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I recommend that after you learn the lines and licks with these basic formulas you also try applying the same examples with other pentatonic formulas, like. Lick. Stage Dive (Series). Book 1. Kylie Scott Author Andi Arndt Narrator (). cover image of It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time. Lick book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Waking up in Vegas was never meant to be like Thomas's plans.

But reality soon asserted itself. The bleached curl revealed its melanic root; the down turned to prickles on a shaved shin; the mobile moist mouth, no matter how I stuffed it with love, disclosed ignominiously its resemblance to the corresponding part in a treasured portrait of her toadlike dead mama; and presently, instead of a pale little gutter girl, Humbert Humbert had on his hands a large, puffy, short-legged, bigbreasted and practically brainless baba.

This state of affairs lasted from to Her only asset was a muted nature which did help to produce an odd sense of comfort in our small squalid flat: two rooms, a hazy view in one window, a brick wall in the other, a tiny kitchen, a shoe-shaped bath tub, within which I felt like Marat but with no white-necked maiden to stab me. We had quite a few cozy evenings together, she deep in her Paris-Soir, I working at a rickety table.

We went to movies, bicycle races and boxing matches. I appealed to her stale flesh very seldom, only in cases of great urgency and despair. As to cooking, we tacitly dismissed the pot-au-feu and had most of our meals at a crowded place in rue Bonaparte where there were wine stains on the table cloth and a good deal of foreign babble.

And next door, an art dealer displayed in his cluttered window a splendid, flamboyant, green, red, golden and inky blue, ancient American estampea locomotive with a gigantic smokestack, great baroque lamps and a tremendous cowcatcher, hauling its mauve coaches through the stormy prairie night and mixing a lot of spark-studded black smoke with the furry thunder clouds. These burst. This prospect was most welcome to me. I felt my life needed a shakeup.

There was another thing, too: moth holes had appeared in the plush of matrimonial comfort. During the last weeks I had kept noticing that my fat Valeria was not her usual self; had acquired a queer restlessness; even showed something like irritation at times, which was quite out of keeping with the stock character she was supposed to impersonate. When I informed her we were shortly to sail for New York, she looked distressed and bewildered.

There were some tedious difficulties with her papers. We were coming out of some office building one morning, with her papers almost in order, when Valeria, as she waddled by my side, began to shake her poodle head vigorously without saying a word.

I let her go on for a while and then asked if she thought she had something inside. They dazed me, I confess.

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To beat her up in the street, there and then, as an honest vulgarian might have done, was not feasible. Years of secret sufferings had taught me superhuman self-control. So I ushered her into a taxi which had been invitingly creeping along the curb for some time, and in this comparative privacy I quietly suggested she comment her wild talk.

A mounting fury was suffocating menot because I had any particular fondness for that figure of fun, Mme Humbert, but because matters of legal and illegal conjunction were for me alone to decide, and here she was, Valeria, the comedy wife, brazenly preparing to dispose in her own way of my comfort and fate.

I repeated my question; but she kept up a burlesque babble, discoursing on her unhappiness with me and announcing plans for an immediate divorce. He pulled up at a small caf and introduced himself. We sat down at a table; the Tsarist ordered wine, and Valeria, after applying a wet napkin to her knee, went on talkinginto me rather than to me; she poured words into this dignified receptacle with a volubility I had never suspected she had in her.

And every now and then she would volley a burst of Slavic at her stolid lover. The situation was preposterous and became even more so when the taxi-colonel, stopping Valeria with a possessive smile, began to unfold his views and plans.

With an atrocious accent to his careful French, he delineated the world of love and work into which he proposed to enter hand in hand with his child-wife Valeria. She by now was preening herself, between him and me, rouging her pursed lips, tripling her chin to pick at her blouse-bosom and so forth, and he spoke of her as if she were absent, and also as if she were a kind of little ward that was in the act of being transferred, for her own good, from one wise guardian to another even wiser one; and although my helpless wrath may have exaggerated and disfigured certain impressions, I can swear that he actually consulted me on such things as her diet, her periods, her wardrobe and the books she had read or should read.

I put an end to this gibberish by suggesting Valeria pack up her few belongings immediately, upon which the platitudinous colonel gallantly offered to carry them into the car. Reverting to his professional state, he drove the Humberts to their residence and all the way Valeria talked, and Humbert the Terrible deliberated with Humbert the Small whether Humbert Humbert should kill her or her lover, or both, or neither.

I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself. I now wondered if Valechka as the colonel called her was really worth shooting, or strangling, or drowning.

She had very vulnerable legs, and I decided I would limit myself to hurting her very horribly as soon as we were alone. But we never were. Valechkaby now shedding torrents of tears tinged with the mess of her rainbow make-up,started to fill anyhow a trunk, and two suitcases, and a bursting carton, and visions of putting on my mountain boots and taking a running kick at her rump were of course impossible to put into execution with the cursed colonel hovering around all the time.

I sat with arms folded, one hip on the window sill, dying of hate and boredom. At last both were out of the quivering apartmentthe vibration of the door I had slammed after them still rang in my every nerve, a poor substitute for the backhand slap with which I ought to have hit her across the cheekbone according to the rules of the movies.

Clumsily playing my part, I stomped to the bathroom to check if they had taken my English toilet water; they had not; but I noticed with a spasm of fierce disgust that the former Counselor of the Tsar, after thoroughly easing his bladder, had not flushed the toilet.

That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowning insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon. Actually I daresay it was nothing but middle-class Russian courtesy with an oriental tang, perhaps that had prompted the good colonel Maximovich! But this did not enter my mind at the moment, as groaning with rage I ransacked the kitchen for something better than a broom.

Then, canceling my search, I dashed out of the house with the heroic decision of attacking him barefisted; despite my natural vigor, I am no pugilist, while the short but broad-shouldered Maximovich seemed made of pig iron. But no matter. I had my little revenge in due time.

A man from Pasadena told me one day that Mrs. Maximovich ne Zborovski had died in childbirth around ; the couple had somehow got over to California and had been used there, for an excellent salary, in a year-long experiment conducted by a distinguished American ethnologist.

The experiment dealt with human and racial reactions to a diet of bananas and dates in a constant position on all fours.

My informant, a doctor, swore he had seen with his own eyes obese Valechka and her colonel, by then gray-haired and also quite corpulent, diligently crawling about the well-swept floors of a brightly lit set of rooms fruit in one, water in another, mats in a third and so on in the company of several other hired quadrupeds, selected from indigent and helpless groups.

I tried to find the results of these tests in the Review of Anthropology; but they appear not to have been published yet. These scientific products take of course some time to fructuate.

I hope they will be illustrated with photographs when they do get printed, although it is not very likely that a prison library will harbor such erudite works.

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They have the Bible, of course, and Dickens an ancient set, N. In looking through the latter volume, I was treated last night to one of those dazzling coincidences that logicians loathe and poets love. I transcribe most of the page: Pym, Roland.

Born in Lundy, Mass. Received stage training at Elsinore Playhouse, Derby, N. Made debut in Sunburst.

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Quilty, Clare, American dramatist. Born in Ocean City, N. Educated at Columbia University. Started on a commercial career but turned to playwriting.

His many plays for children are notable. Little Nymph traveled 14, miles and played performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. Hobbies: fast cars, photography, pets. Quine, Dolores. Born in , in Dayton, Ohio. Studied for stage at American Academy. First played in Ottawa in Has disappeared since in [a list of some thirty plays follows].

Perhaps, she might have been an actress too. Born Appeared I notice the slip of my pen in the preceding paragraph, but please do not correct it, Clarence in The Murdered Playwright.

Quine the Swine.

Guilty of killing Quilty. Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with! In New York I eagerly accepted the soft job fate offered me: it consisted mainly of thinking up and editing perfume ads. I welcomed its desultory character and pseudoliterary aspects, attending to it whenever I had nothing better to do.

On the other hand, I was urged by a war-time university in New York to complete my comparative history of French literature for English-speaking students. The first volume took me a couple of years during which I put in seldom less than fifteen hours of work daily.

As I look back on those days, I see them divided tidily into ample light and narrow shade: the light pertaining to the solace of research in palatial libraries, the shade to my excruciating desires and insomnias of which enough has been said.

Knowing me by now, the reader can easily imagine how dusty and hot I got, trying to catch a glimpse of nymphets alas, always remote playing in Central Park, and how repulsed I was by the glitter of deodorized career girls that a gay dog in one of the offices kept unloading upon me.

Let us skip all that.

A dreadful breakdown sent me to a sanatorium for more than a year; I went back to my workonly to be hospitalized again. Robust outdoor life seemed to promise me some relief. One of my favorite doctors, a charming cynical chap with a little brown beard, had a brother, and this brother was about to lead an expedition into arctic Canada. Anita Johnsonwho was soon flown back, I am glad to say. I had little notion of what object the expedition was pursuing. One group, jointly with the Canadians, established a weather station on Pierre Point in Melville Sound.

Another group, equally misguided, collected plankton. A third studied tuberculosis in the tundra. Bert, a film photographeran insecure fellow with whom at one time I was made to partake in a good deal of menial work he, too, had some psychic troubles maintained that the big men on our team, the real leaders we never saw, were mainly engaged in checking the influence of climatic amelioration on the coats of the arctic fox.

We lived in prefabricated timber cabins amid a Pre-Cambrian world of granite.

My health improved wonderfully in spite or because of all the fantastic blankness and boredom. Surrounded by such dejected vegetation as willow scrub and lichens; permeated, and, I suppose, cleansed by a whistling gale; seated on a boulder under a completely translucent sky through which, however, nothing of importance showed , I felt curiously aloof from my own self.

No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.

I was also supposed to quiz my various companions on a number of important matters, such as nostalgia, fear of unknown animals, food-fantasies, nocturnal emissions, hobbies, choice of radio programs, changes in outlook and so forth.

The reader will regret to learn that soon after my return to civilization I had another bout with insanity if to melancholia and a sense of insufferable oppression that cruel term must be applied. I owe my complete restoration to a discovery I made while being treated at that particular very expensive sanatorium. And then I added another week just for the pleasure of taking on a powerful newcomer, a displaced and, surely, deranged celebrity, known for his knack of making patients believe they had witnessed their own conception.

One of his former employees, the scion of a distinguished family, suggested I spend a few months in the residence of his impoverished cousins, a Mr. McCoo, retired, and his wife, who wanted to let their upper story where a late aunt had delicately dwelt. He said they had two little daughters, one a baby, the other a girl of twelve, and a beautiful garden, not far from a beautiful lake, and I said it sounded perfectly perfect. I exchanged letters with these people, satisfying them I was housebroken, and spent a fantastic night on the train, imagining in all possible detail the enigmatic nymphet I would coach in French and fondle in Humbertish.

Nobody met me at the toy station where I alighted with my new expensive bag, and nobody answered the telephone; eventually, however, a distraught McCoo in wet clothes turned up at the only hotel of green-and-pink Ramsdale with the news that his house had just burned downpossibly, owing to the synchronous conflagration that had been raging all night in my veins.

Haze of Lawn Street, offered to accommodate me. A lady who lived opposite Mrs. Now, since the only reason for my coming at all had vanished, the aforesaid arrangement seemed preposterous. All right, his house would have to be completely rebuilt, so what?

Had he not insured it sufficiently? I was angry, disappointed and bored, but being a polite European, could not refuse to be sent off to Lawn Street in that funeral car, feeling that otherwise McCoo would devise an even more elaborate means of getting rid of me. I saw him scamper away, and my chauffeur shook his head with a soft chuckle.

En route, I swore to myself I would not dream of staying in Ramsdale under any circumstance but would fly that very day to the Bermudas or the Bahamas or the Blazes.

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Speaking of sharp turns: we almost ran over a meddlesome suburban dog one of those who like in wait for cars as we swerved into Lawn Street. A little further, the Haze house, a white-frame horror, appeared, looking dingy and old, more gray than whitethe kind of place you know will have a rubber tube affixable to the tub faucet in lieu of shower. I tipped the chauffeur and hoped he would immediately drive away so that I might double back unnoticed to my hotel and bag; but the man merely crossed to the other side of the street where an old lady was calling to him from her porch.

What could I do? I pressed the bell button. A colored maid let me inand left me standing on the mat while she rushed back to the kitchen where something was burning that ought not to burn. There was a staircase at the end of the hallway, and as I stood mopping my brow only now did I realize how hot it had been out-ofdoors and staring, to stare at something, at an old gray tennis ball that lay on an oak chest, there came from the upper landing the contralto voice of Mrs.

Presently, the lady herselfsandals, maroon slacks, yellow silk blouse, squarish face, in that ordercame down the steps, her index finger still tapping upon her cigarette. I think I had better describe her right away, to get it over with. The poor lady was in her middle thirties, she had a shiny forehead, plucked eyebrows and quite simple but not unattractive features of a type that may be defined as a weak solution of Marlene Dietrich.

Patting her bronze-brown bun, she led me into the parlor and we talked for a minute about the McCoo fire and the privilege of living in Ramsdale. Her very wide-set sea-green eyes had a funny way of traveling all over you, carefully avoiding your own eyes. Her smile was but a quizzical jerk of one eyebrow; and uncoiling herself from the sofa as she talked, she kept making spasmodic dashes at three ashtrays and the near fender where lay the brown core of an apple ; whereupon she would sink back again, one leg folded under her.

She was, obviously, one of those women whose polished words may reflect a book club or bridge club, or any other deadly conventionality, but never her soul; women who are completely devoid of humor; women utterly indifferent at heart to the dozen or so possible subjects of a parlor conversation, but very particular about the rules of such conversations, through the sunny cellophane of which not very appetizing frustrations can be readily distinguished.

I was perfectly aware that if by any wild chance I became her lodger, she would methodically proceed to do in regard to me what taking a lodger probably meant to her all along, and I would again be enmeshed in one of those tedious affairs I knew so well.

But there was no question of my settling there. Old-world politeness, however, obliged me to go on with the ordeal.

Haze with a sigh. I noticed a white sock on the floor. With a deprecatory grunt, Mrs. Haze stooped without stopping and threw it into a closet next to the pantry. We cursorily inspected a mahogany table with a fruit vase in the middle, containing nothing but the still glistening stone of one plum.

I groped for the timetable I had in my pocket and surreptitiously fished it out to look as soon as possible for a train. I was still walking behind Mrs. It was the same childthe same frail, honey-hued shoulders, the same silky supple bare back, the same chestnut head of hair. A polka-dotted black kerchief tied around her chest hid from my aging ape eyes, but not from the gaze of young memory, the juvenile breasts I had fondled one immortal day.

And, as if I were the fairy-tale nurse of some little princess lost, kidnaped, discovered in gypsy rags through which her nakedness smiled at the king and his hounds , I recognized the tiny dark-brown mole on her side. I find it most difficult to express with adequate force that flash, that shiver, that impact of passionate recognition. In the course of the sun-shot moment that my glance slithered over the kneeling child her eyes blinking over those stern dark spectaclesthe little Herr Doktor who was to cure me of all my aches while I passed by her in my adult disguise a great big handsome hunk of movieland manhood , the vacuum of my soul managed to suck in every detail of her bright beauty, and these I checked against the features of my dead bride.

A little later, of course, she, thos nouvelle, this Lolita, my Lolita, was to eclipse completely her prototype. Everything between the two events was but a series of gropings and blunders, and false rudiments of joy.

Everything they shared made one of them. I have no illusions, however. My judges will regard all this as a piece of mummery on the part of a madman with a gross liking for the fruit vert.


They are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I speak of this neat product of the Blank Blank Co. Actually, it was destroyed five years go and what we examine now by courtesy of a photographic memory is but its brief materialization, a puny unfledged phnix. I remember the thing so exactly because I wrote it really twice. The reader may check the weather data in the Ramsdale Journal for A few days before that I moved into the Haze house, and the little diary which I now propose to reel off much as a spy delivers by heart the contents of the note he swallowed covers most of June.

Very warm day. From a vantage point bathroom window saw Dolores taking things off a clothesline in the apple-green light behind the house. Strolled out. She wore a plaid shirt, blue jeans and sneakers.

Every movement she made in the dappled sun plucked at the most secret and sensitive chord of my abject body. After a while she sat down next to me on the lower step of the back porch and began to pick up the pebbles between her feetpebbles, my God, then a curled bit of milk-bottle glass resembling a snarling lipand chuck them at a can. Sundaes cause acne. The excess of the oily substance called sebum which nourishes the hair follicles of the skin creates, when too profuse, an irritation that opens the way to infection.

But nymphets do not have acne although they gorge themselves on rich food. God, what agony, that silky shimmer above her temple grading into bright brown hair. And the little bone twitching at the side of her dust-powdered ankle.

Ginny McCoo? And mean. And lame. Nearly died of polio.

The glistening tracery of down on her forearm. When she got up to take in the wash, I had a chance of adoring from afar the faded seat of her rolled-up jeans.

Out of the lawn, bland Mrs. Saw her going somewhere with a dark girl called Rose. Why does the way she walksa child, mind you, a mere child!

Analyze it. A faint suggestion of turned in toes. A kind of wiggly looseness below the knee prolonged to the end of each footfall. The ghost of a drag. Very infantile, infinitely meretricious. Later heard her volley crude nonsense at Rose across the fence. Twanging through me in a rising rhythm.

Beginning perhaps amended. I know it is madness to keep this journal but it gives me a strange thrill to do so; and only a loving wife could decipher my microscopic script. Let me state with a sob that today my L.

Of course, I might have sat there in the rocker and pretended to read. Playing safe, I kept away, for I was afraid that the horrible, insane, ridiculous and pitiful tremor that palsied me might prevent me from making my entre with any semblance of casualness.

Heat ripple still with us; a most favonian week. This time I took up a strategic position, with obese newspaper and new pipe, in the piazza rocker before L. To my intense disappointment she came with her mother, both in two-piece bathing suits, black, as new as my pipe.

My darling, my sweetheart stood for a moment near mewanted the funniesand she smelt almost exactly like the other one, the Riviera one, but more intensely so, with rougher overtonesa torrid odor that at once set my manhood astirbut she had already yanked out of me the coveted section and retreated to her mat near her phocine mamma.

There my beauty lay down on her stomach, showing me, showing the thousand eyes wide open in my eyed blood, her slightly raised shoulder blades, and the bloom along the incurvation of her spine, and the swellings of her tense narrow nates clothed in black, and the seaside of her schoolgirl thighs.

Silently, the seventh-grader enjoyed her green-red-blue comics. She was the loveliest nymphet green-red-blue Priap himself could think up.

Delectatio morosa. I spend my doleful days in dumps and dolors.

We mother Haze, Dolores and I were to go to Our Glass Lake this afternoon, and bathe, and bask; but a nacreous morn degenerated at noon into rain, and Lo made a scene. The median age of pubescence for girls has been found to be thirteen years and nine months in New York and Chicago. The age varies for individuals from ten, or earlier, to seventeen. Virginia was not quite fourteen when Harry Edgar possessed her.

He gave her lessons in algebra. They spent their honeymoon at Petersburg, Fla. I have all the characteristics which, according to writers on the sex interests of children, start the responses stirring in a little girl: clean-cut jaw, muscular hand, deep sonorous voice, broad shoulder.

Moreover, I am said to resemble some crooner or actor chap on whom Lo has a crush. Lake of the Rains. Mamma out shopping. Prying her left eye open to get rid of a speck of something. Checked frock. Although I do love that intoxicating brown fragrance of hers, I really think she should wash her hair once in a while.

For a moment, we were both in the same warm green bath of the mirror that reflected the top of a poplar with us in the sky. Held her roughly by the shoulders, then tenderly by the temples, and turned her about. Shly try? Gently I pressed my quivering sting along her rolling salty eyeball. She laughed, and brushed past me out of the room. My heart seemed everywhere at once. Never in my lifenot even when fondling my childlove in Francenever Night. Never have I experienced such agony. I would like to describe her face, her waysand I cannot, because my own desire for her blinds me when she is near.

I am not used to being with nymphets, damn it. If I close my eyes I see but an immobilized fraction of her, a cinematographic still, a sudden smooth nether loveliness, as with one knee up under her tartan skirt she sits tying her shoe.

A poet mes heures, I composed a madrigal to the soot-black lashes of her pale-gray vacant eyes, to the five asymmetrical freckles on her bobbed nose, to the blond down of her brown limbs; but I tore it up and cannot recall it today. But instead I am lanky, big-boned, wooly-chested Humbert Humbert, with thick black eyebrows and a queer accent, and a cesspoolful of rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile.

And neither is she the fragile child of a feminine novel. What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphetof every nymphet, perhaps; this mixture in my Lolita of tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity, stemming from the snub-nosed cuteness of ads and magazine pictures, from the blurry pinkness of adolescent maidservants in the Old Country smelling of crushed daisies and sweat ; and from very young harlots disguised as children in provincial brothels; and then again, all this gets mixed up with the exquisite stainless tenderness seeping through the musk and the mud, through the dirt and the death, oh God, oh God.

The reflection of the afternoon sun, a dazzling white diamond with innumerable iridescent spikes quivered on the round back of a parked car. The leafage of a voluminous elm played its mellow shadows upon the clapboard wall of the house.

Two poplars shivered and shook. Last night we sat on the piazza, the Haze woman, Lolita and I. Warm dusk had deepened into amorous darkness. The old girl had finished relating in great detail the plot of a movie she and L. The boxer had fallen extremely low when he met the good old priest who had been a boxer himself in his robust youth and could still slug a sinner.

We sat on cushions heaped on the floor, and L. In my turn, I launched upon a hilarious account of my arctic adventures. The muse of invention handed me a rifle and I shot a white bear who sat down and said: Ah! All the while I was acutely aware of L. When angry Lo with a Bronx cheer had gone, I stayed on from sheer inertia, while Haze smoked her tenth cigarette of the evening and complained of Lo.

She had been spiteful, if you please, at the age of one, when she used to throw her toys out of her crib so that her poor mother should keep picking them up, the villainous infant! Now, at twelve, she was a regular pest, said Haze. All she wanted from life was to be one day a strutting and prancing baton twirler or a jitterbug.

Her grades were poor, but she was better adjusted in her new school than in Pisky Pisky was the Haze home town in the Middle West. They had moved to Ramsdale less than two years ago. Of course, moodiness is a common concomitant of growing up, but Lo exaggerates. Sullen and evasive. Rude and defiant.

Struck Viola, an Italian schoolmate, in the seat with a fountain pen. Know what I would like? But I was wary of Haze. So I just grunted and stretched my limbs nonconcomitantly le mot juste and presently went up to my room. The woman, however, was evidently not prepared to call it a day. From her room Lo yelled she had it. We are quite a lending library in this house, thunder of God. I shall probably have another breakdown if I stay any longer in this house, under the strain of this intolerable temptation, by the side of my darlingmy darlingmy life and my bride.

Has she already been initiated by mother nature to the Mystery of the Menarche? Bloated feelings. The Curse of the Irish. Falling from the roof.

Grandma is visiting. Incidentally: if I ever commit a serious murder Carefully mark that then was rather inept. If and when you wish to sizzle me to death, remember that only a spell of insanity could ever give me the simple energy to be a brute all this amended, perhaps. Me: Promise to leave him a broken quivering mess. Lauren: That's the spirit. Me: xx.

But she'd stepped into a crazy rock star world. No one was pleased at her new role in it, she just wanted out, and she couldn't read David but he sure as hell just seemed plain unhappy.

But I loved that Ev took it all in stride. Sure, it was overwhelming at times but she was such a strong character and didn't let anything bring her down. There was, however, something undeniable between them.

A spark So they took the weekend to give them a second chance to explore that feeling between them that just felt so 'right'. He caught me off guard and I stumbled, my nose bumping into his chest.

It hurt. Bur he smelled good. Clean, male, and good. Some part of me remembered being this close to him and it was comforting. Something in my mind said 'safe'. But I couldn't remember how or why. I totally fell for David. Everything about him just made my heart melt. He was just so sweet and tender. Definite swoon material but at the same time, my heart broke for him I honestly did not feel frustrated with her even once.

I respected her decisions and loved the way she handled everything. The writing was so real! This author had a way of describing things that put you 'right there' in the moment seeing everything play out in front of your eyes. It was witty, smooth flowing with just the right touch of snark to keep me smiling throughout.

Ok - now here's what really and truly made this book GOLD to me. Never once did I want to throttle anyone or throw the book at the wall.

Now, don't get me wrong, there was heart-break, the characters messed up and it was certainly not all sunshine and rainbows but the way they reacted to everything was believable and never over-the-top. I also loved that the drama in this one was very personal.

Yes, he was a world-famous rockstar but the issues here were all very relationship focused and 'internal' having to do with "them", not with paparazzi or his fame or anything. I was totally connected to the characters every step of the way. I was happy when they were happy and my heart broke along side theirs.

It can be messy and painful," he said.Ev wakes up one morning, in a hotel room in Vegas, with the biggest hangover of her life, a wedding ring on her finger and a tattoo with a name "David" on her ass, with no memory of how all of those things happened. Now we're coming to the good part coz I need a goody to give me solace. She then finds out that she married a rock star. View all 53 comments. And I can not stress that enough.

CALLIE from Louisiana
I do relish exploring ePub and PDF books more . Feel free to read my other posts. I'm keen on dumog.