Dude,” I said, leaning over the desk, “I’m about as psychic as a carrot.

Where you just possessed?" Cookie asked after a long moment, awe softening her voice. "'Cause let me tell you, sweetheart, if that was possession, I'm selling my soul.

For one week, all I could think about was drinking margaritas--well, that and running my tongue along Reyes's teeth--but I didn't have salt--or Reyes's teeth. I'd also lacked the energy to leave my apartment to get some--or the desire to stoop low enough to beg Reyes to let me lick his teeth after what he did--so I could only wish for a margarita. And dream of Reyes's teeth. I'd secretly hoped a margarita would magically appear in my hand, but that would mean I would have to put down the remote, and God knew that was not going to happen.

No, no, no, no, no. Anything but murder. Or rape. Or kidnapping. Or armed robbery. Or indecent exposure, ’cause that’s just creepy.

Yeah, but what happens if life hands me pickles? - Bumper sticker

Oh, my god!" I said, throwing my hands over my eyes and hurtling my body against the counter. "What?" "You're naked." "I'm not naked." "I'm blind." "You're not blind. I'm wearing pants." "Oh." That was embarrassing.

Rocket," I said, straightening in the chair. "Donovan was just helping me with my contacts." Donovan raised his brows humorously. Rocket furrowed his. "Did you swallow them?