Shehurls the dogs into the pantry, pulls a handful of colored biscuitsfrom the robe and throws them at the dogs before slamming the pantrydoor shut, the sounds of the dogs fighting over the biscuits cutmercifully short.

"Okay,uh-huh, right, Malcolm McLaren . . . Yeah, no, Frederic Fekkai. Yeah.Everybody's hung over, babe." She scrunches up her face."Andrew Shue and Leonardo DiCaprio? . . . What? . . . Oh baby,no-o-o way." Alison winks at me. "You're not at a windowtable at Mortimer's right now. Wake up! Oh boy ... Ciao, ciao."She clicks off the cellular and carefully places the joint on thecounter and says, "That was a three-way with Dr. Dre, YasmineBleeth and Jared Leto."

"Alison,those two little shits tried to kill me," I point out as shejumps up and wraps her legs around my waist.

"Mr.and Mrs. Chow aren't little shits, baby." She clamps hermouth onto mine as I stumble with her toward the bedroom. Once thereshe falls to her knees, rips open my jeans and proceeds to expertlygive me head, deep-throating in an unfortunately practiced way,grabbing my ass so hard I have to pry one of her hands loose. I takea last drag off the cigarette that I'm still holding, look around fora place to stub it out, find a half-empty Snapple bottle, drop inwhat's left of the Marlboro, hear it hiss.

"Slowdown, Alison, you're moving too fast," I'm mumbling.

Shepulls my dick out of her mouth and, looking up at me, says in a low,"sexy" voice, "Urgency is my specialty, baby."

Shesuddenly gets up, drops the robe and lies back on the bed, spreadingher legs, pushing me down onto a floor littered with random issues ofWWDs, my right knee crumpling a back-page photo of Alison and Damienand Chloe and me at Naomi Campbell's birthday party, sitting in a