Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, #2)

by Jeff Lindsay

A reasonable being might think that he and I could find some common ground; have a cup of coffee and compare our Passengers, exchange trade talk and chitchat about dismemberment techniques. But no: Doakes wanted me dead. And I found it difficult to share his point of view.

Still, it's always nice to be around somebody who thinks I am wonderful. It confirms my low opinion of people.

I WOKE UP WITH A HEADACHE, A FEELING OF TREMENDOUS self-loathing, and a sense of disorientation. There was a rose-colored sheet against my cheek. My sheets—the sheets I woke up to every day in my little bed—were not rose-colored, and they did not smell like this. The mattress seemed too spacious to be my modest trundle bed, and really—I was quite sure this was not my headache either.

I sat up. This may have been a strategic mistake, as it made my head pound a great deal more. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and waited for my aspirin. This normal life was going to take a little getting used to.

And a man who discovers his pants are on fire tends to have very little time to worry about somebody else's box of matches.

Was this what it was like to be human? Were people actually so miserable and brainless that they looked forward to this—to spending Friday night, precious time off from wage slave drudgery, sitting in front of a television with a can of beer? It was mind-numbingly dull, and to my horror, I found that I was getting used to it. Curses on you, Doakes. You're driving me normal.

The only reason I ever thought about being human was to be more like him.

and it was several days later, a Saturday morning, that my telephone rang. “Goddamn it,” said Deborah without any preamble. It was almost a relief to hear that she was her recognizable cranky self again. “Fine, thanks, and you?” I said.

I had adjusted to going along for the ride, but to actually have to do something was a little more than I had bargained for. I mean, here we had two hardened warriors sitting idly by, while we sent Delicate Dimpled Dexter into danger? Where's the sense in that?

It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems. Oh, Dexter, a savage inhuman monster has taken my boyfriend! Well damn it, I'm a savage inhuman monster, too—didn't that entitle me to some rest?

“Can you really fall in love with somebody in a week?” she asked me. “I don't think I can do it at all,” I said.

“Human beings need sleep, Debs,” I said. “And so do I.”

I AM NOT SHY ABOUT ADMITTING MY MODEST TALENTS. For example, I am happy to admit that I am better than average at clever remarks, and I also have a flair for getting people to like me. But to be perfectly fair to myself, I am ever-ready to confess my shortcomings, too, and a quick round of soul-searching forced me to admit that I had never been any good at all at breathing water. As I hung there from the seat belt, dazed and watching the water pour in and swirl around my head, this began to seem like a very large character flaw.

“Makes me want to wash my hands,” he said. “I'll wait outside.” “Is that really a good idea?” I asked. He tilted his head at Vince's conga line, which was collapsing in a heap of spastic hilarity. “Is that?” he said. And of course he had a point,

I don't pray, of course. What would something like me pray to, and why should It listen to me? And if I found Something, whatever It was, how could It keep from laughing at me, or flinging a lightning bolt down my throat?

Oh thank God, you came,” and he leaned his head onto my shoulder and wept. Since I had some recent experience with this, I knew just what to do. I patted him on the back and said, “There there.”

Half a box of doughnuts sat on the counter, with a very large roach munching on one of them. He looked at me as if he was willing to fight for the doughnut, so I left him to it.

Vince finally came in, looking green and very old. “Vince!” I said with great good cheer and he flinched and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. “I want to thank you for an epic party.” “Thank me quietly,” he croaked. “Thank you,” I whispered. “You're welcome,” he whispered back, and staggered softly away to his cubicle.

I was not aware of being a jerk—a monster, yes, certainly, but on the whole a very pleasant and well-mannered monster.

Hello, neighbor, beautiful night to remove a leg, isn't it?