First Grave on the Right (Charley Davidson, #1)

by Darynda Jones

“Hello,” I croaked. It was my uncle Bob. He bombarded me with words, of all things, apparently clueless to the fact that predawn hours rendered me incapable of coherent thought. I concentrated super duper hard on concentrating and made out three salient phrases: busy night, two homicides, ass down here. I even managed a reply, something resembling, “What twirly nugget are you from?”

But the thought of having a dead guy hovering behind my copy of Sweet Savage Love gnawed at me. I couldn’t just leave him there. I don’t even know if he likes romance.”

It’s the simple things in life, and all that crap.

I went down like a drunken cowgirl trying to line dance to Metallica.

whether by freak accident, divine intervention, or psychological disorder—

“Wow,” Sussman said, “you look hot even with the slight disfigurement.” I stopped and turned toward him. “What did you say?” “Um, you look hot?” “Let me ask you something,” I said, easing closer. He took a wary step back. “When you were alive, like, five minutes ago, would you have told some chick you’d just met that she looked hot?” He thought about that a moment, then answered, “No. My wife would divorce me.” “Then why is it the moment you guys die, you think you can say whatever you want to whomever you want?” He thought about that a moment, too. “Because my wife can’t hear me?” he offered. I stabbed him with the full power of my death stare, likely blinding him for all eternity. Then I grabbed my handbag and keys. Just before I shut off the lights, I turned back and said with a wink, “Thanks for the compliment.”

We walked under the police tape at exactly five thirtyish. Uncle Bob was livid but surprisingly stroke-free. “It’s almost six,” he said, tapping his watch. That’d teach me.

“You called me at four thirty-four,” I said, swiping at his hand. “I hate four thirty-four. I think four thirty-four should be banned and replaced with something more reasonable, like, say, nine twelve.”

I rolled my eyes so far back into my head, I almost seized.

“Don’t tell me you got involved in a domestic abuse situation.” “Okay.” “You did, didn’t you?” “Yep.”

“You should have waited for me,” he said really helpfully.

“Probably getting us killed,” I said as I took aim. “Or worse, grounded.”

“What now?” Gemma whined helpfully.

It would be my first real lesson on the illogic of the male population.

When I graduated, Denise’s eyes rolled more often than a heroin addict with a trust fund.

and surprisingly, the military is chock-full of men in uniform. Truly, its cup runneth over. Hoo-yah!

“Damn,” Elizabeth said. “You guys are going out for coffee? Can I watch?”

“First of all,” he said, his voice infused with exasperation, “I’m still getting used to all this, Miss Piss and Vinegar. Give me a little time.” “No.” “Second,” he continued without missing a beat, “I just want to talk to you about it.” “No.” “I mean, how does it work?” “Well.” “Do you see dead people all the time?” “Every other weekend and holidays.”

The blurry Superman thing. It moved so fast that by the time I turned my head, it was gone. It had moved to my other side, brushed my arm, feathered across my mouth, then dived inside me, pooling in my abdomen, oozing warmth throughout my entire body.

My insides quaked, and I threw back my head with a startled gasp. Garrett stepped forward and grabbed hold of my arms to keep me from falling. Only then did I see the bewildered expression on his face. He pulled me closer. Then the feeling left me and Garrett shot backwards, as if a violent force had shoved him.

The room seemed cold now, probably because I’d just had a near-sex experience with a blazing inferno.

“Fine,” I said, adding a slight whine to my normally nonalcoholic voice.

raising my hand and squirming in my seat like a third grader with a UTI.

I didn’t believe in astral projection. But maybe, just maybe, astral projection believed in me.

We stopped talking while Dad brought over my sandwich, offered me ten thousand dollars to off Uncle Bob, then left with my butter knife tucked into his pants, apparently planning to shank the man himself. I thought about warning Uncle Bob, but where was the fun in that?

I would not be sidetracked by latticework.

That led to the realization that mocha lattes and cheeseburgers weren’t doing me any favors.

I felt it my civic duty as a certified connoisseur of sarcasm to liven it up a bit, so I slurped some more.

I tripped on a cactus and just barely managed to catch myself. Night was so dark. Probably because of the time.

“I’ll go up and check out the skylights. Odds are I won’t be able to see in, but maybe I can find a hole. Maybe I can make a hole,” I said, thinking aloud. “Then the guys inside will make a hole as well. In your obstinate head. Probably two if history is any indication.” I studied the pipe while Garrett ranted something incoherent about holes and history. I’d chosen that particular moment not to understand a word he said. When he was finished, I turned to him. “Do you even know English? Give me a boost,”

He let an annoyed breath slip through his lips before stepping forward and grabbing my ass. Thrilling? Yes. Appropriate? Not on your life. I slapped his hands away. “What the hell are you doing?” “You said to give you a boost.” “Yes. A boost. Not a cheap thrill.”

If Garrett had been half a gentleman, he would have offered to climb the pipe in my stead.

“We really should get some X-rays,” the EMT said to Uncle Bob as I lounged on the stretcher. Ambulances were cool. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT as I picked up a silver gadget that looked disturbingly like an alien orifice probe, broke it, then promptly put it back, hoping it wouldn’t leave someone’s life hanging in the balance because the EMT couldn’t alien-probe his orifices.

“I have three words for you,” EMT Guy said. “Possible internal bleeding.” I turned back to him. “Don’t you think if I was bleeding internally, I’d know somewhere deep inside? Like, internally?”

“Looking back, I don’t think that man ever planned to help me find my stepmother.”

Reyes Farrow. Because perfection is a dirty job, but someone has to do it.

The tiny room was now full. Half the men were looking at me—including an enraged Garrett Swopes, who could kiss my smoking-hot ass—

Blinking to attention, I focused on Cookie at last. “He was here.” She scanned the room, her eyes wide, uncertain. “That big, bad thing?” “Reyes.” She stilled, chewed her bottom lip a moment, then looked back and asked, “Did you say hey for me?”

If only I didn’t have so many useless facts floating around in there. Damn my pursuit of trivia. I wondered other things as well. Was he carbon based? Was he really thirty years old or thirty billion? Was he an innie or an outie?

“Thank you so much for this, Ms. Tarpley,” Ubie said, taking her hand in his. She made googly eyes. He made googly eyes. It was all quite romantic,

“You know what’s disturbing?” Garrett asked, closing his notebook as we walked up. “Your addiction to little people porn?”

“We have a semi-solid plan of action if you want in.” “Sure do.” Good. He seemed to be doing better. He turned thoughtful a moment, then asked, “In the meantime, can I jump in your body and make out with my wife through you?” I fought a grin. “It doesn’t really work that way.” “Then can you just make out with my wife and pretend I’m in your body?” “No.” “I can pay. I have money.” “How much we talking?”

and Amber was busy flirting with a rookie named Dead Meat if he didn’t stop flirting back. She was eleven, for heaven’s sake! Of course, he may have just been humoring her. And it was a little cute. In a gross, Chester-the-molester kind of way.

Ignoring me, Taft said, “If she wants to stay, I’d love to have her. But I don’t know how to talk to her. How to communicate.” Uh-oh. I could see where this was headed. “Look. I don’t do the whole interpreting gig, savvy? Don’t even consider coming to me every time you want to know what she’s up to.” “I could pay you,” he said, sounding a lot like Sussman. “I have money.” “How much we talking?”

I could have kissed that woman. “I know. You could kiss me. Just find Reyes’s sister, and we’ll make out later.”

wore glasses with thick plastic frames that screamed anal retentive.

“I gotta tell you, Davidson, I’m impressed,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen. “That took balls.” “Please,” I said with a snort, “that took ovaries. Of which I have two.” He turned to me, a new appreciation lighting his face. “Have I mentioned that I’m a licensed gynecologist? If your ovaries ever need anything…”

Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.

“But, you’re his son,” I said, trying really hard to hate him. “You’re the son of Satan. Literally.” “And you are the stepdaughter of Denise Davidson.”

“You do have a tendency to sever spinal cords.”