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

by Darynda Jones

skin like Mayan chocolate, and

The lighter skin tone and gray eyes screamed hybrid.

Getting a little... Racist?

“It’s my body, dammit. I know the law, and possession is nine-tenths of it. And as for you,” he

Denise’s eyes rolled more often than a heroin addict with a trust fund.

“That’s brilliant. I’m a lawyer. I’m more organized than the Dewey decimal system. She’d totally fall for it.”

Then we all looked at Barber, expecting him to have someone to write to as well. “I only have my mom. She knows how I feel about her,” he said, and I wondered if I should be happy about that or sad because his mother was all he had. “I’m glad,” I told him. “I wish more people took the time to make their feelings known.” “Yeah. I’ve hated her guts since I was ten. There’s really not much else to put in a letter.”

Ask anyone. If I were edible, I’d be a fruitcake.”

“Yeah, you seem to be forgetting that time you were supposed to get me out of Dad’s car and put me to bed while he whipped up some margaritas. I woke up at two in the morning almost frozen solid in the backseat while you were making whoopie with Mrs. Dunlop next door.”

Funny how anyone who wasnt a cop would be arrested for that

He didn’t care enough about me to give me the time of day, but I pretty much had the time-of-day thing covered anyway.

After the death of his sister, his parents handed him over to the care of the New Mexico Insane Asylum. Subsequent years of misunderstanding and mistreatment, including periodic doses of electroshock therapy, left Rocket a fraction of the person he’d most likely been.

Graffiti covered most surfaces, attesting to the countless parties that’d been thrown over the years, probably before the biker gang had acquired the property. Apparently the class of ’83 had lived free, and Patty Jenkins put out.

Nobody liked rules more than institutionalizationers.

I could be irksome when I put my left ventricle into it.

Dang, we were even back to the volatile insults. It felt good to be home.

I pointed to my right breast. “This is Danger.” Then my left. “And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly.”

Someone tried to kill me. Had he succeeded, I could have died.

Between Jessica’s hostilities and my stepmother’s indifference, I sank into a very deep depression. One that I hid well with sarcasm and sass, but the incident sparked a cycle of self-destructive behavior that took me years to crawl out of.

Should I ditch my APD responsibilities and go to the prison to check on Reyes? Or should I dump all my APD responsibilities on Cookie and then go to the prison to check on Reyes?

a large childlike man Reyes had befriended, got confused and didn’t go down, a guard in one of the towers prepared to fire a warning shot. Reyes saw this and tackled his friend to get him down, thinking the guard was going to shoot him.

Some people think the police are worse than the criminals. Going to them would be like committing suicide.