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

by Darynda Jones

Better to see dead than be dead. —CHARLOTTE JEAN DAVIDSON, GRIM REAPER

I had on a Scorpions hockey jersey I’d snatched off a goalie and a pair of plaid boxers—same team, different position. Chihuahuas, tequila, and strip poker. A night that is forever etched at the top of my Things I’ll Never Do Again list.

Asshole was simply too strong and too fast, and the punch had been too unexpected. I went down like a drunken cowgirl trying to line dance to Metallica.

“What are you doing?” she asked as I scrambled through the fence and rushed back to her. “Probably getting us killed,” I said as I took aim. “Or worse, grounded.”

It was hard being such an utter disappointment to the woman who’d raised me, but gosh darn it, I gave it my all.

I suddenly realized what I’d done. I’d said too much. I’d let my pride go to the party, and it ended up auditioning for Girls Gone Wild.

Genius has its limitations. Insanity … not so much.

“My fore-parts, as you so ineloquently put it, have names.” 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.”

Don’t fear the reaper. Just be very, very aware of her. —CHARLOTTE JEAN DAVIDSON

Well-behaved women rarely make history. —LAUREL THATCHER ULRICH

If I couldn’t be a good example, I’d just have to be a horrible warning.