And the RAVE AWARDS go to . . .
The limousine pulled into a row of other limos. Lisa Burton* sat across from me in the back. A four-hundred pound man sat next to me in a tux. “Why is he here again?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Lisa said. “He’s from Harry Winston, and he comes with the diamonds. I have to give them all back after the program.”
“That’s too bad. They look really nice.” We pulled forward a few car lengths, and I asked him to let me out.
“What are you doing? You’ll miss the red carpet.”
“That’s the idea. I’m slipping in the back, grabbing a beer, and meeting you at our table. You’re the spokesmodel. It’s your job to take this bullet for me.”
“You’re such a baby. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
I wound my way to our table and sat where my name card indicated. The room filled up as Lisa wound…
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