[...]you know what they say about messengers, right"? Excuse me?" Too much bad news will get you shot."[...]

I think you and he need to talk. And once you do, I won’t have to worry about being jumped like a felon again.” Blay frowned. “He and I have nothing to say to each other—” “With all due respect, the ligature marks around my neck would suggest otherwise.

I'm not hurt. I'm pissed off and sexually frustrated.

Wrath clapped his brother on the shoulder. On the whole, though, the SOB was a total keeper. “Forgiven, forgotten.” “Feel free to hammer me anytime.” “Believe me, I do.

Giving in to a shrill instinct, she ran around the side of the building. Butch was marching toward his car as if he were carrying an unstable load, and she rushed to catch up with them. “Wait. I need to ask him a question.” “You want to know his shoe size or something?” Butch snapped. “Fourteen,” Wrath drawled. “I’ll remember that at Christmas, asshole.

Look upon me, Mistress. Watch as I wither!

Is he Catholic?" her grandmother asked on the way out. He's a drug dealer -- so if he is religious, he's got incredible powers of reconciliation. "He looks like a good boy," her vovo said over her shoulder. "A good Catholic boy." And that was that -- for now.