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

by Darynda Jones

My beautiful sister. You are like sunshine: bright, incandescent, and oddly irritating at times. But what else are sisters for?

I’d been having the same dream for the past month—the one where a dark stranger materialized out of smoke and shadows to play doctor with me. I was starting to wonder if repetitive exposure to nightly hallucinations resulting in earth-shattering climaxes could have any long-term side effects. Death via extreme pleasure was a serious concern. The prospect led to the following dilemma: Do I seek help or buy drinks all around?

What kind of sadist called another human being at 4:34 in the morning?

While I normally weighed around 125 … ish, for some unexplainable reason, between the hours of partially awake and fully awake, I weighed a solid 470.

Never knock on death’s door. Ring the doorbell then run. He totally hates that. —T-SHIRT

“Amber wants your dad to get a teriyaki machine so she can sing for all the lonely barflies.” “I’m a good singer, Mom.” Only a twelve-year-old could make the word mom sound blasphemous. I leaned into Cookie. “Does she know it’s not called—?” “No,” she whispered. “Are you gonna tell her?” “No. It’s much funnier this way.”

You know you have ADD when— Look! A chicken! —T-

When fighting clowns, always go for the juggler.