Second Grave on the Left (Charley Davidson, #2)

by Darynda Jones

It was late when I slipped into Garrett’s hospital room. He was still asleep, so I decided to help myself to his tray. I’d been admitted for a concussion and he’d been admitted for three gunshot wounds. So he won. This time. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice gravelly from fatigue and medication. “I’m eating your ice cream,” I said through a huge mouthful of vanilla delight. “Why are you eating my ice cream?” Really, he asked the silliest things. “Because I already ate mine. Duh.” He laughed then cringed in helpless agony. He’d been in surgery for-like-ever, then in recovery, but they put him in a room because, despite the amount of blood loss, his wounds were no longer life threatening. “You here to get in my pants?” he asked. “You’re not wearing any pants,” I reminded him. “You’re wearing a girly gown with a built-in ass ventilator.”