She was starting to feel a little like a hamburger at a dieters’ convention. Nobody was likely to snack on her, but absolutely everybody noticed she was edible.

The vamp in McMann’s stared at me. I guess he didn’t like the Goth look. Most of them don’t; somehow they think I’m making fun of them. Which I totally am.

Saint Claire, the patron saint of the kick-me sign.

Don’t,” Michael said. It was soft, and it was a warning, through and through. “You try to hurt her again and I’ll pull your arm off.

About how much sex I didn’t get? Go ahead.

The rule of the Morrell family was over, and Richard owned a used-car lot and Monica worked at a nail salon, until one day she got run over by a bus. Very sad.

She was poison in a pretty bottle.