“Thanks. That’s good to know.” Jack might have lied and said he definitely already knew what a “selfie” was, thank you very much, but he had a feeling that Ken would see through that fib very easily. Jack did have experience with photography, but he certainly hadn’t taken selfies with the corpses of Cohen’s disciples.
“You really think so?” Ken didn’t seem like the kind of person to give out compliments like that unless he meant them. Jack wanted to take selfies with him more often, if Ken really thought they made him look that good.
“You look cute, too! We need to find some way to make a copy of the photo for me so I can hang it up.“ What he really needed was to get a cellphone one of these days, so Ken could just send over pictures like these.
Even seeing him from across the room made her heartbeat stammer. Her shoulder rose with the deep breath she took- Dollie did not expect to see him at this party. Sander Cohen’s disciples seemed so much better than a closing night ceremony in Fighting McDonagh’s. Her free hand tucked a red curl behind her ear. She was going for it.
Her walk towards Silas was like one of a concubine in training; a tad of alluring with a bit of nerves. She set her beer on the counter beside him and met his eyes.
Martin Finnegan, Sander Cohen’s oldest disciple, was nestled deep within Fort Frolic. In fact, the fellow was locked inside the now frozen tunnel that led to Poseidon Plaza. Misfortune was Martin’s faithful companion on New Year’s Eve. The brunette emitted an irritated sigh as he approached the pneumotube. Kyle Fitzpatrick, the Fort’s pianist had been kind enough to leave him a small gift: a lighter and coffee.