Angels Behaving Badly: Short Stories

Behaving Badly (My Best Friend's Daddy) - Kindle edition by Angel Wild. Download it once and read it The Ultimate Taboo (Taboo Erotic Stories). Angel Wild.
Table of contents

Mar 20, William Crosby rated it it was ok. After a startling beginning, the book settles down into boring English countryside life to the point of proper tedium and outraged civility. I often felt as if I was reading a combination of Henry James and Jane Austen neither of whom I enjoy , but if you do you might enjoy this book. I was attracted to the book by the description that it had elements of the supernatural. What little supernatural there was was too subtle for me a few dreams.

So, if you are not into the supernatural, this book m After a startling beginning, the book settles down into boring English countryside life to the point of proper tedium and outraged civility. So, if you are not into the supernatural, this book may be for you. As for murder mystery, this is a book which requires patience and devotion.

Merrily is wishy washy and inept and barely solves anything. I was more interested in the scenes in which her daughter Jane was in. At least they were not so boring. So I am trying to figure why people like this series. I am guessing they like the English countryside life stuff, which I do not. No Downton Abbey for me. I would rather read Stephen King. If you don't like King, you might like this book. I will give the next book a try just to see if it does anything more with the supernatural aspect. If not, end of series for me. Jun 29, Jamie Collins rated it really liked it Shelves: This is long and slow and suspenseful, and I very much liked the writing style.

It has lots of short chapters, many of which begin or end with a bit of misdirection. I think this, along with the leisurely plotting, might annoy some readers but I was vastly entertained. The mystery at the heart is perhaps a little over-the-top, but the excellent writing makes up for it.

The This is long and slow and suspenseful, and I very much liked the writing style. View all 3 comments. Dec 24, Elizabeth rated it liked it. This book is a mess but a very interesting mess, like a dragon's treasure mixed with a bookstore and thrown into a hurricane. Well, maybe not quite that jumbled. There's wonderful things to find like local superstitions and families behaving badly over the course of centuries, haunted houses and fairies and cider and mistaken identities and four different yet significant car crashes.


  • See a Problem?;
  • The Greatest Gift: The Courageous Life and Martyrdom of Sister Dorothy Stang;
  • Falling for a Hells Angel.
  • The Wine of Angels (Merrily Watkins, #1) by Phil Rickman.

The main character is a young, beautiful vicar with a teenage daughter and a dead husband who engaged in criminal This book is a mess but a very interesting mess, like a dragon's treasure mixed with a bookstore and thrown into a hurricane. The main character is a young, beautiful vicar with a teenage daughter and a dead husband who engaged in criminal activities. The messy parts are the way the characters act. They do things that their characters wouldn't do so as to help move the story along.

The character of Lucy is a catalyst for much of this bizarre behavior but she isn't compelling enough to make me believe that people would act against their own inclinations so the story could come out right.


  • ?
  • River of Angels by Abbe Rolnick.
  • Get A Copy.
  • Days of Vengeance.

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed the mess and look forward to reading more books in this series. I hope the cider, the superstitions and the spirits reappear. There was certainly plenty of atmosphere though none of it turned out to be supernatural. Nov 30, Emma rated it liked it Shelves: This was pretty good Nearly put it down and gave up a couple of times. Have already got the next instalment ready to read. Also liked the complexity of the characters. Aug 25, LJ rated it liked it Shelves: Merrily Watkins and her daughter, Jane, have come to Merrily's first parish in the small town of Ledwardine; a town whose history revolves around two families and the making of cider.

Shortly after arriving, Merrily attends a wassailing where one of the citizens dies from gunshot. Merrily is beset with nightmares and the feeling there's literally more than can be seen and involves a persecution from centuries past. The story could have been tighter, but there were many strong points. The atmospheric details contribute strongly to the suspense and tension. Merrily and Jane are excellent characters with a realistic relationship that grows and develops with the story.

There are interesting secondary characters who contribute strongly to the plot. Unfortunately there were times when the story seemed to lose its way and become rather plodding. Still, there was enough to make me hope and read another in this series. This the first Merrily Watkins mystery I've read and it was great. Well written, with detailed characterizations, it's a perfect Evil-in-an-English-Village creepy mystery. Merrily Watkins is a widow with a teenaged daughter. She is also a vicar and not just an ordinary one but a Deliverance minister, a more modern name for an exorcist.

After being ordained as a minister she is given her first parish in Liverpool where she learns to deal with many difficult inner city problems. This however does not prepare her for her second parish in the village of Ledwardine in Herefordshire. Her new parishioners are entirely different, suspicious of having a female minister and many of them very set in their ways, very superstitious and believe in the old country lore. There is definitely an atmosphere of evil and after a series of dreadful events Merrily is called upon to use her skills as a Deliverance minister.

Customers who viewed this item also viewed

She and her daughter are threatened and there is a real fear for their lives. This was not really my cup of tea, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I normally never read mystery stories. They just don't do it for me. I tried this one on recommendation from a friend. It seemed like it had been such a long time since I had read a mystery that it was time to give them another chance.

This one is really well written. The characters are fairly well fleshed out and likeable. The story builds up nicely and has a pretty good finish. I have to admit, by the time I f This was not really my cup of tea, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Angel (Made Men, #5) by Sarah Brianne

I have to admit, by the time I finished it, I was tired of it. I think it's really just because I'm not a mystery fan. It had its moments, though. It's delightfully British and was a nice read for the Halloween season. Feb 03, Chris rated it really liked it Shelves: This is the third Watkins book that I have read. I've read them out of order. The Watkins books tend to be slow builders. Characters are fully developed and wonderfully human. Merrily is a new vicar, actually priest in charge, in a small English village that would not be out of place in a Christie novel, though a Bronte or MR James story would be more suiting.

In some ways, this book is like a drama version of the Vicar of Dilby, at least in terms of the impact a woman vicar could have had on a v This is the third Watkins book that I have read. In some ways, this book is like a drama version of the Vicar of Dilby, at least in terms of the impact a woman vicar could have had on a village that is traditional.

Watkins comes from a somewhat unlikly background. There is her daughter, there is what happened in her marriage, and she came to the priesthood late. Merrily in some ways, is an Everywoman. So is her daughter Jane, but in a different way. What's more, all the women and girls in the novel are real woman and girls. And, get this, they actually talk to each other and have to deal with shit like harassment.

Apr 03, C. Its density delayed mystery and action but interest and curiosity are strong. It takes pages before Phil Rickman's unusual story enters the residence where haunting should occur. An apple orchard is the other site of enchantment, abduction, and a murder. I was disappointed that the mystical instances in the orchard and vicarage, though suspenseful, were minor and few. Characters did not spe " The Wine Of Angels " is so much longer than normal, that continuance must be an idea that arose later.

Characters did not speak with ancient trees or fairies, nor see ghosts. I hope this series quenches the drought of adult paranormal fare. Our protagonist is supposed to become an exorcist! I love following a lady reverend raising a teenager. Merrily is healing from a cheating marriage and Jane from her Dad's death, that negated divorce.

I had five-star anticipation and despite pacing, intended four stars to applaud the fruit of ambitious creativity. Three stars became the fair assessment when I found the conclusion abbreviated; after a deluge of detail in several places where we didn't need it. The end action was so rushed, I am unclear about which vehicle struck whom and why the characters were there! We were not even shown how one character escaped captivity, which should not be. Psychology and logistics need to make sense within any fiction. Jane was young enough to absorb Merrily's calling.

If we estimate 5 years from the seminary to placement, Jane would have been Neither would emit religious-wincing curses and Jane would find morning prayers normal. Finally, we should have acquainted the songwriter before narration turned to him. It took chapters to see that he belongs. A cruel ex-bandmate was needless but Laurence's ex-girlfriend, despite being less visible, became pivotal belatedly; both oddities in keeping with this imbalanced but fascinating novel. May 08, Victoria rated it really liked it Shelves: I have been curious about the Merrily Watkins series for quite some time.

Unfortunately, this British series does not seem to have ever garnered Stateside popularity, so it is a bit difficult to get your hands on in the U. But I have been slowly accumulating the series over the past few years as I have seen it in used book stores. Now that I have acquired the first few books in order, I am finally ready to start reading it! While this first volume was not as spooky or mysterious as I expected i I have been curious about the Merrily Watkins series for quite some time.

While this first volume was not as spooky or mysterious as I expected it to be, the solidly detailed setting and the fully fleshed, quite realistic characters more than exceeded any other expectations that I had. It seems like this very firm foundation will take the series onward to very interesting places. Many characters are introduced here, and I liked most of them - each one is carefully created and really comes to life. And though the plot was not as eerie as I expected, it remained unpredictable. The only downside to the book and perhaps why the series never took off for American audiences lies with the pacing.

The first three hundred pages or so moved quite slowly, but after that midway point was passed, the pace picked up exponentially. I silently counted to 10 and reminded myself to look away for a second — best not to terrify him. I switched my gaze to the top of his nose to put a boundary between us. It was time to either close the sale or walk away. After two years in the industry, I knew which customers were worth investing in — not this guy. So, I led him into the corner, which opened up to the club like the bow of a ship, public and safe, for one quick dance. I processed events after the fact with tenuous evaluation, like peeling off layers of old wallpaper.

At the time, it was not something I had words to explain, so I turned the blame on myself. Whenever I struggled to understand if someone was angry or bored, I went home and berated myself for being lazy, ditzy, and dumb as I obsessively evaluated the night. I just needed to try harder to be more present, I told myself.

One time, I went to a dinner party my sister hosted. A few of her colleagues and friends sat around her table while we snacked on hummus and bread, and someone asked about my recent trip to Europe. I rambled incessantly, illustrating the nightclubs, the hostels I stayed in, even how I bled through my powder-blue dress because I forgot to change my tampon.

I can see their faces now, wide-eyed and uncomfortable, but at the time they coalesced into one indistinguishable figure, Dave Matthews playing in the background taking precedent. So, I meticulously designed a persona who nodded at the right time, rehearsed lines, smiled when appropriate, monitored personal space, spoke quietly. Before going out, I crafted notecards, scribbling how long to talk about acceptable topics and which to stay clear of altogether, like my period, in small talk.

The persona was a mask that helped me appear to interact in the moment, but in reality I crept by, three paces behind everyone else. I had just celebrated my 24th birthday in Australia when I started dancing. I settled temporarily in a bustling beach town at the edge of Melbourne and needed money to pay off my student debt. I considered a bar job, but decided to try stripping simply because it meant fewer hours. When I walked into a club to ask for a job, to my surprise, I realized it was just a bar with the usual roles reversed: I was intrigued, but confused — how did they convince customers to spend money off-stage?

The manager looked at my petite frame and nervous smile, pointed her manicured hand to the dressing room and listed the rules: You get one free drink. No drugs on the floor. Hundreds of customers came and went during the hour shift, sitting on plush couches and crowding around the bar. All but one dismissed me. I sat at the bar to observe, sipping my free champagne.

One dancer particularly stood out with her naturally frizzy curls and tattered black bra. From the bar, I saw her sitting alone on one of the upholstered couches that lined the back of the club. I took a deep breath and approached her, brushing aside the fringe curtain separating the lap dance room from the bar. It was getting late, two hours before closing, and I was exhausted and frustrated. I thought about packing up and never coming back, but I needed this to work out.

She turned around and outlined her lips with a beige pencil in the smudged mirror, advising in her Bulgarian accent: Make them pay big bucks if they want to dump their shit on you. You sound like a child. Her words wounded me, but I was impressed. She saw right through my mask. I learned to showcase different parts of my persona based on the customer. Performing felt strangely comfortable, even though the job was foreign and challenging. That conversation lasted minutes, but the advice made for a successful career.

And when I was unsure, I had her original rules to catch me. Are they asking for my real name? Are they relaying problems in their life without buying a dance first? On the floor of the club, I spent hours practicing each weekend, and for the first time in my life, I learned how to cut through layers of language in real time, just like Claire, until it became effortless.

E ventually I moved back home to New York and started stripping full time. Most people I met outside of work told me I was a great listener, unaware of how much time I spent in my room practicing the correct reactions. Nearly two years after I started dancing, my friend Sarah invited me to her birthday party. My least favorite social situation: True, I was better at picking up more obvious cues like eagerness and anger, but group settings were strenuous — too many subtleties to keep track of. I packed up my lace teddy and Red Bull into a discreet bag and headed over to the restaurant before work.

The hour and a half crawled by. There were six of us around a small table. I prayed no one would ask me personal questions. His words mixed in with the background conversation and it sounded like another language. I broke out in sweat. A second later the words clicked. I smiled and looked at his nose instead of his eyes while chewing over my words and length of speech, trying to offer the version of my trip they wanted to hear. Sarah got up to go to the bathroom. I quickly walked over to her and asked: She looked confused as I hurried out the door. I let out a sigh of relief as the taxi plowed across the Williamsburg Bridge.

I walked under the familiar lights to the dressing room. I squirted a dollop of foundation on my hand and painted the dark circles under my eyes. For a brief second, I wondered, Is something wrong? But then I swallowed those thoughts and walked onto the floor to escape from myself. I sat down at the bar and ordered a Hennessy on the rocks. The birthday was successfully buried, and I was buzzing from the bliss of escape.

I spotted a man at the bar — alone, tall, bald with a kind smile and a glass of whiskey in his hand. I ran through the formula and we connected right away. I suggested the private room and he agreed. The private rooms were where I connected with customers, sometimes in a way that was more intimate than my relationships outside the club. There I massaged their shoulders, let them touch me, expressed vulnerability.

I bantered for hours — something I was never able to do before. With fewer stimuli around, it was easier to focus and converse back and forth in a way that felt less strenuous than at the restaurant hours before. My weirdness was worth their paycheck. After two hours, I excused myself for a moment to go to a bathroom where I got a message from Sarah: Below the message was a picture of the dinner crew, laughing with their arms wrapped around each other.

I felt such a pang of loneliness and regret that I broke down in the doorless toilet stall, my eyeliner smearing like watercolor on canvas. Why am I only alive at work? Why can I give so much of myself to my customers and so little to my friends? Work was a temporary balm, but the interactions there were fleeting, not enough to sustain my longing for people. The force of my rotting loneliness hit like a tidal wave as the reality of how much I struggled to navigate social settings outside settled in.

I allowed myself just one sob before I fixed my face and performed for the last half hour. Desperate for answers, I started scrolling through an online forum for women with ADHD, wondering if I might have an attention disorder, looking for an explanation. I started asking for advice, addressing some of my other issues first like getting lost in obsessive thought. Central to autism is a difficulty experiencing life in real time. But in the private rooms at the club, there were no outside stimuli.

The rules were clear, the distractions minimal, so I could focus and interact. Women in the ADHD forum invited me to the group for autistic women and there I saw myself a hundred times over. Scrolling through were women like me: I gradually pulled the blame away from myself and labeled the things about me that were naturally different, not defective. I took a deep breath and resisted pretending to listen and asked: I forgave myself when I slipped outside of social norms and said something weird.

People would love me or not — frankly I was okay with the risk. A few months later, I stood outside the club with a cigarette in my hand, looking over the busy highway at the deserted factories. She knew I was a stripper but had never been to the club. From the outside, it looked grim: But it was home to me. I kept the window open as the club disappeared, letting the cold air whip my face, feeling a mixture of relief and excitement.

Forums for autistic women advised pulling off masks that many develop to pass as non-autistic. The effects of camouflaging are toxic, they warned. But I still had so much to learn. There was vast, dormant space to grow into beyond my work persona. The twinkling lights opened the doors to Manhattan, my body still moving from the music of the club.

The possibilities of the night unrolled in front of me and I intended to savor them. My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on.

6 True Stories Of Being Protected By Angels! ( "It Just Vanished!")

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman. I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up. I laughed a little, uncomfortably. She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality. I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. Do you bend me over and take me from behind? I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said.

So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed. In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good my artistic tastes and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe the thirty pounds I could stand to lose. My next session with Lori is productive. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again. There were two ways to find out:. Here we go again. Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head. We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back. I see what she means. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts.

Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously.

The Wine of Angels

What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect? I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required.

Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe. After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3, conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control. We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break. I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her. There was no in between. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height. I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations.

Access Check

It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges. Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. At first, the quiet girl from Craigslist seemed like a great match—we had just the occasional tangle over cats and cleanup. And then the men started coming over. It was late morning, and I was putting up a fresh pot of coffee when I heard the first meow. It sounded awfully close, as if from inside the apartment instead of the backyard one story down. Then I heard it again, and there was no doubt. I texted my roommate. You got a cat?!

I suffer from allergies — through spring and summer I have a persistent itch in my nostrils, and the lightest bit of pollen or dander or even a freshly mowed lawn sets off sneezing spells that leave my entire body sore. I was also concerned about the smell. And besides, the landlord forbade pets. I have a tendency to overreact, to exacerbate conflict. Instead I went for calm and firm, and maybe slightly paternal. We need to talk. Later that afternoon, in the kitchen between our bedrooms, we talked, leaning on opposite counters.

I was left somewhat unsettled. In the end, I told her she could keep the cat, but she better take care of it properly. We were unlikely roommates, a Craigslist arrangement: I, a near-middle-aged man, several years divorced, with adolescent children of my own. She, a twenty-year-old recent college grad. At first, I had a parade of eccentrics, men who seemed to have something to hide, smelling of whiskey, with slurred speech, crooked teeth, telling me about jobs as investment bankers or corporate accountants, claims I found dubious.

He left just as I was about to call the cops. So when Jenny showed up, I was inclined to like her. She looked like a typical post-college young woman: Her speech tended to the monosyllabic. I showed her the room. I showed her the bathroom. Then she asked what she needed for moving in, and I told her: I assumed this meant she had all those things, and at first, it appeared that she did. She told me she worked two jobs, as a clerk in a stationary store in Midtown Manhattan and as an art-school model. Several days later, she brought documents attesting to her claims, and it all seemed to check out.

She moved in a couple weeks later, with the help of her dad, whom I found affable in a way that put me further at ease. Some time after she moved in, I met her boyfriend, who seemed about my age. I did have some mild concerns. I wondered why she would choose to live here — a part of town where she had no friends or family — and with me, a man twice her age. But I needed a roommate, and for the most part, she matched my criteria: There was something familiar about her, almost bland, like an unremarkable extra who might appear repeatedly in so many movies, which meant she was safe and normal and predictable — exactly what I needed if I was to share my home with a stranger.

It was soon after the cat incident that I began to notice she was home more. In fact, she rarely seemed to leave her room. She was always on time with rent, and she appeared to have enough money to buy groceries and order in meals. One afternoon, a couple weeks after Jenny took in the cat, I heard her voice and then a male voice I did not recognize. It was definitely not her boyfriend, whose voice was high-pitched; this one was deep, almost gruff.

I was in my room, working, and I heard someone enter the bathroom, and then the toilet flush, and so I opened my door a crack for a glance. In the hallway, emerging from the bathroom, was a short, squat man, gray-haired with a bald temple. I felt a kind of indescribable rage, almost like a personal affront. How dare she — in my home?! An hour later, I watched her escort the man to the door. Another part of me was so angry I wanted to evict her immediately. The rest of the day, I wrestled with my thoughts, my mind feverish with indecision: Should I say something?

Should I tell her boyfriend? Should I call her dad? Was it any of my business anyway? I decided to wait, see if it happened again, and just a few days later, it did. This time, it was a tall black man wearing an ill-fitting suit and tie, like thrift-shop formalwear. He, too, emerged from the bathroom and disappeared into her room, and after an hour or so she escorted him to the door, again in the blue pumps and rumpled ivory dress. I took to Google: What to do if my roommate is a prostitute?

More than what to do , I was seeking clarity on why it bothered me. Who was I to judge if Jenny chose an unorthodox profession? Why would I care if she used her room to ply her trade? On Yahoo Answers and in Google Groups and various other forums people wrote about similar experiences, and the consensus was: I wondered about the practical aspects of her work: Does she have a Backpage ad? Did she use Craigslist? Could I find her on The Erotic Review? Sit her down for a talk. Point her in the right direction.

Instead, when we met in the kitchen the next afternoon, passing between the refrigerator and the trashcan by the sink, I decided to bring it up. I was washing a dish, the water running lightly, and she was behind me, waiting for something in the microwave. She turned slowly to face me, nonchalant, with a thin smile. What are you going to do about it?

She offered no further explanations, and we both retreated to our rooms. Let us, as adults, discuss this situation. In return, she took me for a fool. The words infuriated me, and I began to plot her eviction. Several days passed, however, and still I did nothing.

River of Angels

We had just finished dinner at a SoHo restaurant, paid the check, and were about to head to her place when my phone rang. It was my landlord. There was trouble at the apartment. Dawn Obrien marked it as to-read Apr 11, Karen Thompson marked it as to-read Apr 11, Sue marked it as to-read Apr 11, Emiley Allen Bowes marked it as to-read Apr 11, Ann Ellis marked it as to-read Apr 11, Kathy Heare Watts marked it as to-read Apr 11, Garrity marked it as to-read Apr 11, Pam marked it as to-read Apr 11, Patricia marked it as to-read Apr 11, Sandy marked it as to-read Apr 11, Robert marked it as to-read Apr 11, Cynthia Cisneros marked it as to-read Apr 11, Rachella Baker marked it as to-read Apr 12, Carol marked it as to-read Apr 12, Patricia Lebarron marked it as to-read Apr 12, Raymond Stone marked it as to-read Apr 12, Beatrice marked it as to-read Apr 12, Kristin marked it as to-read Apr 12, Kathy Dickman marked it as to-read Apr 12, Patricia Hill marked it as to-read Apr 12, There are no discussion topics on this book yet.

Abbe Rolnick grew up in the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland. Her first major cultural jolt occurred at age 15 when her family moved to Miami Beach, Florida. In order to find perspective, she climbed the only non-palm tree at her condo-complex, and wrote what she observed.

Here history came alive with her exposure to the Cuban culture. This introduction to the Latino Culture proved fortuitous. At Boston University she met her first husband, a native of Puerto Rico. Stateside, she capitalized on the knowledge she gained as an independent bookstore owner and worked for one of the finest bookstores, Village Books, in Bellingham, WA. More recently she opened a healthy foods cafe.