatti. There's more money in metal in here than my brain can even tabulate. Oh my God! I shouldn't even be breathing the same air." Kyrian laughed at his awed tone. "It's all right, Nick. I need you to clean them." "Are you out of your ever-loving mind? What if I scratch them?" "You won't" "Nah I might. Those aren't cars, Kyrian. Those are works of art. I'm talking serious modes of transportation." "I know, and I drive them all the time." "No, no, no, no, no. I can't touch something so fine. I can't" Kyrian cuffed him on the shoulder. "Yes, you can. They don't bite, and they need to be washed.

Somehow I have been stunned. Stand back! Give me a little time beyond my cuffed head and slumbers and dreams and gaping, I discover myself on the verge of the usual mistake.

«He grins and straightens, wings high and regal behind him. I glare at his costume. It’s so typical him. A mix of medieval and rock star: brown leather forearm guards with studs over a ruffle-cuffed white shirt, and a cavalier doublet in burgundy with a gold lace overlay. The hem hits above his muscled thighs, so the skintight burgundy hose taper smoothly into knee-high brown boots, leaving nothing to the imagination. Worst of all, he has a crown. He dressed as a fairy king. The irony doesn’t escape me. I scowl. “Problem, luv?” He looks down on me from behind a gold lace half mask while adjusting the ruby-jeweled crown over his blue hair with velvet-clad hands. Tiny moth corpses are suspended in the rubies, like stained-glass fossils. I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be the only one wearing anything tight enough to need a codpiece. Always have to be the showstopper, don’t you?” “Oh, I assure you, what I chose to show is only the start.»

Simon laughed heartily. “I’m afraid the rest of us have to find talents to get our women into bed. Of course once they’re there, I have other talents that keep them right where they are.” “Handcuffs hardly count,” Christian said offhandedly. “If you mean the ladies cuffing me to the bed so they can explore Hunt Island,” he said, rubbing his chest, “…then point taken. These hands are capable of making any female climax by the mere brush of a pinky across her bare breast.” “I must have gone to the wrong island,” I said with a private laugh.

And what an example of the power of dress young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar;—it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have fixed his station in society. But now he was enveloped in the old calico robes, that had grown yellow in the same service; he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world, despised by all, and pitied by none.

Murphy caught that arm and continued the motion, using her own body as a fulcrum in a classic hip throw - except that Binder was facing in the opposite direction than usual for that technique. You could hear his arm come out of its socket fifty feet away. And then he hit the gravel face-first. Binder got extra points for brains in my book, after that: he lay still and didn't put up a struggle as Murphy dragged his wrists behind his back and cuffed him. I traded a glance with Mouse and said, wisely, 'Hard-core.

What happened?” Bria shrugged. “I waited until I was sure there was no one else around who could get hurt, then threw my coffee in the bastard’s face and took away his gun. While he was screaming from the pain and the second-degree burns, I cuffed his ass and hauled him down to the station. End of story.” Fin gave my sister a warm, admiring look. “Nice takedown, detective. Even if you should have found another way to do it. Don’t you know that you never, ever waste a cup of coffee like that?

This may be hard to believe, coming from a black man, but I’ve never stolen anything. Never cheated on my taxes or at cards. Never snuck into the movies or failed to give back the extra change to a drugstore cashier indifferent to the ways of mercantilism and minimum-wage expectations. I’ve never burgled a house. Held up a liquor store. Never boarded a crowded bus or subway car, sat in a seat reserved for the elderly, pulled out my gigantic penis and masturbated to satisfaction with a perverted, yet somehow crestfallen, look on my face. But here I am, in the cavernous chambers of the Supreme Court of the United States of America, my car illegally and somewhat ironically parked on Constitution Avenue, my hands cuffed and crossed behind my back, my right to remain silent long since waived and said goodbye to as I sit in a thickly padded chair that, much like this country, isn’t quite as comfortable as it looks.

In fact I believe that one day a reappraiser will come and declare that, far from having been a frivolous firebird, I was a rigid moralist: kicking sin, cuffing stupidity, ridiculing the vulgar and cruel—and assigning sovereign power to tenderness, talent and pride.

passed, hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington—through the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we were told, rests on the foundation of man’s inalienable right to life, LIBERTY, and the pursuit of happiness! Hail! Columbia, happy land, indeed!

So we passed, hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington—through the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told, rests on the foundation of man’s inalienable right to life, LIBERTY, and the pursuit of happiness ! Hail ! Columbia, happy land, indeed

Teela turned to Severn. "I'm having trouble remembering why I haven't strangled her yet." Severn shrugged. "I have that problem myself some days. At the moment, though, the only betting pool in the office seems to be on the Sergeant." "Ha-ha." Kaylin said with a distinct lack of cheer. And then, because she was a fiefling, "What odds?" He cuffed the top of her head.

His pager beeped, and he looked at the readout. “I have to get back to Deal. Do you have any secret weapons in your arsenal? You want to make any last-ditch efforts at apprehension?” Ugh. He was so smug! “I hate you,” I said. “No, you don’t,” Ranger said, kissing me lightly on the lips. “Why did you agree to meet me?” Our eyes locked for a moment. And then he cuffed me. Both hands behind my back.

When I get back to L.A. I'm going to buy myself a Blackberry and a slew of French-cuffed shirts. Possibly a nipple ring.

We stare at each other, the Iron Demon and the Iron Widow, our arms cuffed, a crown of gun barrels around our heads, trapped among soldiers and fog and battle sounds.

With that, Quincy brought the bowie knife down on Moon's cuffed hand and chopped off four fingers which flew up before my eyes like chips from a log. Moon screamed and a rifle ball shattered the lantern in front of me and struck Quincy in the neck, causing hot blood to spurt on my face. My thought was: I am better out of this.

Jacob accepted the situation. What else could he do? Furious, Rachel yelled at Adah, who cuffed her and told her to take her temper elsewhere. Rachel, in turn, slapped Bilhah, cursed at Zilpah, and snarled at Leah. She even kicked dust at Jacob’s feet, calling him a liar and a coward before bursting into pretty tears on his neck.

So we passed, hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington through the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told, rests on the foundation of man's inalienable right to life, LIBERTY, and the pursuit of happiness! Hail! Columbia, happy land, indeed!

So we passed, hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington through the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told, rests on the foundation of man’s inalienable right to life, LIBERTY, and the pursuit of happiness! Hail! Columbia, happy land, indeed!

If you like being cuffed, I have no problem accommodating you, baby.” “Actually,” she returned, drawing the word out, “I was thinking I would cuff you.” She held her breath. Any minute now, he’d scoff at her request and this charade would be over. Funny, she wasn’t quite as ready to walk away as she had been moments ago. In fact, the thought of Brent’s big body, restrained by handcuffs, was surprisingly appealing. That fluttering in her stomach had graduated into a constant tug, confusing her further. “Done.” Hayden hid her shock as Brent leaned close and spoke gruffly near her ear. “Be warned, though. If you take away the use of my hands, I’ll only make up for it with my mouth.

The trousers were miles too long, even when Peter cuffed the legs. The socks bagged in the ankles, and the shirt and sweater were equally large. But when Peter finally managed to get the collars to lie right and glanced at the reflection he'd carved out of the dust on James's mirror, a shock went through him. This was the face which had haunted him all his life, the one he had looked in the eye on the day he left the Darling house for the last time. The hair, messy and short, enthusiastically curling without the weight of his old braid to drag it down. The stubborn chin. The clear, sharp, sullen eyes full of everything he had never been allowed to be. Peter ran his hands over himself slowly, breathing tentatively, feeling the weight of his chest under his shirt. He had given this body up. He had thought it belonged to Wendy, to the girl he wasn't. He had let his family make him believe that the only way he would ever be a boy was to be born again in a different shape, leaving everything of his body and history behind. He breathed out and settled in the feeling of being himself, of being something whole.

Oh boy,” Lula said when she saw me. “Think we got a good story walking in the door, here. What’s with the handcuff?” “I thought it would look good with the cheese balls in my hair. You know, dress up the outfit.” “I hope it was Morelli,” Connie said. “I wouldn’t mind being cuffed by Morelli.” “Close,” I said. “It was Ranger.” “Uh-oh,” Lula said. “Think I just wet my pants.” “It wasn’t anything sexual,” I said. “It was … an accident. And then we lost the key.” Connie fanned herself with a manila folder. “I’m having a hot flash.

Andrew pressed two fingers to the underside of Nathaniel's chin to turn his head. Nathaniel let himself be guided and said nothing while Andrew looked his fill. When Andrew dropped his hand and clenched it in Nathaniel's hoodie, Nathaniel risked looking back at him. There was violence in Andrew's eyes, but at least he hadn't shoved Nathaniel away yet. That had to count for something. "I'm sorry," Nathaniel said. Andrew's fist went back, but he didn't take the swing. Nathaniel knew it wasn't because that was the hand cuffed to Wymack; Andrew's arm actually shook with the effort it took to not knock Nathaniel's head off his neck. Nathaniel said nothing to tip the balance either way. At length Andrew uncurled his fingers and let his hand hang limp from the cuff. "Say it again and I will kill you," he said.

He reached over and tweaked one of my bumps, then cuffed me on the chin. “You hiding walnuts in there or something?” “Shut up,” I said. I jumped in and swam the length of the pool, hiding my smile underwater. He was a flirt, that was all. What was wrong with that? If Mrs. Masicotte was stupid enough to buy us a pool because he flirted a little, that was her problem, not ours.

Granddad said I needed to get some muscles because I was looking gay these days. No, he didn't really say that. Speaking of which, here's Parrish.' Someone cuffed the back of Adam's head. He blinked up. One way, then the other. His assailant had come up on Adam's deaf side. 'Oh,' Adam said. It was Tad Carruthers, whose worst fault was that Adam didn't like him and Tad couldn't tell. 'Oh,' mimicked Tad benevolently, as if Adam's standoffish-ness charmed him. Adam wanted desperately and masochistically for Tad to ask him where he had summered. Instead, Tad turned to where Ronan was still reclined with his eyes closed. He lifted a hand to cuff Ronan's head but lost his nerve an inch into the swing. Instead, he just drummed on Ronan's desk and moved on.

I must have made a noise, but the next thing I remember is being on my knees with my head low and a big, warm hand on the back of my neck. Adam’s scent, rich and exotic, was all around me, giving me his strength to calm my queasy stomach. I don’t think I lost consciousness completely, but it was a near thing. When I lifted my head, the red wolf stuck his nose in my face and ran a long tongue over my cheek before Adam cuffed him lightly. I got to my feet with Adam’s help, but stood on my own. Adam reloaded the automatic when I handed him a fresh clip—though he grinned when I took it out of my bra. I think I was glad I couldn’t hear well enough to decipher what he said.

In other words, he looked like uniformed police hotness, and she wasn’t entirely uninterested in being cuffed. Wait. That’s a bad thought. I don’t mean it. She took him in again, her throat suddenly dry. Well, she didn’t exactly not mean it, but she knew better than to want it.

Can I borrow a cup of sugar?” Her smile grows mischievous. “Is that a euphemism? Please say yes.

She went along with whatever I did, but I wanted something less generous and more… dubiously consensual. Like cuffing a passed-out woman to my guest room bed.

cuffed in the backseat of Early’s El Camino.

You'll be the death of me," he whispered before cuffing her hands together, then pushed her down on all fours.

You really are F****** arresting, love, but I reckon I'll be the one doing the cuffing tonight.

I sit with my wrists cuffed to the table and I think, But that I am forbid / To tell the secrets of my prison-house, / I could a tale unfold whose lightest word / Would harrow up thy soul.

I fucked her out of anger, and then cuffed her to the bed, left her naked and exposed, and didn’t let her speak.” Hadley goes stiff beside me. “You didn’t,” she says in a harsh whisper, her teeth grinding.

Annie Wilkes had her own interior set of rules; in her way she was strangely prim. She had made him drink water from a floor-bucket; had withheld his medication until he was in agony; had made him burn the only copy of his new novel; had hand-cuffed him and stuck a rag reeking of furniture polish in his mouth; but she would not take the money from his wallet. She brought it to him, the old scuffed Lord Buxton he’d had since college, and put it in his hands. All

my amazement, another car beat us there. They were cuffing the offender, so it was my duty to console the “half-naked woman.” (You know—We Serve and Protect.) Turned out to be a half-naked post-operative transsexual prostitute. I guess

Thorne cuffed his sleeves. “Never underestimate the stealth of a criminal mastermind.” Scarlet started laughing from where she sat cross-legged on a plastic storage crate, enjoying a bowl of oatmeal. “‘Criminal mastermind’? We’ve been trying to figure out how to infiltrate the royal wedding for the past week, and so far your biggest contribution has been determining which of the palace rooftops is the most spacious so your precious ship doesn’t get scratched in the landing.

Shortly before school started, I moved into a studio apartment on a quiet street near the bustle of the downtown in one of the most self-conscious bends of the world. The “Gold Coast” was a neighborhood that stretched five blocks along the lake in a sliver of land just south of Lincoln Park and north of River North. The streets were like fine necklaces and strung together were the brownstone houses and tall condominiums and tiny mansions like pearls, and when the day broke and the sun faded away, their lights burned like jewels shining gaudily in the night. The world’s most elegant bazaar, Michigan Avenue, jutted out from its eastern tip near The Drake Hotel and the timeless blue-green waters of Lake Michigan pressed its shores. The fractious make-up of the people that inhabited it, the flat squareness of its parks and the hint of the lake at the ends of its tree-lined streets squeezed together a domesticated cesspool of age and wealth and standing. It was a place one could readily dress up for an expensive dinner at one of the fashionable restaurants or have a drink miles high in the lounge of the looming John Hancock Building and five minutes later be out walking on the beach with pants cuffed and feet in the cool water at the lake’s edge.

You came up this gut-wrenching road yesterday by yourself?" Cassie exclaimed. "You deserve a good cuffing just for driving this goat path on your own." "It's not so bad once you get used to dodging the ruts." "You've got some nerve calling these canyons ruts." "Cassandra Hudson, where is your sense of adventure?" "I dropped it off going over that last rut-crossing when only two wheels were on the ground." "Those ones are a bit exhilarating, aren't they?" Alexandra shot Cassie a quick look and wink.  "Keep your eyes on the road!" "What road?" "Exactly!

Lula fired off a shot that went wide, and Poletti charged Briggs. Grandma swung her purse just as Poletti swept past her. The big black patent leather bag caught Poletti on the side of the head, and Poletti staggered and crashed to the ground. Ranger cuffed him, and the three cops took over.

They all jumped on me and started beating me. They had me on the floor—eventually my arms and legs were chained. They dragged me by the chains to PSA and stopped only when a nurse asked them to please stop. So they put me on a mattress and dragged the mattress. They took me to the observation room and left me, hands and feet cuffed. I had no sanitary napkins, no means to wash myself. The cuffs cut into my skin (the scars are still visible), and my wrists were bleeding. Later i found out that i had received an infraction for slapping an officer in the face while they were beating me.

though her hands were still cuffed in front of her. She found the poker, the only weapon in the room, then once it was at her side, located her clothes. Fighting pain, she stepped into her jeans, socks, and boots, but she couldn’t bother with her sweater, bra, or jacket. She had to keep her arms free.

In the dim sunset Perceval looked the glade over and said, “Does your lady wife think so little of sending you out on deadly errands?” Sir Gareth unstrapped the blanket from behind his saddle. “It’s our fourth child. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” “Of course,” Perceval said with a grin, “even dragonfire might burn less hot than my lady aunt’s temper.” Sir Gareth cuffed Perceval across the ear. “For that piece of insolence, youngster, you take the first watch. And be glad you are so tender in years that I dare not risk my honour upon you in single combat to prove my Lynet as sweet-tempered as she should be.

My friends ask Allah for such death. When u depart, Allah is happy. Let it not be a death where it is like a criminal who has being recaptured and he is being cuffed and taken away. Ask Allah for a good death, and spend your life such that you are worthy of it. Such that Death becomes a mercy for us. Allah is joyous with our return.

But remember, you don’t need to know the details of her past to love her heart in the present.

Are you going to read it?” I ask. “Or just stand there making me sexually frustrated.

What do you want, Mac?” ... “You,” he whispers. “Just you.” “For what?” I’m so confused right now. “For everything.

There have to be men in the world with good hearts and dirty minds. There just have to be.

If you forgive, a longer and a better life you’ll live. Don’t go through life holding bad feelings about someone.

Make up your mind as she makes up her face She'll never really know her place You'll lay on her frame and give her a new name And bless her with all you can spare Empty as wire, violent as fire You'll carve her out of thin air She's crashed home and cruised your world But you can't get the Belfast out of the girl This is how you throw her, you think you know her Empty as wire, violent as fire She hasn't left you yet but she will By airplane ticket or kill-me pills Sewn into her dress, she can't refuse (careful what you love, what you abuse) She knows violence, she knows please Her hands for cuffing and she says nothing And hooks her hands behind her knees You fuck her flag and feel it unfurl But you can't get the Belfast out of the girl.

Look, guys, I know you mean well and you’re doing your job, but it’d be better for everyone if you all got back in your cars and drove away. Pretend like this never happened. I promise I’m not going to blow anything up and the most un-American thing I’ve ever done is root for South Korea in speed skating during the Olympics. This whole thing falls so far out of your jurisdiction it’s not even funny.” I pictured the officers cuffing Reth and reading him his rights, then trying to detain Cresseda. “Okay, it’s a little funny. But seriously. As far as you’re all concerned, I’m just a teen girl who is really far behind on planning for the dance decorating committee. And also dating an invisible boy.” “Orders are orders,” the mustachioed man said gruffly, elbowing the men around him and startling them out of their paranormal-induced stupor. “We’re taking you in.” He walked down the steps. I sighed. “Don’t make me call the dragon.” He laughed, and so did most of the others, but a few looked back at Lend and the blood drained from their faces. “Look, kid, I’m with you. I think this is all a mistake, maybe even a clerical error. We’ll figure it out at the station.” Arianna swore, stamping her foot. “That’s it! She put her fingers to her lips and let out a shrill, earsplitting whistle. A rush of wind engulfed us as the dragon in all its serpentine glory snaked out of the trees, settling onto the ground and rearing up to stare down at all of us. I thought I’d learn a few new words, but the men were too shocked to even swear this time.

principal was on the stage singing and leading us in the old song “On the Road to Mandalay.” He would emphasize by winking after each line of the song like some vaudeville singer. Being so tall I stood out and he could look right at me. So every time he would wink I would imitate him and wink back at him. When we got done with the assembly he told me to wait in his office for him. I went and sat there in the chair in front of his desk. He was a pretty big man, my height, only he outweighed me. He walked into the office, came up behind me, and cuffed me hard on the back of the head just the way my father used to whenever I lost one of his beer bets for him. “You fat fuck,” I said and jumped up and decked him. I broke his jaw, and they expelled me permanently on the spot. Naturally,

Our ghoulish mission was to search for bodies. It was rich hunting that day and the many thereafter. We started on a small scale—here a leg, there an arm, and an occasional baby—but struck a mother lode before noon. We cut our way through a basement wall to discover a reeking hash of over one hundred human beings. Flame must have swept through before the building’s collapse sealed the exits, because the flesh of those within resembled the texture of prunes. Our job, it was explained, was to wade into the shambles and bring forth the remains. Encouraged by cuffing and guttural abuse, wade in we did. We did exactly that, for the floor was covered with an unsavory broth from burst water mains and viscera. A number of victims, not killed outright, had attempted to escape through a narrow emergency exit. At any rate, there were several bodies packed tightly into the passageway. Their leader had made it halfway up the steps before he was buried up to his neck in falling brick and plaster. He was about fifteen, I think.

The Captain wouldn’t know donkeys from trained baboons. How can a sailor know of good breeding?” She narrowed her eyes and studied them again as if discovering something new this time. “But, then again, their posture is exceptional. They stare at me as if I were beneath them. But they’re filthy and smell like pigs. They need cleaning up, that’s for certain. A hot bath and scrubbed several times. Fresh clothes and clean hair… perhaps they might shape up into something presentable. You there.” She pointed at Rikar. “You look greatly displeased. Where are you from? Tell me your story.” Rikar raised his haughty eyes to the woman. “Who rules this place? We’re no slaves.“ The soldier cuffed Rikar. “Answer the lady!”  “None of that violence is needed. Get out of here, I can handle them. Go on, now.” She shooed the soldier away and turned back to Rikar as if measuring his worth. “A young prince? The lot of you from royalty… I can see it in your eyes. The arrogance and the irritation. No slave would ever dare hold such feelings. What are you doing here in

What’s going to happen to me?” he asked. “That depends on what you did,” I said. “I got a letter,” he said. “Getting mail isn’t a crime.” “From a friend of a friend.” “Tell me about the letter.” “There’s a man in Sofia,” he said.           He sat there, hunched forward, his wrists cuffed to the chair legs, and he told us the story of the letter. The way he framed it, he made it sound like he thought there was something uniquely Bulgarian about it. But there wasn’t, really. It was a story that could have been told by any of us.

My wrists were shackled and cuffed together, a heavy chain linking them to the leg irons around my ankles. For a moment, I imagined wrapping that chain around all their necks, but then I unclenched my fists and placed the palms of my hands together as if to pray. I wasn’t a murderer. Never had been, never would be. I looked over at the jury, at McGregor, who stared back at me with hatred and self-righteousness, at the judge, who looked overheated and bored. I had spent a good many years testifying for God in church, and now it was

I hear him moving about in his apartment. He sighs, and even that is sexy. It’s a warm night, so naturally I hear him step outside to take in the breeze. “You peeping over here at me, Copper?” I call out. He peeks over the divider, all cute-like. “That depends. Are you topless?” He asks this somewhat hopefully.

I lift my chin and let myself stare into his eyes. “One of these days it’s all going to catch up with you.” “Not today, though,” he rasps, nailing the line, then trapping my hips against his, pinning me in place. It’s like the erotic version of the Star Wars trash compactor scene. Don’t judge my metaphors. It’s a classic

We’ve been talking on the phone for a few days, and I gotta admit the shit was refreshing. One night I caught myself lying flat on the floor with my legs going up the wall, cheesing on the phone like I was in middle school. Shit had me feeling gay as fuck. So, I had to go out and shoot a nigga in the middle of the night to get my gangsta back.

Huffing in annoyance at the interruption, not only at Charlie, but at herself for being annoyed with Charlie, Ari nodded. “Jai, I command you to be able to talk again. Or whatever.” He made a face at the ‘or whatever’ part and cleared his throat. “I… great, I can talk again.” “Well.” Charlie shrugged. “Paradise could only last so long, right.” Getting up from the table, shaking a little at her unraveling, Ari cuffed Charlie across the head. “Be nice.” “Tell him to be nice!” “I can’t,” she snorted, looking back over her shoulder at them. “If I did that he’d actually have to be nice… it would be like re-writing his entire personality.” Jai grunted. “Funny.” Charlie chuckled. “I thought so.

I was debating what I might have in my deep glassy lake to use—Barrons had slurped down my crimson runes like truffles—when Ryodan called down, “Let her up.” I tipped my head back. The urbane owner of the largest den of sex, drugs, and exotic thrills in the city stood behind the chrome balustrade, big hands closed on the chrome railing, thick wrists cuffed by silver, features darkened by a convenient shadow. He looked like a scarred Gucci model. Whatever kind of life these men had lived before they’d become whatever they were, it had been violent and hard. Like them. “Why?” Lor demanded. “I said so.” “Not time for the meeting yet.” “She wants to see her parents. She’s going to insist.” “So?” “She thinks she has something to prove. She’s feeling pushy.” “Gee, this is nice. I don’t even have to talk,” I purred.

She feigned to reach for the pen, but instead swung her bound hands in the other direction, slamming them into Xenocrates’s gut. He folded with an “oomf,” and she sprang from her chair, ramming her shoulder against Mandela, knocking him backward and out the front door. She leaped over him, and immediately a swarm of guards came at her. Now she needed every ounce of her training. Her hands were cuffed, but Bokator was more about elbows and legs than it was about hands. She didn’t need to decimate them, all she needed to do was disarm them and keep them off balance. One came at her with a jolt baton that she kicked out of his hand. Another had a club, which missed its mark as she dodged, and she used his momentum to flip him onto his back. Two others didn’t waste time with weapons; they lunged for her, hands outstretched—a textbook case of how not to attack. She dropped

Don’t cry, Evie.” He rubbed his broad hands on her back, gentling her. “Those things are not true. You aren’t a whore.” She choked. “I’m here aren’t I? At Ford’s?” John always knew exactly how to hurt her. Charley held her away from him, honest intensity in his chocolate eyes. He spoke deliberately, his tone serious. “I know you’re not a whore because I don’t often get denied. Nine out of ten people, man or woman, would have fucked me on the spot when I offered it the first time.” Her mouth dropped open and for a moment she forgot her emotions. He grinned and his eyes twinkled with mischief. Balling her fist, she cuffed him on the chest. Hard. “Ouch!” “You’re an asshole.” She was laughing through her tears. “That’s your whore test?” “No! God, of course not! That’s just my you-have-a-pulse test. My whore test is much more hard-core. I can give you that one if you want. But…” He made a show of looking around the room. “We’re going to need some lube. And possibly some plastic sheeting.” He got up and opened one of the dresser drawers. “Do you have a video recorder with a wide-angle lens? And a zucchini?

Come on. Let’s go upstairs.” She snaps out of her surprise. “What? No. You can leave.” “I can’t.” “You can.” She stands and points at the back door. I move around the table to her, and her throat bobs as she swallows hard, but she doesn’t back away from me. Good. “I can’t leave until I know.” I stop just in front of her, her head tilted back so she can hold my gaze. “Until you know what?” If this is real. Because it feels so fucking real to me that I can’t breathe without thinking your name. “How you got this scar.” I run my fingertips along her hairline.

Holland was sitting on the cot with his back to the wall, his head resting on his drawn-up knees. One hand was cuffed to the wall, the chain hanging like a leash. His skin had taken on a greyish pallor—the sea clearly wasn’t agreeing with him—and his black hair, Kell realized, was streaked with new bright silver, as if shedding Osaron had cost him something vital. But what surprised Kell most was the simple fact that Holland was asleep. Kell had never seen Holland lower his guard, never seen him relaxed, let alone unconscious. And yet, he wasn’t entirely still. The muscles in the other Antari’s arms twitched, his breath hitching, as though he were trapped in a bad dream. Kell held his breath as he lifted the chair out of the way and stepped into the room. Holland didn’t stir when Kell neared, nor when he knelt in front of the bed. “Holland?” said Kell quietly, but the man didn’t shift. It wasn’t until Kell’s hand touched Holland’s arm that the man woke. His head snapped up and he pulled suddenly away, or tried to, his shoulders hitting the cabin wall. For a moment his gaze was wide and empty, his body coiled, his mind somewhere else. It lasted only a second, but in that sliver of time, Kell saw fear. A deep, trained fear, the kind beaten into animals who’d once bitten their masters, Holland’s careful composure slipping to reveal the tension beneath. And then he blinked, once, twice, eyes focusing. “Kell.” He exhaled sharply, his posture shifting back into a mimicry of calm, control, as he wrestled with whatever demons haunted his sleep. “Vos och?” he demanded brusquely in his own tongue. What is it?

Legs? Check. I am five foot seven, after all. They’re slender but not too skinny. I run every morning, so my legs have always been slightly muscled, but in a feminine way — at least I hope they look feminine; bulky is not a word I’d want someone to use. I think the not too short, but short enough to still be very stylish, pleated and thickly cuffed navy blue shorts show my legs off nicely. My cork and white wedges with a cute little bow at each ankle are the perfect finishing touch. A simple dove-gray ribbed tank completes the outfit and hugs my curves. Maybe there is something to Mel’s theory after all.  My golden-blonde hair is sun-kissed in the summer, and its soft waves cascade to the middle of my back. I usually have it up, but tonight Melanie insisted that I leave it down and wavy. I let her play Barbie, and I can’t say I hate it. The real show-stopper, though, is my eyes. They’re a bright, vibrant green. They look almost fake, but as I lean into the mirror to get a closer look, I catch small little flecks of gold around the outside that I know no contact lens could replicate. I have always loved my eyes. I have my mother’s eyes. I’ve seen them in the few pictures I have from my childhood. Even if my eyes were the murkiest, dingiest, dullest brown, I still would have loved them, as long as they were my mother’s. It’s really the only thing I have left of her.  I gave in on the hair and let Melanie have a field day, but I insisted on keeping my makeup simple — a soft pale pink blush, clear lip gloss, and a light dusting of gold eye shadow is all I need. A quick swipe of some mascara, and the look is complete.

Is Joanna Gaines here? We have a warrant here for her arrest,” the officer said. It was the tickets. I knew it. And I panicked. I picked up my son and I hid in the closet. I literally didn’t know what to do. I’d never even had a speeding ticket, and all of a sudden I’m thinking, I’m about to go to prison, and my child won’t be able to eat. What is this kid gonna do? I heard Chip say, “She’s not here.” Thankfully, Drake didn’t make a peep, and the officer believed him. He said, “Well, just let her know we’re looking for her,” and they left. Jo’s the most conservative girl in the world. She had never even been late for school. I mean, this girl was straitlaced. So now we realize there’s a citywide warrant out for her arrest, and we’re like, “Oh, crap.” In her defense, Jo had wanted to pay those tickets off all along, and I was the one saying, “No way. I’m not paying these tickets.” So we decided to try to make it right. We called the judge, and the court clerk told us, “Okay, you have an appointment at three in the afternoon to discuss the tickets. See you then.” We wanted to ask the judge if he could remove a few of them for us. “The fines for our dogs “running at large” on our front porch just seemed a bit excessive. We arrived at the courthouse, and Chip was carrying Drake in his car seat. I couldn’t carry it because I was still recovering from Drake’s delivery. We got inside and spoke to a clerk. They looked at the circumstances and decided to switch all the tickets into Chip’s name. Those dogs were basically mine, and it didn’t make sense to have the tickets in her name. But as soon as they did that, this police officer walked over and said, “Hey, do you mind emptying out all of your pockets?” I got up and cooperated. “Absolutely. Yep,” I said. I figured it was just procedure before we went in to see the judge. Then he said, “Yeah, you mind taking off your belt?” I thought, That’s a little weird. Then he said, “Do you mind turning around and putting your hands behind your back?” They weren’t going to let us talk to the judge at all. The whole thing was just a sting to get us to come down there and be arrested. They arrested Chip on the spot. And I’m sitting there saying, “I can’t carry this baby in his car seat. What am I supposed to do?” I started bawling. “You can’t take him!” I cried. But they did. They took him right outside and put him in the back of a police car. Now I feel like the biggest loser in the world. I’m in the back of a police car as my crying wife comes out holding our week-old baby. I’m walking out, limping, and waving to him as they drive away. And I can’t even wave because my hands are cuffed behind my back. So here I am awkwardly trying to make a waving motion with my shoulder and squinching my face just to try to make Jo feel better. It was just the most comical thing, honestly. A total joke. To take a man to jail because his dogs liked to walk around a neighborhood, half of which he owns? But it sure wasn’t funny at the time. I was flooded with hormones and just could not stop crying. They told me they were taking my husband to the county jail. Luckily we had a buddy who was an attorney, so I called him. I was clueless. “I’ve never dated a guy that’s been in trouble, and now I’ve got a husband that’s in jail.

Change Your Look With These Top Notch Fashion Tips In fashion, there aren't any set rules. There is no one right way to be fashionable. Read a lot of different sources and then take what you've learned, pick it apart and use the tips that are best for you. Continue reading to learn great advice that you can tailor to your own wants and needs. If you like a shirt or skirt think about getting it in more than one color. Because clothes come in so many varying cuts and styles, you're likely find it difficult to find clothes that fit well for your body type. When you do just get more than one so that you can feel great more often. If you have thick or very curly hair, using a gel product will help you to create the style you desire. Work the product into towel-dried hair and then style it as you want. You can allow it to dry naturally, or use a hair drier. This is especially helpful in humid weather. In today's business world, it is imperative that men be well dressed. Therefore, it is essential to shop for top drawer clothing when buying clothes for your next interview. To begin your search, look through today's business magazines to ensure your wardrobe matches the top executives. Look for whether men are wearing cuffed pants or hemmed pants, ties with designs or solid ties as well as what type of shoe is currently in style. Skimpy tops are comfortable to wear in hot weather, but be careful if you are a big busted gal. Your figure needs good support, and you will feel more secure if you wear a sports bra under a lightweight top that has skinny straps and no shape of its own. Don't overstock your beauty kit with makeup. Just choose a few colors that match the season. Consider your needs for day and evening applications. Makeup can go bad if it's opened, just like other products. Bacteria can build on it, too. Have yourself professionally fitted for a bra. An ill-fitting brassiere is not only unflattering, but it affects how your clothing fits. Once you know your true size, buy a few bras in different styles and cuts. A plunge or demi-cup bra, a strapless bra, and a convertible bra give you versatile options. The thing about fashion is that it's a very easy topic once you get to know a little bit about it. Use the ideas you like and ignore the rest. It's okay not to follow every trend. Breaking away from the trends is better if you desire to be unique.

She didn't realize she was weeping until the brother's pained whisper broke the choking silence. "Are they for me?" Her nose was running now. She sniffed, sniffed again, flashed a smile that was too quick, too false. "Are what for you?" "Why, your tears, of course." Oh, Lord. She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak for fear she'd give in to the great, wracking pain that threatened to burst from her. This man, suffering so quietly, so bravely, did not deserve to see tears; he needed hope, comfort, encouragement from her, not an appalling display of weakness. She suddenly felt selfish and ashamed — and guilty, too. After all, the tears were not even for him, poor man. They were for Charles. "I'm not crying," she managed, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her sleeve and staring out the window to hide the evidence. "No?"  He gave a weak smile. "Perhaps I should see for myself." And then she felt them; his fingers, brushing her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern, tracing the slippery track of her sorrow. It was a caress — achingly kind, gentle, sweet. She stiffened and caught his hand, holding it away from her face and shutting her eyes on a deep, bracing breath lest that dam of her self-control break for good. She managed to get herself under control, and when she finally dared meet his gaze, she saw that he was looking quietly up at her, at her distressed face and the tears she was trying so valiantly to hold back. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, gently. She shook her head. "Are you quite certain?" "Lord Gareth, you're the one who's hurt, not me." "No. That is not true."  His eyes searching her face, he touched her other cheek, the one the highwayman had cuffed, his whole manner one of such gentle, selfless concern that she wanted to lash out at someone, something, for this injustice that had been done to him. "I saw that … that scoundrel strike you. If I could kill him all over again for that, I would. Why, your poor cheek still bears the mark of his hand...." "I am fine." "But —" "Dear heavens, Lord Gareth, must you keep at it so?" The words had come out angrier than she intended. She saw the sudden shadow of confusion that moved across his eyes, and a sharp pang of remorse lanced her heart for having put it there. Her anger was not for him, but at the fates that had taken first one of these dashing brothers and would now, most likely, take another. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. And here he was worried about her cheek, her silly, stupid cheek, when his life's blood was oozing all over her skirts and onto the seat, and his flesh was feeling colder and clammier by the moment. She wanted to cry. Wanted to put her head in her hands and bawl until all the grief and pain and rage and loneliness still locked inside her was purged. But she did not. Instead, she took a deep breath and met his questioning gaze. Same romantic eyes. Same kindness in their depths, same concern for other people. Oh, God ... help me. "I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head. "That was unfair. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm so sorry...." "Please, don't be."  He smiled, weakly. "Besides, if those tears are for me, I can assure you there is no need to waste them so. I shall not die.

Today my elation over Obama's election is tempered by a far more sobering awareness. As an African American woman, with three young children who will never know a world in which a black man could not be president of the United States, I was beyond thrilled on election night. Yet when I walked out of the election night party, full of hope and enthusiasm, I was immediately reminded of the harsh realities of the New Jim Crow. A black man was on his knees in the gutter, hands cuffed behind his back, as several police officers stood around him talking, joking, and ignoring his human existence. People poured out of the building; many stared for a moment at the black man cowering in the street, and then averted their gaze. What did the election of Barack Obama mean for him?

You’re pregnant?” The words came out choked. “It would seem so.” He placed the stick on the table and stood. Her stomach dropped. Hell, she hadn’t expected him to walk out, but she’d give him space if it was what he needed. Her demon would prefer to just slap him. Taking Harper by surprise, his hand cuffed her wrist and he gently pulled her to her feet. Then his hands were in her hair and his mouth was on hers. Hard. Hungry. Consuming her. Freeing her mouth, Knox rested his forehead on hers and splayed a hand on her flat stomach. “You’re pregnant?” She licked her lips. “I’m pregnant.” He swallowed. “We’re not calling it Lucifer.” A shaky laugh bubbled out of her.

It takes brutality and force to make a person work for free and live in the type of conditions we live in and not do anything about it,” Ray said. “The only way they made slavery work was to use force. It is no different in the slave empire of prisons. They use brutality to hold it together. And this brutality will not go away until the system goes away.” “They stood me up against the wall [with my hands cuffed behind me],” Pleasant said. “There were about ten officers. They started swinging, punching, and hitting me with sticks. They knocked my legs out from under me. My face hit the floor. They stomped on my face. They sent me to the infirmary to hide what they did, for thirty days. When I looked in the mirror I could not recognize my facial features. This was the fourth time I was beaten like this.

My mind is high on this musical buzz and ill be forever cuffed to my lyrical love

When the headmen walked out of the gate in front, beyond the delicate and civilized little white fence, they were met and surrounded by soldiers and the soldiers reached out to them in a moving confusion of blue woolen arms and boots. The headmen were disarmed and handcuffed. A man named Big Tree fought for a short while but three soldiers flattened him on the ground and cuffed his hands behind him. A revolver fell from beneath the buffalo robe of Eaten Alive and it went off with a startling bang but nobody was hit. A soldier picked it up delicately by the grip between thumb and forefinger. He said that Agent Hammond might want to make out a receipt for this but the sergeant told him to shut up. The men walked away between the soldiers quietly and stepped into the army transport wagon. It was not dignified to struggle. The women and children had scattered to the horses and within moments they were gone. Jiles, Paulette. The Color of Lightning: A Novel (p. 306). HarperCollins e-books. Kindle Edition.

Sierra’s eyes flashed amber, the familiar color of her wolf, one his own had responded to all these years. “Don’t discredit yourself, Kelly,” she said, cuffing his shoulder. “No one happens to call me on my shit like you do. However, I also know I can’t keep you here. I’ve been so wrapped up in Dax and the changes to the pack I overlooked one of the most important members.

met a kid who was cuffed to the door handle of a police car outside the gig. He was there early to catch soundcheck and the cop busted him drinking a beer in the parking lot. I hung out with the guy and gave him some water. It was strange to be talking with this guy who was standing in the sun tied to a car. I guess the pig figured he was teaching him a lesson. That taught me plenty.

Another curious aspect of medieval justice was the method of impressing dates and decisions on witnesses’ memories, since written records were scanty or inaccessible. Boys who served as witnesses were solemnly cuffed and flogged to vivify their memory until old age.

Stop what?” “Looking at me like that. Like…like you want to eat me up.” “As a matter of fact I would love to eat you,” he rumbled, his golden eyes half-lidded now. “Vorn and Eloim both are very partial to pleasing their lovers with their tongues. There is no finer flavor than a wet and willing female.” “I didn’t mean like that.” My cheeks were getting hotter and hotter and I couldn’t help crossing my legs. “What’s wrong?” He looked surprised. “Don’t you enjoy letting a male taste you?” As a matter of fact, I didn’t. It always made me intensely uncomfortable whenever I let a guy try it—not that many had offered. Scott couldn’t be bothered and the boyfriend I’d had in college had done nothing but a few perfunctory licks before deciding he’d done his duty and it was time to get down to actual sex, which was always the main event, of course. But there was no way I was telling Sarden all that. “Don’t talk like that to me,” I said, lifting my chin and frowning at him. “If my hands weren’t cuffed, I’d slap your face.” If I could reach it, that was. “Really?” He frowned. “Don’t you give open and honest sexual compliments on Earth?” “Not unless you’re a freaking construction worker,” I snapped. “It’s considered rude and invasive.” He

He sat the medical bag next to him on the couch and placed his hands under my wrist and lifted them. He leveled my wrist and hands near our eye level. “Because of this shit. I promised you at least your well-being. Marks and bruises are going to happen, but I try to never break the skin and you didn’t ask for this.” My wrists were red and raw from being cuffed, but I was fine.

I’ve spent the last twenty years shutting myself off from all emotion—all feelings when it comes to anyone of the opposite sex—and in a span of one week’s time, I’ve let Grant change that. My black-and-white world has color seeping into its edges. I love and hate it all at the same time. It makes me feel alive inside when, until now, I hadn’t realized I had been dead.

I’m not letting anyone control me or any situation regardless of what one particularly annoying male may think.” His chuckle fills the line again, and I hate that with as mad as I am at him, it’s still sexy as hell. “You sure about that?” “Damn sure.” “You might want to double-check that hill you’re willing to die on.” “Why’s that?” I narrow my brow as I stare out at his cruiser. “Because I’ve already gotten what I came for.” “Yeah? What’s that?” “You to be thinking about me.” The line goes dead.

is July, after all. But the air-conditioning is on high, and she feels cold and exposed. With her wrists cuffed, all she can do is clasp her hands together and hold her forearms up to cover her breasts. It looks like she’s praying.

A relative named Isaac comes for Thanksgiving and I am fighting off memories of that night each time someone calls his name. My partner says she is taking a nap; there he is again, hands cuffed behind his back, an angry scowl on his face, pulling me into that deep, traumatic memory. It lives at the core of who I am, bubbling in my guts, squishing my lungs, choking me. The association can come so fast at times—rap, cap, nap, Knapper, father, murder, death. I run fast and furiously away; it will not get me, cannot get me, but it is always nipping at my heels ready to swallow me whole if only I stop. I do not stop.

she stepped back into a fighting posture, hands raised, jaw set. The man in the middle reached inside his loose-fitting jacket. They swept forward. Ten yards away. Behind them a form swung down from the metal overhang and crouched on the landing to break his fall, one hand pressed to the concrete. Soundless. * * * Evan couldn’t fire his ARES. Not with Joey in the background. But that was okay. He was eager to use his hands. Joey spotted him through the gap between the advancing men. They read her eyes, the change in her stance. They turned. Three men. One pistol drawn, two on the way. Evan moved on the gun first. A jujitsu double-hand parry to a figure-four arm bar, the pleasing snap-snap of wrist and elbow breaking, and— —Jack sways in the Black Hawk, hands cuffed behind him, wind blasting his hair when— —the pistol skittered free across the tracks, the guy on his knees, his

Automatically, as it had begun to do in these situations, her brain separated itself, like taking a box out of a box, leaving the original in its place and moving the latter over parallel to the original, though slightly askew. Photographer versus wife, picture taker versus the woman who wanted to scream in the street, who wanted to take the rifles these olive boys wore slung so casually over shoulders and narrow hips and turn them on their owners. And so the entire scene, (five minutes in real time, eternity on celluloid) laid itself out for her in freeze frame. Click, Casey cuffed now to the side of the lorry, morning light washing him over rose and silver and gold, half-naked and barefoot in the street; an Irish man in an Irish street in the twentieth century, hard to countenance and yet there for the clicking, there for the taking. Take the shot, take the picture, leave the pain, it interferes with the work, work now, bleed on the weekends, in the nights, in the quiet, that’s what Lucas had taught her.

I was on my own to cover the hundreds of patients there, some of the sickest of the sick. It was on one of those nights that, staggering through a sleep-deprived haze, I got the call. Up until then, all the deaths I had seen were those in which the patient was either dead on arrival or had died during cardiac “codes,” when we try desperately, and nearly always unsuccessfully, to resuscitate. This man was different. He was wide-eyed, gasping for air, his cuffed hands clawing at the bed. The cancer was filling up his lungs with fluid. He was being drowned by lung cancer. While he thrashed desperately, pleading, my mind was in medical mode, all protocols and procedures, but nothing much could be done. The man needed morphine, but that was held on the other side of the ward, and I’d never get to it in time, let alone back to him. I was not popular on the prison floor. I had once reported a guard for beating a sick inmate and was rewarded with death threats. There was no way they’d let me through the gates fast enough. I begged the nurse to try to get some, but she didn’t make it back in time. The man’s coughing turned to gurgling. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. Immediately, I thought, What a stupid thing to say to someone choking to death. Just another lie in probably a long line of condescension from other authority figures throughout his life. Helpless, I turned from doctor back to human being. I took his hand in my own, which he then gripped with all his might, tugging me toward his tear-streaked, panic-stricken face. “I’m here,” I said. “I’m right here.” Our gaze remained locked as he suffocated right in front of me. It felt like watching someone being tortured to death. Take a deep breath. Now imagine what it would feel like not to be able to breathe. We all need to take care of our lungs.

And in Mom's necklace is the echo of their every other sacrifice—her slippers cuffing the hallway as she folds laundry, covering my chores while I studied into the night; the scar where she cut her finger chopping black chickens to nourish me during finals; Dad chauffeuring me to my clinic internship; all their worries over my med school applications. It's one thing to dance around the little controls Mom exerts on my life. Quite another to shed a hard-fought-for future of financial security and respect for our families. My parents would slit their throats for my happiness, and in return, my future is their future. I should have known better than to let myself get swept away.

You own me, Bebe. Don’t break a nigga’s heart because I will chop your pretty ass up, have you cremated, and wear your ashes in a necklace daily close to my heart because that’s where you will always be. We doing this or what, baby?

Does he not know that nothing screams gay more than cuffed pants and blue hair?

Fuck!” He growled, cuffing her ass cheeks in his hands. “I could barely contain myself in that damn courtroom.” “Ooh!” Marli moaned. She loved it when Dru started talking to her while he dug out her guts.