I wish there was more of their story! Great series! Absolutely loved it! Dec 29, Becca rated it it was amazing.
Mediator Short Story
Review to come. Aug 22, Stacie Marquart rated it it was amazing. Nice quick read. Apr 15, Adriana rated it really liked it. I liked knowing the story of Ethan and Fiona. Short but intense. Nov 06, Bookworm rated it it was amazing. My only complaint is it's too short. Jan 09, J. Very short story. Oct 29, Kim rated it it was amazing. Excellent I absolutely loved this book. Sexy, hot, dirty, filthy fun. A very quick read and most definitely worth it!!
Apr 22, Pripri rated it did not like it. Feb 25, Victoria rated it it was amazing. It is a great book to read. Darlene H. Turner rated it it was amazing Jun 26, Elizabeth rated it really liked it May 08, Stephanie rated it liked it Oct 30, Clara H rated it liked it Apr 16, There are no discussion topics on this book yet. Readers also enjoyed. Short Stories. About Kim Karr. Kim Karr.
Best known for writing sexy contemporary love stories, she enjoys bringing flawed characters to life. Her romances are raw, real, and explosive. Her characters will make you laugh, make you cry, make you feel. And her happily-ever-afters are always swoon worthy.
Short Story: The Bad Girl
From the brooding rock star to the arrogant millionaire. From the witty damsel-in-distress to the sassy high-powered business woman. No two storylines are ever alike. Get ready to fall in love. Other books in the series. Sexy Jerk World 3 books.
Books by Kim Karr. No trivia or quizzes yet. Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account. A hidden part of her. Soon Peter has his hands on her breasts. She lets him kiss her. She notices how unpleasant it is—not awful, just not pleasant. There is a difference and that difference is vast. The taste of his mouth, which is too much. More than she needs to know of his particular humanity. Traffic sounds below. His small window looks out to another brick building.
He fumbles with his zipper and soon has his penis out, which is small in the way that people must mean when they speak of such things as small, climbs on her, moving her face to it. She puts her mouth on the very small penis, trying to make it larger, thinking how weird it is, and what a child he is, this man who must be thirty years older than her. He comes and she spits him out. The woman was young, dressed up, looking to the camera with hope.
You will send her a copy of the poem. But you will read it, too, into the machine. You are crying or you have a cold or something has caught in your throat. The tape cuts off before you finish. Marissa or Christine or Stacey has her back to you. She looks toward the broken Rosary hanging from her bedpost. It has shiny red beads that sparkle. It was made with a sense of aesthetics, unlike the blue and pink plastic ones the nuns passed out in school.
She keeps her eyes on the Rosary, which is beautiful and awful, and listens to you talk about an old girlfriend, someone named Ruth or Esther or Rachel, who is either dead now or working very hard to be dead. It is not a very good poem. She lives alone, with a cat named Sylvia or Clarice or Gertrude. She really seemed like she was on drugs. But yeah, slurs her words.
Not quite. I had parents who liked to know where I was, but I don't think Vic's parents cared that much. He was the youngest of five boys. That in itself seemed magical to me: I merely had two sisters, both younger than I was, and I felt both unique and lonely.
I had wanted a brother as far back as I could remember. When I turned thirteen, I stopped wishing on falling stars or first stars, but back when I did, a brother was what I had wished for. We went up the garden path, crazy paving leading us past a hedge and a solitary rosebush to a pebble- dashed facade. We rang the doorbell, and the door was opened by a girl. I could not have told you how old she was, which was one of the things about girls I had begun to hate: when you start out as kids you're just boys and girls, going through time at the same speed, and you're all five, or seven, or eleven, together.
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And then one day there's a lurch and the girls just sort of sprint off into the future ahead of you, and they know all about everything, and they have periods and breasts and makeup and God-only-knew-what-else -- for I certainly didn't. The diagrams in biology textbooks were no substitute for being, in a very real sense, young adults. And the girls of our age were.
Vic and I weren't young adults, and I was beginning to suspect that even when I started needing to shave every day, instead of once every couple of weeks, I would still be way behind. The girl said, "Hello? The exchange organizers had sent some girls with us, from a local girls' school, to balance the sexes. The girls, our age, more or less, were raucous and funny, and had more or less adult boyfriends with cars and jobs and motorbikes and -- in the case of one girl with crooked teeth and a raccoon coat, who spoke to me about it sadly at the end of a party in Hamburg, in, of course, the kitchen -- a wife and kids.
This is Enn.
Vic had a bottle of white wine in a plastic bag, removed from his parents' kitchen cabinet. The hall was dim in the twilight, but I could see that she was beautiful. She told him it was Stella, and he grinned his crooked white grin and told her that that had to be the prettiest name he had ever heard.
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Smooth bastard. And what was worse was that he said it like he meant it. Vic headed back to drop off the wine in the kitchen, and I looked into the front room, where the music was coming from. There were people dancing in there. Stella walked in, and she started to dance, swaying to the music all alone, and I watched her. This was during the early days of punk. Maybe some Bowie, if you were lucky. During the German exchange, the only LP that we had all been able to agree on was Neil Young's Harvest , and his song "Heart of Gold" had threaded through the trip like a refrain: I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold.
The music playing in that front room wasn't anything I recognized. The music had a beat, though, and the half- dozen girls in that room were moving gently to it, although I only looked at Stella. She shone. Vic pushed past me, into the room. He was holding a can of lager.