Things on the essential list: vodka, Nine Inch Nails, a steady supply of mortal men, and an all-purpose bitchy attitude.

Somehow, Sydney had an internal clock that told her when time was up. I think it was part of her inherent ability to keep track of a hundred things at once. Not me. In these moments, my thoughts were usually focused on getting her shirt off and whether I’d get past the bra this time. So far, I hadn’t.

And than suddenly he was there, charging down the hallway like death in a cowboy duster.

He smiled and tapped my nose. "Two thank-yous in as many days. I don't suppose I'll get to see any, uh, special gratitude?" I scoffed. "Nope. You'll just have to imagine it." He gave me a half-hug and released me. "Fair enough. But I have a good imagination.

If you wanted to remold people, you had to break them down first.

As I’d observed, it was clear that Rose was willing to do anything and fight anyone to protect her friend. I admired that—I admired that a lot—but it didn’t stop me from striking out to block her.

For a moment, I was captivated as I studied them side by side. My mother: the perfect picture of guardian excellence and decorum. My father: always capable of achieving his goals, no matter how twisted the means. Uneasily, I began to understand how I’d inherited my bizarre personality.