Grids recoiled instinctively as the hairs of Michaelson’s mustache and beard scratched against the edges of Tamara’s mouth and the warmth of his tongue pushed past her lips. It tasted of cigar and beer. He was glad when Tamara pulled back and pecked Michaelson on the side of his mouth. She jerked her head in the direction of the troll with the mirror shades who walked behind them, simultaneously pulling at Michaelson’s arm. "Let’s get inside first," she said.