Love Bites

by Ry Herman

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Fantasy Romance; Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

'Laugh-out-loud, feel-good read' *****
'Absorbing, modern romcom' *****
'Charming' *****

Tender and unforgettable, Love Bites is a laugh-out-loud, queer romance with a surprising paranormal twist.

Two years after a painful divorce, Chloë is still struggling to leave the house, paralysed by anxiety and memory. So when she's bullied into a night of dancing by her busybody aunt and finds herself in a goth club, on her own, in a strange part of town, she isn't looking for anything more than to pass the time until she can leave.

Then she meets Angela, a smart, beautiful astronomy Ph.D. student whose smile makes her heart pound. In Angela's eyes, Chloë can see a future. Suddenly, home alone is the last place Chloë wants to be.

Trouble is, Angela can only come out at night. Angela doesn't feel the cold. Angela doesn't eat. Angela doesn't have a pulse. Angela has sharp and deadly teeth.

Angela and Chloë might just be perfect for each other. But how do you build a life together when one of you is already dead?

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Brookline, Massachusetts

6 November 1999

Angela puts on her makeup carefully. It’s one of the most important parts of her preparations, and by far the most difficult.

First the lip liner – by feel. It requires a steady hand, so she likes to get it out of the way early. Slowly up and around, then the other way, down and across, setting the base, using precise movements that she hopes are shaping a perfect cupid’s bow. She won’t slip if she concentrates, but it’s harder to concentrate when she’s this hungry. That hunger, though, is the exact reason she needs everything to be perfect tonight.

Now the lipstick, almost as troublesome. She uses a brush and a liquid stain, applying it in even strokes. You’d think a tube would be easier to handle sight unseen, but she never got the hang of it.

Everything would be so much simpler if the mirror showed her reflection.

She could ask Shelly to take a look before she goes out, of course. But it’s better if she gets everything right the first time. If she screws up anything major, there’s a chance she could spend half the evening taking it off, putting it back on, asking Shelly again, taking it off again. That only happened once, shortly after she moved in, but she never wants it to happen a second time. Shelly had been giving her some extremely odd looks by the end of it.

The first few days in the house were the hardest, before she developed a routine. The absolute worst was the very first minute, hovering outside the open door, waiting for an invitation to come inside, wondering how long she’d have to stand there before she’d be physically capable of crossing the threshold. What a nightmare.

Eyeshadow next, which is a little easier as long as she brushes it on methodically. Angela starts small, and then blends it towards the edges. First a white primer up to the brows, then a coat of dark blue across the lids. Black in the crease. Smooth it out. Eyeliner can be tricky, but she’s always had a knack for it. She just has to remember not to rush. Keep the motions deliberate. Look up, draw a line below. Shut the eye, draw another across her lashes. If she smudges it by accident, the dark eyeshadow will help conceal it. A dot of highlighter goes on the inner corner. Mascara is practically no trouble at all.

At least she doesn’t need to bother with foundation. She doesn’t think there’s any way she could apply it evenly, not unless she enlisted someone else’s help every single time. And there have to be limits to her housemates’ patience. Not to mention their obliviousness. Fortunately, pale skin is in fashion where she plans on going. It’s one of the main reasons she picked it; she blends in there, just the way she is. Or more accurately, just the way she is plus lipstick, eyeshadow, eyeliner, a painstakingly chosen outfit, and the right way of holding herself, not too eager but not too shy. But no foundation.

Rouge is still a good idea, though. Feel for the apples of the cheeks, a little bit worked into the middle of each. Now, ideally, she looks attractively alabaster and not quite so much like an upright corpse.

Angela puts her tools back in the makeup case and snaps it shut. Clothes come next. Out of the bathroom, across the hall to her bedroom. Why does she even bother keeping her makeup in the bathroom, if she can’t use the mirror? Habit, probably. But it’s a good habit. Anything that makes her seem normal is a good habit.

She opens her closet to look at her choices, and is greeted by a sweep of vinyl, lace, feathers, leather. She’s not sure she owns any T-shirts or blue jeans anymore. It’s certainly a far cry from her childhood bedroom, with its neat row of Catholic school uniforms in the closet and a crucifix prominently displayed on the wall. So much has changed since then.

Crucifixes make her uncomfortable now.

By far the greatest changes have come in the past year. Or rather, in the year, two months, and ten or so days since her death. The point of disconnect with what she used to be. She’s reasonably certain she hasn’t worn a plain bra or a pair of sneakers since it happened.

It occurs to her to wonder if she even can. Does she have a compulsion to wear goth fashion now? Could that be the source of the fictional stereotype, a grain of truth in the stories and myths?

No, that’s ridiculous. She refuses to believe it. She wears these things to attract a particular kind of attention, and because she happens to like them. Why would this mysterious, theoretical instinct exist? Does it also force her to go to appropriate nightclubs? What would be the evolutionary basis for that – survival rates at the clubs on the savannah, deep in prehistoric times? Nonsense. There’s no such thing as a lace instinct.

Maybe she should run an experiment, to be sure. Buy a bunch of different outfits: preppy, hippy, punk. See if she can step outside wearing one. She decides to add that to the list. Low down on the list, because it’s a ludicrous idea. There are more important matters to test first. And she’s definitely not going to mess around with her clothing choices tonight.

Angela picks a red-and-black corset top and a satin fishtail skirt. Crimson gloves, tall heels. Enticing with a hint of elegance. She hopes. She wishes she could check.

Once she’s finished dressing, she takes her hair out of its scrunchie, and it drops over her shoulders in straight blonde lines. She’d blend in better if she dyed it black, or maybe dark red, but she never has. So there, she maintains at least one piece of defiance against the cliché. As acts of individualism go, it scarcely counts at all, but it’s something. Perhaps she’s a terrible monster, but at least she’s a terrible blonde monster.

She checks her handbag for her ID, phone, cash, and sleeping pills. She’s running low on pills; she’ll need to get her prescription refilled soon. A final look around the room, in case she’s forgotten anything. She hasn’t. There isn’t much there to be forgotten.

With the closet door closed, hiding the wild indulgence of her clothing, the room is spare and spartan. The mattress, sitting directly on the bare tile floor, takes up the entirety of one wall, sheets and blankets in a tangle on top of it. Across from that, there’s just enough room for her desk beneath the heavy drapes covering the single small window. Every now and then the code she’s left running spits a number onto the computer monitor, each one a reminder of how much work she has left to do, work she has to put off tonight. A narrow bookshelf is squeezed into the last remaining wall space. Mostly reference books, plus a couple of tattered favourites from earlier days. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. A used-bookstore copy of Annie On My Mind that her parents, fortunately, never found.

The room’s sole decoration is scattered across the ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark stars that light up dimly as she switches off the desk lamp. Familiar constellations – Draco, Andromeda, Orion raising his hand like an old friend. The star chart is completely accurate, the result of hours spent meticulously putting them in place with the help of a ruler and a stellar atlas. Angela gives them a faint smile as she leaves the room and shuts the door.

Up the stairs and out of the basement. Shelly is in the living room, perched on the settee, her hair unfussily pulled back into a ponytail, her nose buried in an unbound manuscript.

Good. Angela knows she could knock on Shelly’s bedroom door if she needed to, but it’s easier this way. The sound of pots clattering comes from the kitchen – Mike must be making a late dinner. She can smell the cooking steak from where she is. They don’t bother to ask her to eat with them anymore, thank goodness. She’s turned them down too many times, pleading work. Most of the time it’s not even a lie.

The living room looks nothing like her bedroom; everything here reflects Shelly and Mike’s taste. Sleek and modern, the settee black and chrome, the coffee table metal and glass. All of it out of place below a water-stained ceiling, in a room with dingy yellow-grey walls crusted with ancient wallpaper glue. A fixer-upper was the only place they could afford in Brookline, and a year and a half later they’re still fixing it up. The furniture is aspirational, including the enormous dog crate in the corner for the enormous dog they don’t own yet.

Shelly hasn’t noticed her come in, so Angela deliberately steps on one of the creakier floorboards. Shelly looks up at the noise and quirks her eyebrows.

‘Hey, Angela. Heading out for the night?’

‘Yes,’ she answers. ‘How do I look?’

Shelly grins. A flash of broad bright teeth that make a striking contrast to her dark-brown complexion. She takes a thorough look at Angela’s outfit, head to toe.

‘I’m going to go with stunning. That sound good?’

‘Flatterer.’

‘You might want to put on a jacket, though.’

Angela shrugs. ‘I’m just taking the tram over to Kenmore Square, I’m not going to be outside all that long.’

‘Right, of course. But it’s not a tram, it’s a trolley, and you’re taking the T. If you keep saying tram, everyone’s going to know you’re not from Boston.’

‘Sorry. Old habit, hard to kill.’ Angela smiles ruefully. ‘At least I didn’t call it the Metro, or SEPTA. So is my makeup all right?’ She turns her face from side to side so Shelly can get a look from all angles. ‘No smears?’

‘You look great,’ Shelly tells her. ‘Seriously. Go have fun.’

‘Thanks.’

Angela expects Shelly to go back to her book, but she doesn’t. Instead, she keeps looking at Angela, her lips pursed, her expression thoughtful.

‘Hey, I’ve been wondering. Would you like us to come with you some time?’

Oh, no. No, no, no. No. Angela makes an effort to keep her face neutral.

‘You don’t have to,’ she says, maintaining an even tone. ‘I know it’s not your thing.’

‘Eh, it couldn’t hurt to try it.’

‘Loud music, obnoxious drunks?’ Angela gestures at herself, her clothes. ‘Pretentious drama queens? You’d hate it.’

Shelly cocks her head, eyes narrowing. ‘Do you not want us there?’

‘Of course I do,’ Angela says. Lying. ‘I just don’t want you to feel obligated to do something you don’t like. Not because of me.’

Shelly glances at the manuscript to remember her place, then puts the pages down on the coffee table. Angela gets a queasy feeling in her stomach as Shelly turns to face her fully.

She clearly wants to talk.

‘I’m only trying to . . . You’ve been living here for most of the year, and it feels like Mike and I never see you. I spent more time with you back when we were undergrads. We’d kind of like to hang out with you sometime, you know?’

‘I can’t – I have to finish my thesis. I’m sorry, but that takes up a lot of time.’ Angela can hear how defensive she sounds as she says it. It must seem like a particularly lame excuse when she’s on her way out the door.

‘I know that.’ Shelly holds out her hands in a placating gesture. ‘I’m not trying to pressure you into spending time with us. I’m not even saying, don’t do what you want when you take a night off – God knows you don’t take that many. I just thought, next time you go out, we could go with you.’

Shelly’s idea sounds reasonable. Extremely, frighteningly reasonable. Angela desperately tries to think of a polite way to turn it down.

‘You could dress me,’ Shelly suggests. ‘That might be fun.’

‘None of my stuff would fit you,’ Angela says in a rush. ‘I’m a stick, you have actual boobs. You’d have to buy new clothes to get in the club; that’s absurd when you don’t really want to go. Tell you what – next time I take a night off, I’ll spend it here, with you guys.’

‘You don’t have to—’

‘I want to. Seriously, it makes a lot more sense. And here’s an idea: are you two still planning on painting the stairway soon?’

Shelly nods, slowly. ‘Yeah, once we actually get around to buying paint for it.’

‘That’s perfect. Let me know when you pick a day, and I’ll help out when I get up. We’ll make it a house party, have a good time with it.’

‘If you’re genuinely sure you want to . . . All right, that sounds fun,’ Shelly says, warming to the idea. ‘We can put on some oldies. Buy snacks.’

‘Snacks,’ Angela echoes. ‘Great.’

Feeling relieved, she forces a smile. It means she’ll have to take an extra night off sometime to take care of business, but that’s a small price to pay.

Then she notices Shelly is still studying her face.

‘What? Is it my lipstick?’

‘Are you all right?’ Shelly asks. ‘I mean, is everything OK?’

Angela’s smile drops. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You haven’t been looking so good lately—’

‘I thought you said I was stunning.’

‘Look, Angela, I don’t mean to pry, but . . .’ Shelly searches for words. ‘I know whatever happened between you and Tess wasn’t easy.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You moved across the country. In the middle of grad school.’

‘It’s no big deal. I worked all that out with my advisor. I’m done with classes, I don’t have to be there in person. I just need to finish my thesis.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Shelly says, starting to sound a little frustrated. ‘I’m trying to say, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.’

‘I know,’ Angela replies in a quiet voice. ‘And thank you. I appreciate it, I really do. But it isn’t necessary.’ She motions her chin towards the stack of paper on the coffee table. ‘So, what are you reading? Is it any good?’

Shelly doesn’t look happy that the subject has been changed. Angela wonders if she’s going to force the issue.

In the end, though, all Shelly says is, ‘Yeah, it’s not bad. They’re usually worth reading by the time they get to me. I have a minion who goes through the slush pile and weeds out the truly awful stuff before I ever see it.’

‘That must be nice.’

‘Oh, believe me, it is.’

From the next room, Mike calls out that dinner is ready. Shelly glances towards the kitchen door and heaves herself to her feet. ‘Hope you have a good time tonight.’

‘I’ll try my best.’

‘Good. You know, I think you might enjoy this book,’ Shelly says over her shoulder as she heads into the kitchen. ‘It’s like Buffy the Vampire Slayer – all about monsters. Werewolves and vampires and witches and things. Very goth. Want to take a look sometime?’

‘Sure, sounds great,’ Angela replies weakly. ‘Just my thing.’ But Shelly has already turned away.

Angela flees out the front door.

Somerville, Massachusetts

6 November 1999

In her years as a slush pile reader, Chloë has encountered practically every kind of angel there is.

Sanctimonious angels are her least favourite. They have an annoying tendency to condemn her and everyone she knows to hell. Virtuous angels are a close second, though, because they’re so dull. Wrathful angels are surprisingly relatable if you don’t mind a few demons getting run through with flaming swords, and rebellious angels can go either way, compelling or repellant depending on how sulky they are. Wise angels are without question the best of the lot, but their appearances are few and far between.

If she never sees a sexy angel again, it’ll be too soon. Conceited bastards.

Ever since the company she works for started publishing a line of ‘inspirational literature’, angels have popped up in at least a quarter of the submissions that get dumped in the in-box on her desk. Sometimes it seems like there’s an angel for every possible purpose, and their personalities vary wildly depending on the taste and sanity of the author. Such is the glory and wonder of accepting unsolicited manuscripts. She’s passed a few angel novels on to Shelly, the submissions editor for the imprints Chloë reviews, but most get sent back in their self-addressed stamped envelopes or tossed into the recycling.

But in spite of her experience with the species, she’s having trouble getting a handle on the angel in the book she’s currently reading. He doesn’t seem to be doing much except hanging out in heaven and chatting with the occasional dead saint. He might be an entirely new type. A useless angel? A pointless angel? Maybe he’s supposed to be avant-garde. Whatever he is, he isn’t making a very good impression on her.

She can remember when paging through something like this would at least prompt her to work on her own writing. Right now, however, even the idea of it seems exhausting. Which isn’t surprising, since she finds everything exhausting these days: writing and reading and walking out the front door. Getting out of bed each morning is a minor, pathetic victory.

Her thoughts are interrupted by her new housemate rapping on the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. She jumps a little at the noise, startling the cat that had been dozing peacefully on her lap. And a startled Entropy is a destructive force of nature.

Ari doesn’t manage to get all the way through asking, ‘You got a minute?’ before Entropy leaps away at such high speed that he transforms into a black-and-grey streak, using Chloë, painfully, as his springboard. He caroms off a wall before vanishing into her bedroom. In his wake, with the slow inevitability of an avalanche, the precariously balanced piles of odds and ends that Chloë assembled during her last futile attempt at cleaning topple over.

Ari and Chloë survey the resulting devastation.

In all honesty, it hasn’t made much of a difference. Masses of books, old bills, dirty dishes, and unwashed socks are strewn over nearly every available surface in the house. And worse things, as well. Once Chloë found a half-eaten sandwich under a newspaper. She couldn’t remember making it, and was fairly sure there’d been no bread in the house for weeks.

The furniture isn’t any better; it’s been scavenged from whatever gets left on the sidewalk when the Tufts students move out – slanting bookshelves, chairs held together with duct tape, the sagging couch where Chloë sits. The building itself is as dilapidated as the landlords think they can get away with, peeling brown wallpaper on the inside and peeling brown paint on the outside.

‘That,’ Ari says as another pile collapses, ‘is an extremely energetic cat.’

After allowing herself a small sigh, Chloë turns her attention to the figure in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hi. I’m working, but I can break for a little while.’

‘Great.’

As Ari walks into the room, she tosses the manuscript she’d been reading into the ‘reject without passing on’ area of the floor. Bye-bye, useless angel. The rejected submissions fan out from the couch in a sloppy arc. Chloë can judge how much she’d disliked a book by how far away it ends up; the more she hates it, the harder she throws it.

‘So what’s up?’ she asks.

‘Well,’ Ari answers, ‘I was hoping we could talk about a situation. In the house.’

‘A situation?’

‘Yeah.’

Chloë feels a sense of trepidation. She’s been dreading the prospect of having a serious conversation with Ari since he moved in a few days ago.

She doesn’t know him well. Financial desperation is the only reason she’s taken on a subletter at all. The last rent increase made it impossible for Chloë to pretend that she could afford the place alone anymore, so she’d advertised the coffin-like ‘half bedroom’ on the far side of the kitchen as a sublet. Most likely, it’s an illegal approach to the problem, but she figured someone out there had to be as desperate as she was. Although after a series of prospective tenants walked in, saw the state of the living room, and made hasty excuses to leave, she’d wondered if that was true.

Then Ari took one look around, said ‘Great!’, and signed the sublet agreement Chloë handed him without bothering to read it. She still isn’t sure what his deal is. There’s something odd about him she hasn’t been able to put her finger on yet. Something odder than his being named Ariel, which might just mean that his parents were very Jewish. Or Shakespeare aficionados. Or big fans of The Little Mermaid. He looks a bit like a Renaissance painting of an angel himself, as it happens – he has the androgynous good looks, the long, wavy hair, and the large, soulful eyes.

If he has a job, it’s not one that keeps predictable hours. Nonetheless, he’d prepaid two months’ rent in cash, brought in a single suitcase worth of belongings, and then kept to himself for the most part. Trust-fund stoner is Chloë’s first guess, although if he’s smoking anything, he isn’t doing it at home. He seems nice enough, but she’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’s going to pressure her to join his cult, she guesses. Or ask if he can deal drugs out of the kitchen. Or turn his bedroom into the world’s smallest sex dungeon. Or, worst-case scenario, ask her to clean the place up.

She might as well get it over with. ‘What situation did you want to talk about?’

‘Your cat,’ Ari tells her, ‘keeps dropping on my head.’

‘Oh,’ Chloë says. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. He does that. Usually only with people he really likes, though.’

‘It’s amazing! Why – no, what I mean is, how? How does he do that?’

‘He perches on the door lintels, waiting for someone to come through.’

‘Amazing,’ he repeats, peering at the narrow beam atop the doorway to the kitchen. ‘They’re only, like, half an inch wide.’

‘He’s very graceful.’

‘Cats are such fantastic creatures, don’t you think?’ He continues to stare at the lintel, as if willing it to divulge its secrets.

‘Has he scratched you?’ Chloë asks.

‘What? Oh, no. No, he kind of bounces off and falls after he hits. But that’s why I’m concerned. I’m worried he might hurt himself.’

‘Really? I’m pretty sure he’ll be fine. Like I said, he’s graceful.’

Ari doesn’t look entirely convinced. ‘Do you think there’s any way to get him to stop?’

‘Believe me, I’ve tried. But yelling, “No!” doesn’t really do anything because, well, he’s a cat. I thought about removing the lintels, but it’s a rental and I don’t think the landlord would like that.’

‘No,’ Ari acknowledges. ‘Probably not.’

‘Is this going to be a problem for you?’ she asks, feeling nervous once again. She knows from personal experience how disconcerting it can be to suddenly find Entropy declaring war on your hair. If Ari decides to move out, she’ll be right back where she started.

She waits while he thinks deeply.

‘Nah, it’s fine,’ he says at last. ‘If you say he’ll always stick the landing, I’ll trust you. Cats, just amazing.’

Chloë exhales with relief. ‘Thanks for being willing to put up with it. I know animals leaping out of the sky isn’t a standard household hazard.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ He airily waves a hand as he turns to head into the kitchen. ‘I’ll let you get on with your work.’

He’s already halfway through the doorway when Chloë says, ‘Hey, Ari?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I was wondering, what do you do? I mean, for a living?’

He turns back to her, a broad smile spreading across his face. ‘I preach.’

‘You what?’

Ari takes a step forward and winces as he treads on something hard or sharp lying concealed in the clutter. ‘I preach. I’m a preacher.’ He begins to pick his way more carefully across the detritus on the floor, moving towards the couch.

‘Where do you preach?’ she asks him.

‘On the street.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve got a nice spot in the Public Garden. When they don’t chase me away. I’ll be heading out there later tonight, as a matter of fact.’ He sits down next to her and clasps his hands across one knee.

‘Tonight? But it’s already dark.’

‘I’ve been finding,’ he says seriously, ‘that preaching on the late side makes me less likely to get chased away. As long as I’m not too loud. Attracting some notice is important, but getting, let’s call it, the wrong kind of notice has been an issue.’

Chloë isn’t sure what to say. ‘Does it pay well?’

‘I don’t really know. I haven’t been doing it all that long.’

‘And what do you preach?’ she continues, despite the sinking feeling she’s starting to feel in the pit of her stomach. ‘I mean, what religion?’

‘It’s one I invented myself. I studied a lot of older religious doctrines first, but it’s pretty much my spin on the whole thing.’

There it is, Chloë thinks, hearing a metaphorical shoe thud onto the floor.

Cult.

‘Would you like to hear about it?’ Ari asks eagerly, a zealous light coming into his eyes.

‘I don’t think right now is a great—’

‘It’s a very nice religion. It doesn’t require any animal sacrifice at all.’

‘That’s . . . good?’ she says.

‘I figured you’d think so, because you’re clearly an animal lover. There’s no need to kill anything, bulls, goats, whatever. Definitely not cats. I have a whole little parable about why, if you want to hear it.’

‘I really should get back to work,’ Chloë tells him, patting the stack of manuscripts next to her a little too rapidly. ‘So, you know, it sounds great, but, uh, you know.’

Ari’s smile slips somewhat. ‘Oh. Right, I totally understand.’

‘It keeps piling up. The work.’

‘Maybe some other time, then?’

He looks so put out that Chloë can’t help but feel bad for him. ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘Then I guess I’ll leave you alone. Until you’re not so busy.’

‘Sure.’

Ari gets off the couch and makes his slow way back across the living room. Even taking as much care as he can, he manages to step on something that crunches under his foot. Throwing her an apologetic glance, he retreats into the kitchen, and soon after she hears the door to his bedroom shut.

Chloë massages her temples, trying to stave off an incipient headache, then runs her hands back through the tangled curls of her hair. When closing her eyes and holding still doesn’t help, she roots through the couch cushions until she finds the Zoloft bottle. It’s not a headache medication, but maybe it will help ease the muscle tension. Or something. Besides, it’s time for her to take it.

Even if her housemate is an aspiring cult leader, Chloë tells herself, he seems harmless. She certainly hopes he is, anyway. Illegal landlords can’t be choosers.

After she dry-swallows the antidepressant, she takes a new selection off the pile of unread submissions and flips it open. It’s another religious text; the subject seems to be stalking her today. This one has a sanctimonious angel in it, and soon she’s reading about all of the reasons she’s going to suffer eternal torture in a lake of fire burning with sulphur.

It doesn’t get any better from there.

The Parable Of The Monster And The Girl

Public Garden, Boston

6 November 1999

That’s right, gather round, gather round. No need to be shy, come right up close. Welcome to the Public Garden. Preaching starts in two minutes, right here under the statue of the Good Samaritan. Which actually represents the first medical use of ether, did you know that? Yeah, that’s why the Good Samaritan is drugging that guy. The more you know, huh?

Anyway, thanks to all, let’s see, two of you – oh, wait, I didn’t see the dog. Three. Thanks to all three of you for, like, giving me your ear on this cold November evening. It’s so nice to be able to talk to you in person; it really helps keep the message from getting lost in transmission. I’m sorry it’s so late, but the police here are starting to be really loose with their definition of a ‘disruptive. . .