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Light a Candle. Leave a Condolence. Message from Brenda Jefferson. TO: Family of Earle Fenderson. Please accept my regrets on the lose of your love one. Jehovah God has promised mankind the our enemy death will in time come to an end. There it tells us that God will wipe out every tear from their eyes and death sorrow pain will be not more.

Further down in revelation chapter it assures us. Only important stuff, of course. Like how to breathe under water, how to turn an arrow into a weapon,… More. One vampire.

One witch. A love that should have survived the ages. Avery lived by three simple rules. Never be outside after dusk. Never give up fighting to survive. Never give in to the one man who… More. Shelve Immortal Hexes Vampire Mates.

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Every day, my cage gets smaller. From now… More.

Manhandled by Sara Fields. Two hours ago, my ship reached the docks at Dryac. An hour ago, a slaver tried to drag me into an alley. Fifty-nine minutes ago, a beast of a man knocked him out cold. Fifty-eight minutes ago, I told my… More. Shelve Manhandled. All four books in the New York Times bestselling Hush, Hush saga are now available in a collectible hardcover boxed set. Enter the realm of fallen angels and rising passions with this boxed set that… More. His broken past threatens their future.

Child sex abuse inquiry: Bravehearts backs decision not to call alleged paedophile as witness

The second standalone romance in the steamy vampire warrior series by L. Haunted by the scars of his past, he swore never to love again Until he… More. There's one word you don't utter at Prescott High, not unless you want them to own you.

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Hael, Aaron, Victor, Oscar, and Callum. The Havoc Boys rule the hellhole we call Prescott High. The first book in the smoking hot vampire warrior series by L. In the supernatural underworld of Chicago, vampire warrior Lucian has met his match. Brutally… More. Void by Raven Kennedy. I was born of nothing. Thibault Academy is full of supernaturals that want me dead,… More.

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Shelve Void. Ruthless Seraphim 2 by Sophia Stafford.

The love of her life wants to kill her. She should be walking away from him. Screw walking, she should be sprinting! Still, my boss has warmed to me. When I get home from work, I feed the cat and make some dinner for myself. I sit on my new couch. Occasionally, I go to a local watering hole where the bartenders are reliable. I consider this an indulgence, but little indulgences are also key to bachelor life. Parking is one—for three hundred dollars a month I avoid endlessly orbiting my block—but I also have my magazines, my twice-monthly housekeeper, my well-stocked bar, and my heated foot-soaking tub.

If I feel overworked, I send out my clothes to wash-and-fold. Twice a year I might schedule a deep-tissue massage. I grew up in the South, but made my home here in San Francisco for what are called lifestyle reasons. There are many like me here—single people beached in life—and I make passing friends, passing girlfriends. Right after my marriage ended I went on a crazed apartment hunt in Silicon Valley, closer to work, but soon saw what would become of me.

I would disappear into my house, my housework, lawn work. I took a different tack in part inspired by Fred. I decided to stay in the city, in the very apartment that Erin and I shared, and learn bachelor logic. It understands that as a bachelor you are a permanent in between. This is no time for conventions. When it comes to breakfast, to social life, to love, you must privilege the simple above the complicated. They are the inept, the lost, the small. The successful bachelors—the ones without bitterness—have taught me many things: to schedule a social life, never to use both a spoon and a fork when either will do.

I know a guy who sleeps in a hammock; a guy who allows no organic matter in his apartment, including food; a guy so sure of his childless bachelorhood he underwent a vasectomy he gave me the recipe for the breakfast taco. Another bachelor once told me about his strategy for navigating the doldrums of physical isolation. I said it seemed creepy, but he pointed out that creepy was irrelevant.

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It was ethical, and that was all that mattered. He was looking for a temporary balm; travelers would be more likely to share his goal. You have elderly relatives visiting; your plumbing is out. Or you can bring your passport as your I. All I could do was marvel at the performance of bachelor logic. But is it nonsense? Will this friend, this good man, end up strapped to a stair stretcher, hands grasping for his rented walls? My father—I stopped calling him Dad when he committed suicide; it seemed too maudlin—would have found a specific and obvious moral to the story.

I took it hard, but it freed me from a certain worry, a locked-in way of seeing the world. Instead, I took up the responsibilities of the good citizen: recycling, riding my bike, giving money to environmental groups and the Glide Memorial shelter. My entire life, to my father, would be incomprehensible.

Beneath mention. But sometimes I throw in a few words, and the computer—in his Magic 8-Ball way—returns a phrase that has some hidden jolt of insight. This morning we had this exchange: frnd1: should i stay in or go out tonight? I had to correct his response: nothing in our earlier conversation hinted that I had been moping. Outside, dusk is coming down like a cleaver.

The street below—as it so often does—will rattle with distant laughter.