by Liana Brooks
Dulcie Waterhouse might have been content with merely threatening payback, but plenty of other people thought throwing coffee, tea, wine, and—occasionally—trashcans at me was the way to go. Chel was the divine angel who made my dresses wearable again.
[33] I said Seth didn’t talk about his projects much with me. I didn’t say I didn’t do my own research or shamelessly eavesdrop while wandering a movie studio for the past few days.
[34] Turns out on-set accidents are common enough that they use safety glass. I wouldn’t have been able to break it if I’d tried.
[35] Also? An accelerant. Because you never know when you’ll need a tiny Molotov cocktail.
[36] Yeah, I know. Now I’m Meredith Morana, Merri Death. Mare-o’-death Death. Seth is already working on a script called Night Mares about horses of death. He is so weird. And I love him. The end.
[37] She still dances under the name Cotton Candy every other Friday down at the Sugar Strip on 4th, if you’re wondering.
