Best 303 quotes of Darynda Jones on MyQuotes

―You realize I can hear you without the annoying intercom. Cookie and I both leaned forward and looked at each other through the doorway. ―But this is more fun, I said. ―More Star Trekkie.

You’re just using me for my body.” “You don’t have a body,” I’d remind him. “Throw that in my face.” “Technically, you don’t have a face either.

You rented the apartment with a dead guy in the corner?” I shrugged. “I wanted the apartment, and I figured I could cover him up with a bookcase or something.

You’re the reason I breathe

You still owe me a million dollars." I'd presented him with a bill for proving his innocence and getting him freed from prison. He had yet to pay. Couldn't imagine why. "Yeah, I was hoping we could work that out." "The interest alone is going to kill you." "What do you charge?" "Three hundred eighty-seven percent." "Is that ethical?" "It's as ethical as my dating the son of Satan.

You take everything onto your shoulders like that guy who holds up the world, and you shouldn’t. You’re not nearly as muscular.

You totally need to watch the news." "Can't." "Why?" "It's too depressing." "Right, because hanging with dead people isn't.

A blank is the only thing I draw well. --T-SHIRT

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. —STEVEN WRIGHT

After an initial rush of pleasure that left me trembling with need, I broke off the heated kiss and whispered, "Okay, you win." He leaned over me and said into my ear, "Dutch, I won the moment you crawled into bed." He really did need to work on his self-esteem.

Agent Carson pulled up in her SUV. We'd thrown her when we both climbed into her official vehicle, but I quickly explained that Reyes, my affianced, had separation anxiety.

A lot of people are alive because I shed too much hair to get away with murder.

Amador and Bianca have a great life that I'm only a little jealous of. They have two kids they bring to see me. His daughter, Ashlee, is almost five now. She has asked me to marry her when I get out. It feels kind of weird since she calls me Uncle Reyes and incest is frowned upon, but who am I to argue with true love?

Amber was busy flirting with a rookie named Dead Meat if he didn’t stop flirting back. She was eleven, for heaven’s sake! Of course, he may have just been humoring her. And it was a little cute. In a gross, Chester-the-molester kind of way.

And as your writing evolves, what you need and get from it evolves.

And I like the light-up.” “The what?” “The light-up,” he’d say. “You know, that look people get when they finally realize you’re for real. It’s like electricity. It makes me tingle all over. Like a blanket full of static.” Ew. “Really? I’ve never heard that.” “Yeah, and I like it when people realize we’re out here.” I leaned in close once and asked him, “Do you want your mom to realize you’re out here? Do you want her to know?” “Nah. It took her too long to get over me.” All in all, he was a good kid.

And who came up with the animals for these euphemisms, anyway? Why bat shit? Why not cow shit or grasshopper shit? And why don't we give a rat's ass as opposed to a hamster's ass?

As we sat there, the door opened, just barely, and a hand slid inside and dropped a set of keys on a side table. "Thanks, Garrett!" I called out. He gave me a thumbs-up and closed the door. "How do you suppose he knew we were performing sexual favors on each other?" I asked, snuggling against my man again. "Possibly because you screamed my name about seven times.

A wicked grin crinkled one corner of his mouth as he secured another sticky note on the door before shutting it in my face. I blinked, then read the note. Use the key.

Bye-bye. Nice knowing you. But if you are waiting for that perfect idea to strike like lightning during a dust storm (I live in New Mexico), you could be waiting a long time. Ideas are everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t walk to the bathroom without being hit with another idea. It’s what you DO with that idea that matters. Here is your mantra: BICHOK, BICHOK, BICHOK Translation: Butt in chair, hands on keys. Just write. Every stinking day.

Cookie saw him, too. "Holy mother of all things sexy," she said, her eyes drinking him in. "Right there with ya.

Developing your voice takes... time and practice.

Did you catch the time-of-great-suffering thing?” Her expression softened. “Can you just make sure I’m not around when it happens?” “No can do,” I said, strolling back to my office with a negating wave of my hand. “If I have to suffer, then so does everyone else within a ten-mile radius.” She pursed her lips. “What ever happened to taking one for the team?” “Was never much of a team player.” “Sacrificing yourself for the greater good?” “Not that into human sacrifice.” “Suffering in silence?” I stopped and turned back to her, my eyes narrowing accusingly. “If I have to suffer, I’ll be screaming your name at the top of my lungs the whole time. You’ll be able to hear me all the way to Jersey, mark my words.” - Charley to Cookie

Did you really think that when I learned my celestial name, I'd leave? I'd forget all about you?" "You did leave. You did forget all about me." "That's different." "The pain was just real." He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed as though his life depended on it.

Does he ever eat cotton candy for breakfast?" He stepped around the counter to face us, lowered his gaze, and took a sip from the black mug in his hands. "No," I said. "He's very much like the Big Bad Wolf. He eats little girls for breakfast." He spoke from behind the cup, his voice deep and as smooth as butterscotch. "She's wrong. I eat big girls for breakfast.

Doing nothing is hard. You never know when you’re done. —T-SHIRT

Do you know how hard it is to diet with a name like Cookie?” “That’s so weird.” I stared off into space, marveling at the similarities of our situation. “It’s hard to diet with a name like Charley, too

Gemma Davidson,” she answered, her voice as groggy as I felt. “Where are you?” I asked. “Who is this?” “Elvis.” “What time is it?” “Hammer time?” “Charley.” “Did you text me? Did your car break down?” “No and no. Why are you doing this to me?” She was funny. “Check your cell.” I heard a loud, sleepy sigh, some rustling of sheets, then, “It won’t come on.” “Not at all?” “No. What did you do to it?” “I ate it for breakfast. Check the battery compartment.” “Where the hell is that?” “Um, behind the battery door.” “Are you punking me?” I heard her fumbling with the phone. “Gem, if I was going to punk you, I wouldn't simply turn off your phone. I would pour honey in your hair while you slept. Or, you know, something like that.” “That was you?” she asked, appalled.

Gemma,” I said, adding a singsong whine to my voice, “now I can’t scare her. You can’t go around telling people about me.

He bit down, welding his teeth together as he tried to explain. "I didn't want you to see... my world. I never wanted you to see where I came from. And I damned sure didn't want you to see me in that place. To see the monster." How ridiculous and vulnerable he could be over the craziest things. I wanted to kick him. But mostly I wanted to rip off his clothes because that was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. Reyes walking through smoke and ash, literally made of fire, his body startlingly powerful, his allure breathtaking. His lids narrowed as he tried to read my emotions. Or maybe he'd already read them and thought he misunderstood. Stepping closer, braced both hands on the wall beside my head. Then he bent until his mouth was inches from mine. "You really are a god," he said, in awe of me when he had no idea the depths of my astonishment, of my awe of him. "And you really were created in the fires of sin." "You're repulsed?" "Oh yes," I said, curling my fingers into the hem of his shirt and coaxing him closer. "Completely.

He enchanted. He simply enchanted. Stopping in his tracks when he saw my expression, he studied me a long moment before walking over to me and placing a kiss on my cheek. The act was an excuse to whisper in my ear. "You have to stop looking at me like that if we're going to make it through the day without losing our clothes." I turned to kiss him back. "I have no intention of making it through the day with you fully clothed.

He reminded me of Gerald Roma from grade school, who used to burn ants with a magnifying glass. He was never quite right. It was weird that he spontaneously combusted during finals week our freshman year in college. Payback was a bitch.

He took a long draw then asked, “What’d I do?” “You knew about the guy threatening my dad?” He paused, shifted in his chair, so freaking busted, it wasn’t funny. “They told you?” “Why, no, Swopes, they didn’t. Instead, they waited until the guy knocked the fuck out of my dad and readied him for spaceflight with duct tape then tried to kill me with a butcher’s knife.

He was leaving my stepmother for a sailboat. Not that I blamed him. A sailboat would at least be useful.

How does Reyes feel about him?" "He would rip out his spine if I let him." She patted my knee. "I would expect nothing less from the son of evil incarnate. He's a good guy.

How he could have such a reaction with me looking like the Pillsbury Doughboy astonished me. He was kinky. I'd take it.

How old are you, anyway?" "How old are you?" "Seventeen." I raise a brow. "Almost. I'll be seventeen in two weeks. You?" Part of me doesn't want to tell her. She'll be horrified. But part of me wants to know what she will do when she knows the truth. "How old do you think I am?" She lifts a slender shoulder. "At first I thought maybe eighteen, but now I'm thinking at least nineteen. Maybe even twenty?" "why's that?" "You seem very ... experienced." I nod. "You're close. Today's my birthday. I'm thirteen.

Humor is so subjective, not everyone is going to get what you are peddling. Others will be offended when what you meant no offense whatsoever. Those are the stakes. You have to be able to stand up for yourself and what you’ve written. Comedy pushes limits, makes people uncomfortable, and is a natural reaction to the environment. Otherwise, as I said, it is forced. Let it flow and give your characters permission to cross a line or two, but only if you can take the heat afterward.

I am apparently the complete opposite of a sociopath. (Seriously. I took a test.) WHEW! ‪#‎dodgedabullet‬

I am sorry," I whispered to Reyes. He wrapped his long fingers around my neck and buried his face in my hair. He smelled like a lightening storm. His emotions electricity. His body the desert after a rain. Fresh. Starkly beautiful. Dangerous. "Are you okay?" he asked, his breath on my neck. "I am now.

I called my friend Pari on the way home. "I need you to do my apt." "I'm not that attracted to your apt." "I think I'm being bugged." "Like I am? Right now?

I cannot tell you how important fresh, crisp writing is for an aspiring writer. Plot is great. The overall concept is super important. But the writing is what sells your work. It all boils down to the words you choose and the order in which you arrange them.

I didn't realize until I locked the door to my apartment and leaned against it, panting that my cheeks were covered in frozen tears. I was such an idiot. And my heart hurt. Bad. Every beat sent an ache rocketing through my body. I was having a heart attack. Or, more likely, my heart had just broken.

I don’t know. You just seem different now. Distant. Like you have PTSD.” I knew from where I spoke. My TSD got P’d when I was tortured by a monster named Earl.

I essentially killed those men. Am I slated for hell?" He stepped to me. Put his fingers underneath my chin. Raised it until our gazes locked. "You're a god, Dutch. And the reaper. You don't get slated. You are the slate.

If he didn't hate me so much and he wasn't an evil supernatural being, I'd be on him like black on Cookie's toast. That woman could not make toast.

If you can master the opening, you will be leaps and bounds ahead of the competition.

Insanity takes its toll. Please have exact change.

In that one, they'd done their darnedest to destroy Riley's Switch. This time, instead of two-by-fours and tire irons, they seemed a little more focused on choke holds and knees to the face. Their desire to be close to each other was sweet.

In the meantime, I had to get dressed and go to work, because going to work in my pajamas was apparently the definition of unprofessional. Cookie's words. I looked it up though. She was wrong. Webster's mentioned nothing about pajamas.