Back in 1984 Dave met Marie at a frat party, a place she wouldn't be caught dead in. He followed her around campus until she decided to call his bluff and invite him to a punk show, a place she assumed he wouldn't be caught dead in. She was wrong. This is only a tiny part of their story.
WENDY WILDE wrote deliciously wicked novels of the sexual kind. Novels so hot, so prurient, they made her legions of fans. And haters. No subject matter was beyond her writer's fertile but kinky imagination. Her books made her rich and infamous and loved and hated. And now, dead and gone. Tag Bonewell, house dick at the Wellington Hotel, had never heard of her. Until the Wilde woman was found in suite 912 with three very neat, and accurately grouped, holes in her chest . . .