The Graveyard Shift (Charley Davidson, #13.5)

by Darynda Jones

One second she was tripping over, well, absolutely nothing—so much like her mother, it startled him—and the next, she was gone.

“She drinks coffee,” he mumbled, the threat of sleep tumbling his thoughts. “Did you know that?” “Elwyn?” she asked. “Mm-hmm. And her favorite writer is Stephen King.” “You let her drink coffee and read Stephen King?” “You say that like we have a choice. That kid is more stubborn than her mother was.”

“Do you know what it’s like sitting in public with a five-year-old who drinks black coffee and reads Stephen King? So many glares. So, so many glares.”

Was he sitting on the bench? He couldn’t feel his ass. Did he still have an ass? Panic shot through him again. Women liked his backside. If that was gone, what else did he have to live for?