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p. 213

Standing in front of his locker three hours later, John wished Qhuinn would shut his damn piehole. Even though the locker room was loud from sounds of metal doors banging shut and clothes flapping and shoes dropping, he felt like his buddy had a bullhorn stapled to his upper lip.

“You’re flippin’ huge, J.M. For real. Like . . . ginormous.”

That is not a word. John shoved his backpack in like he usually did and realized none of the clothes he was crushing would fit him anymore.

“The hell it isn’t. Back me up, Blay.”

Blay nodded as he pulled on his ji. “Yeah, you fill out? You’re going to be, like, Brother-sized.”

“Gigundous.”

Okay, also not a word, asshole.

“Fine, really, really, really big. How’s that?”

p. 301

Qhuinn smiled, baring his fangs. “Has anyone ever shown you the difference between good touch and bad touch? ’Cause I’d love to demonstrate. We could start right now.” p. 303

“I came to see if you were dead.”

Jane had to smile. “Jesus, Manello, don’t be such a romantic.” “You look like shit.”

“And now with the compliments. Stop. You’re making me blush.”

p. 360

V blinked a couple of times, horrified at what he was about to say. “God, you’re going for sainthood, you know that? You’ve always been there for me. Always. Even when I . . .”

“Even when you what?”

“You know.”

“What?”

“Fuck. Even when I was in love with you. Or some shit.”

Butch clasped his hands to his chest. “Was? Was? I can’t believe you’ve lost interest.” He threw one arm over his eyes, all Sarah Bernhardt. “My dreams of our future are shattered—”

“Shut it, cop.”

Butch looked out from under his arm. “Are you kidding me? The reality show I had planned was fantastic. Was going to pitch it to VH1. Two Bites Are Better Than One. We were going to make millions.”

“Oh, for the love.”

pp. 369-370

“You know I’m right.”

“Fuck you, Dr. Phil.”

“Good, I’m glad we agree.” Butch frowned. “Hey, maybe I could have a talk show, since you aren’t going to be my June Cleaver anymore. I could call it The O’Neal Hour. Sounds important, doesn’t it?”

“First of all, you were going to be June Cleaver—”

“Screw that. No way I’d bottom for you.”

“Whatever. And second, I don’t think there’s much of a market for your particular brand of psychology.”

“So not true.”

“Butch, you and I just beat the crap out of each other.”

“You started it. And actually, it would be perfect for Spike TV. UFC meets Oprah. God, I’m brilliant.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” p. 370

“Ten minutes,” Butch whispered into Marissa’s ear. “Can I have ten minutes with you before you go? Please, baby . . .”

V rolled his eyes and was relieved to be annoyed at the lovey-dovey routine. At least all the testosterone in him hadn’t dried up.

“Baby . . . please?”

V took a pull on his mug. “Marissa, throw the sap bastard a bone, would you? The simpering wears on my nerves.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we? ”Marissa packed up her papers with a laugh and shot Butch a look. “Ten minutes. And you’d better make them count.”

Butch was up out of that chair like the thing was on fire. “Don’t I always?” “Mmm . . . yes.”

As the two locked lips, V snorted. “Have fun, kiddies. Somewhere else.” p. 445

Lover Enshrined

Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.

Cute rhyme. The reality was that one of the Ring-wraiths from The Lord of the Rings drove him to red smoke sure as if the bastard hog-tied him and threw him in the back of a car.

Actually, mate, you’d be the front bumper.

Exactly.

p. 5

. . . The thing had woken him up as usual, an alarm clock as reliable and stiff off the ground as Big Fucking Ben.

p. 19

The Brother Rhage’s voice boomed. “That bunch of self-serving, prejudicial, light-in-the-loafer—”

“Watch the loafer references,” the Brother Butch cut in. “I have some on.”

“—parasitic, shortsighted motherfuckers—”

“Tell us how you really feel,” someone else said.

“—can take their fakakta ball and blow it out their asses.”

The king’s laugh was low. “Good thing you’re not a diplomat, Hollywood.”

“Oh, you