I Hunt Killers Blood Boy Read Free

a Lebron-like vantage point. The foyer led off in three directions — through an archway to what looked like a living room, down a hallway into the depths of the house, and up a flight of stairs that ascended into darkness, no doubt the family bedrooms, where much hooking up would commence. Howie planned to be a part of that.
    “I see her,” he said, catching sight of Connie. She was making her way down the hallway, fighting against a tide of bodies. “Forward! Mush!”
    Between the two of them, they shoved through the crowd. Connie spied Howie above the throng and gestured to one side. The three of them met in the living room, which was a little less sardine-y. Connie perched on the arm of the sofa, crossing her legs at the ankles. She wore black boots, a red wig, and a skintight black one-piece suit that zipped up the middle, stopping right at that perfect place Howie loved so much, where it seemed like the boobs might fall out of their own accord. They never did, but a man could dream, right?
    “Who are we this evening?” she asked Jazz, kissing him lightly on the cheek.
    “He’s normal ,” Howie said with disgust.
    Connie smiled. “I approve.”
    With a snort, Howie crossed his arms over his chest. “You would.”
    “And what are you supposed to be?" Connie asked him.
    "I am the face of spousal abuse," Howie intoned with utter seriousness. "Until women stop beating up their husbands, I will wear this makeup in solidarity with…"
    He trailed off as Connie's interest slid away. She had learned far too quickly when to ignore him. It was vexing. Usually people took much, much longer to get to this point. But she was already turning back to Jazz, taking his hand and holding it in both of her own. It was sweet and adorable and nauseating.
    “Who are you?” Howie asked.
    Connie hopped off the sofa and cocked one hip, pointing at him with a gadget strapped to her wrist. "I'm Black Widow.”
    “Duh. I’ve seen the movies. But Black Widow is white. ScarJo. I have followed her boobs—um, her career with great, bouncing interest.” He bobbed his head as though following a tennis ball or a starlet’s chest. “Oh, wait. Black Widow. Black Widow. I get it now. But shouldn't it be Black Black Widow? Or African-American Widow? Far be it from me to lecture you on the finer points of political correctness--"
    "Far be it," Connie said drily.
    "--but it seems to me that African-American Widow would be more ethnically sensitive. Or maybe even Surviving Partner of Color ." He snapped his fingers. "Yeah, that's it. Surviving Partner of Color."
    "Can you shut him up?" Connie asked Jazz.
    "Sure, but I'd have to kill him," Jazz said.
    Connie stared, open-mouthed at Jazz.
    "Was that not funny?" Jazz asked.
    "Not at all," Connie said, and actually shivered.
    Jazz turned to Howie. “Really? It was a joke. Honest.”
    "Keep working on it. You'll get there. But, uh, in the meantime, for no reason at all, I'm gonna go mingle."
    He sidled away from them, leaving them in their own little world of lovers and puppy dogs and sweet nothings and whatever else people who were gettin’ some had in their little worlds.
    First order of business: The kitchen. He needed something to drink and he needed it right away. He zeroed in on a dude dressed as gigantic, overflowing bag of garbage. He carried the infamous, ubiquitous Red Plastic Cup, stumbling a bit from side to side, six inches shorter than Howie, but almost as wide as he was tall. The guy plowed into Howie, elbowing him just under the ribs, and Howie whoosh ed.
    “Sorry, man,” the guy said, peering blearily up at Howie. “Holy crap. Are you that tall or am I that drunk?”
    “Both?” Howie suggested.
    The guy froze at that; Howie could see the wheels spinning as he mulled it over, then erupted into a wet laugh, slapping Howie on the back, since he couldn’t reach his shoulder without a ladder.
    “Where’s the booze?” Howie asked, wondering if calling it booze was cool or not.