After the dinner disaster, I had to wear gloves around Luther.
Not only metaphorically.
Damian's moving in with us didn't help our already damaged relationship at all. It made it worse.
So between Damian's endless boxes of designer clothes and shoes and my wife's lethargic state, I didn't even have a chance to experiment at first.
I had to ask for weeds from my garden to come since my usual guys gave Luther PTSD. And so I wasted two good days of business to make sure the Louis Vuittons of Damian didn't get wrinkles and my wife didn't try to jump out of the window.
Again.
So I had an excuse, a reason I messed up the first step of my beautiful plan.
Two and each has their own name and their own problem: Luther with his indifference and Damian with his constant, pointless and unstoppable yapping.
How could a respected underground surgeon—creator of the chemical gender switch, the first toxic omega-blocker—mess up a vein so badly it just gave out under pressure?
