Love can conquer everything but reality. Which will win every stinking time.

A cold blast hit him and he laughed at the sting as he stepped outside, surveyed the night sky, and drank deeply. Such a good liar he was. Such a good one. Everyone thought he was fine because he'd camo'd his little problems. He wore a Sox hat to hide the eye twitch. Set his wristwatch to go off every half hour to beat back the dream. Ate though he wasn't angry. Laughed though he found nothing funny. And he'd always smoked like a chimney.

Times have changed and so have heroes and heroines, but the core of what makes readers happy has remained the same: Does the material touch you, resonant with you, stick with you? Do you feel yourself in the pages, see yourself walking in another person's shoes, hear the voices as they speak? Are you in love with the way they are in love?

As her eyes scanned his face, he feared that she saw everything, right down t the core of him. Where his obsession with her was the strongest. -Butch and Marissa

With that, he looked over his shoulder. Blay's breath shot out of his lungs. "Oh... my God," he whispered.

In the center was a tiny handprint in red paint.

Is he Catholic?" her grandmother asked on the way out. He's a drug dealer -- so if he is religious, he's got incredible powers of reconciliation. "He looks like a good boy," her vovo said over her shoulder. "A good Catholic boy." And that was that -- for now.