Retaliation by Lauren Landish Read Online (FREE)
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“In the history of business law, there are many unique and interesting clauses that have stood up in court,” I mutter as I read my textbook. I know it’s a bad habit, but when I’m trying to slog my way through dull text, I can’t help it. When it gets really boring, I start using different voices as well. “With the rise of Internet-based intellectual property, and the accompanying, more laid-back culture of Internet users, clauses using terms such as ‘jerkface,’ ‘luser,’ ‘troll,’ and even ‘Leeroy Jenkins wannabe motherfucker,’ have all been deemed acceptable in court.”
I slam my book closed, shaking my head and wishing I could find and strangle the idiots who wrote this. Seriously, I can understand the fact that textbooks want to be interesting. I’ve spent years of my life absorbing an entire library’s worth of information on more than just business. And textbook companies want to be able to constantly keep their books up to date, if for no other reason than wanting to be able to sell you a new edition. But when the writers try to make it funny or cool, what they forget is that unless you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, you come off as… well, as a jerkface luser.
I laugh at my own little joke, and push the book aside for a little bit, getting up to stretch. My tiny studio apartment is nothing compared to what I used to have, with no real walls except for the shared half-wall between the bathroom and the kitchen area. It’s nothing like living at the DeLaCoeur plantation house, but at the same time I like it more than where I was raised for most of my life.
First off, I’m in the real heart of New Orleans. Bourbon Street is only a block away, and most nights I can keep myself extremely entertained with the sounds drifting over from the nightly craziness. Sometimes I even join them, normally to see how much I can cut horny guys to the bone with my tongue. It’s not too hard since most of the time they’re drunk. Even if they weren’t, very few of them can handle me anyway, despite my smaller size. Actually, I could use a new challenge on that front. Maybe it’s just where I live, but I’ve grown tired of guys thinking “Hey babe, show us your tits!” is a good pickup line.
Second, the apartment is mine, and it’s my first place where I’m standing on my own. Sure, I used Peter DeLaCoeur while I lived with him since he’s my father, at least biologically. Yes, I knew his money was dirty—hell, the man was probably involved in having my mother killed. I was using him, biding my time to get the necessary information to finally take him down. He used my presence as a way to constantly remind his wife of at least one of his many affairs. After the way she treated me from the minute I first came to live with them, she didn’t get much sympathy from me either. I would’ve felt bad for her and her shitty situation, but I’m sure there are mangy stray dogs that get more kindness than what I got from Margaret DeLaCoeur.