I tried, really TRIED to get into this book. But the writing was so insufferable and the characters so flat that I gave up halfway through. I honestly can't remember the last time I read such a poor stylist; at times it felt like the writer was parodying herself. Imagine a white woman writing in the mode of a hyper-masculine thug, except the thugs are vampires who wear leathers and 'shitkickers' all the time instead of, you know, jackets and boots. Women in this book exist as pedestals for the more fully-realized male characters to worship and pine after; they are given no real substance of their own and instead function as the connection point between the tight-knit group of men.