Notice the book, a James Patterson thriller. The cover cresting at the edges, a wave curling back on itself. Ripped corners. Crease marks wind like rivers across a woman dressed in red, her back arched, her eyes closed, her mouth open in anticipation.
To the left of her in small, inflammable text, “Paris is burning and only Private can control the inferno.”
On the back an endorsement, “No one gets this big…”
Inside, eight pages of endorsements from past lovers.
Their words on paper street corners,
Call to you.
Seduce.
Used, but not damaged.
Run your finger down the spine.
Let your gaze fall.
Let it linger on the dust jacket.
Be tempted,
Aroused by this word lingerie.
Will Jack Morgan and his elite team connect the dots before the smoldering power keg explodes?
Be the woman in red.
Light the match.
Burn.
