The bus ride started out innocently enough, but then most major events do. If anyone really knew what was going to happen to them at the end of the day—or night for that matter—would they board the bus, or would they stay home? Would you drink that last glass of wine and stumble out into the rain with only a knee-length vinyl rain slicker to cover your nudity, or would you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain on the roof? I'd probably do it all over again.
"Are we nearly there yet? This doesn't look anywhere classy." Clarissa tried to keep the petulance out of her voice. She knew she should be flattered by the stretch-limo and the Dom Perignon, glass number three of which was fizzing its way down her throat, but why the hell were they driving about dingy back-streets?
I heard my name being called out from the midst of the teeming horde pressing in on the barriers after customs in New Delhi's Indira Gandhi international airport, and a head and arm waving a sign was bouncing up and down over the tumult. The sign the young man was carrying said "Clifford Jenkins" with "New York" written under it. That was me. But I wasn't being met by anyone that I knew of.
On Monday I appeared for work. There I met Denise, the secretary/paralegal who was also Ron's sister. Denise was thirty-five with long brown hair that reached her ass, a curvy figure, impressive chest, and killer legs. Her round wide round face featured large green eyes, a prominent jaw, and a large mouth with full lips.