"Marianne de Pierres - Parrish Plessis 1 - Nylon Angel" - читать интересную книгу автора (de Pierres Marianne)

have an answer.

But she wasn't much of a conversationalist. Just a cheeky smile and a lot of see-through skin, who told
me what calls I'd had and when my bills were due. No help at all!

See, Merry 3# and I were up to our heavily pierced ears in trouble.

I'd been working in The TertтАФaround Torley'sтАФfor three years or more. Bodyguard stuff mainly.
Defending my own piece of the poison, living on stim and second-rate protein substitutes, scraping for
credits or barter.

It beat the hell out of home. Home was a hands-on stepdad and a mother who was genuinely addicted
to romance. (Neuroendocrine sims were the latest thing in the 'burbs.) When my sister, Kat, left home to
play pro ball, Dad turned his hands-on approach to me. I left before I killed him and broke Mum's heart.

The Tert seemed the right place. Outside the city limits. A leftover strip of toxic humanity where, it was
rumored, you could survive on your own terms.

I did all right there. Not many women of my large size were as handy with their fists and feet. I also cut a
mean, hungry look when I wanted. I could take care of myself but I'd never make the front cover of a
glossy, on account of my badly rebuilt nose and flattened cheekbone (courtesy of stepdad, Kevin). I
could have had it fixed up, I guess, but it reminded me of what I'd left behind.

I was getting byтАФuntil Jamon Mondo came along. Well, noticed me really. He's been here forever. I was
the new kid on the block.

When he hired me, Doll Feast said I'd hit pay dirt. Parrish Plessis, bodyguard to the stars. Well, to the
dark prince anyway!

By the way the other babes on the Torley's stretch reacted, I figured she was right. So I went along with
it. Anything had to be better than one more protein sub, or another soft-bottomed white-collar chump
looking for his piece of the wild side.
That dream died my first night on Jamon's payroll. I was expecting the bodyguard drill. How he wanted
to be protected, and from whom. Instead he took me to his barracks for a welcoming ceremonyтАж

Dingoboys, panting, howling like the moons of Jupiter had lined up, in their uniform of
dreadlocks, greasy skin and jutting teeth.

"Strip her down," Jamon instructed.

It took five of them to hold me.

I stared at him like some dumb, miserable animal gazing up the slaughterhouse ramp. Fear spiked
through my gut, so sharp that I moaned.

It was not a sound to be proud of, but then this wasn't graduation nightтАж

I tried to leave him after that but he had me followed and beaten. Once on Jamon's payroll, always on
Jamon's payroll. A club you had to die to leave.