[Jack] Kerouac was writing fiction. What he did when he wrote about me. . . he made me out with Russian Countesses and Swiss accounts and other things I didn't have or didn't happen and so on.
Kat," Hale groaned, then fell back onto the pillows. "Funny, I didn't hear a doorbell. " "I let myself in; hope that's okay. " Hale smiled. "Or the alarm. " She stepped inside, tossed a pocket-size bag of tools onto the bed. "You're due for an upgrade. " Hale propped himself against the antique headboard and squinted up at her. "She returns. " He crossed his arms across his bare chest. "You know, I could be naked in here.