Best 757 quotes in «suspense quotes» category

Well, be careful,” she said, her words deliberate. She quickly twisted her head, as if making certain no one was behind her. When she turned back around, her green eyes were hard and filled with hate. “Because wouldn’t it be terrible if you slipped and hurt yourself?

Well, if you can accept that I’m a great big geeky fangirl, then I guess I can accept that you’re a skeptic and a realist.

Well why don't you lean over this counter a little more and give me your best kiss, and then I'll tell you if I want you to take me out to dinner.

We ran on the fuel of youth and hormones and ignorant arrogance, imagining we had the whole world and the workings thereof figured out.

We played a couple games of pool and shared a basket of fried shrimp and onion rings. He was a good player, but on long shots I noticed his hands shook. I hadn't noticed it before but his motor control was clearly damaged; sometimes he'd go through several positions to arrive at the one he wanted, as though he had to sneak up on it. “I used to be a better player,” he said quietly, and I thought about what it must feel like at his age to say something like that. We hugged each other goodbye and I don't think it was just the tequila. I think he'd finally started to trust me and let me in past the front door. That was the last time I saw him.

we're going balls to the wall, guys. Our sneak-and-peak just turned into a hostage rescue.

We're going to isolated woods to contact aliens. What could go wrong?

We're going balls to the walls, guys. Our sneak and peak just turned inti a hostage rescue.

WEST SALEM ~ October 2011 A sudden vision, fraught with malevolence and darkness, obscured her sight. The face of a menacing figure turned from the shadows of his grisly handiwork and stared at Sorcha. Her muscles tensed. By the Goddess, could he see her? Please! No! She wanted to scream, to run, but the vision ensnared her into the horrific moment like a fly in a spider's web.

...We were pulling into the next station, when the woman suddenly got to her feet and made a move to squeeze past me. As her knees made contact with mine, she turned towards me. Her eyes locked straight onto mine, her eyelids pinned back, with a look I could only describe as sheer dread. In the next second, deep tram-lines formed between her eyebrows and her expression shifted. It was as if she was silently imploring me, entreating me. To do what? I had no idea. I was immobile, her gaze pressing me into my seat by some centrifugal force and I held her stare, unsure of how to react. Just as swiftly, she dropped her eyes and the moment passed. With one final glance behind her, she was swallowed up in the bodies at the door. She was getting off. Something wasn’t right.

We will grow old and die, eventually. Then I'll see you in Heaven.

What anger wants, it buys at the price of soul.

What are we, Charlie's Angels?

What did he want? What did he mean he was in the right place?

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight go this body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed adjacent my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.

What do you mean 'has to be?' and what are you smiling at?" I stopped contributing to this ridiculous dance. I grabbed the teapot and began to fill it with water in the sink. Suddenly I felt the slight weight of his body against my back and the corner of his mouth brushed against my ear. "How human you are," he whispered.

What do you want, MacGuffin, a duel?” “No.” Julian held out both hands, one palm flat, the other held over it in a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors. Two out of three.” Ty rolled his eyes and held out his fist, apparently willing to play. Julian hit his palm three times, and Ty kept time with his fist in the air. But when Julian threw a paper, Ty reached into his jacket with his other hand and pulled his gun, aiming it at Julian. “Ty!” Zane said in exasperation from the front seat. “Glock, paper, scissors. I win.” “You are an ass,” Julian muttered.

Whatever’s eating at you, let it go. Emotion leads to poor decisions. Poor decisions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny is our greatest threat.” The Barn, by Ken Cruickshank

Whatever’s eating at you, let it go. Emotion leads to poor decisions. Poor decisions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny is our greatest threat.” The Barn

Whatever’s eating at you, let it go. Emotion leads to poor decisions. Poor decisions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny is our greatest threat.

What I know about love, I can write on the head of a matchstick.

What is my favorite part of book one? It would have to be the last chapter because that’s when the consequences catch up to Eric and it became clear that what he considered fun and games for nearly a year almost got Tina killed.

What is death but descending into a dark, eternal sleep?

What I've always taken away from his words is the sense that we all have something that confines us, that seeks to define us, label us, belittling us in the process, shortchanging our potential. Can it be that that is our sanctuary, our refuge, our way to liberty?

What is the silence of six and what are you going to do about it?

What is the difference between a dream and its memory?

What man didn’t join his wife on their wedding night?

[W]hat my grandmother and my mother and I all know is that our beauty is no miracle. It is bought and paid for.

[W]hat should I have done? Gather dirt in my purse?

What’s your version of the perfect guy?” “I guess I’d like someone who proves he cares by his actions instead of just saying it all the time.” “That’s reasonable.” “And I’d like someone who has his own life, too. You know I work a lot of hours at the hospital, and I like what I do. I imagine I’d come to resent a guy who expects me to work a nine-to-five schedule just because it fits his needs.” “Anything else?” “But he still has to be—” she cut herself off. “Good in bed?

What was that for?” “Fingerprints. I’m not wastin’ time explainin’ to cops why six inches of steel went into a dumbass.

What was it? What could it-- His last thought was surprise.

When he unleashes on her everything falls together. Like a crick in the neck snapped into place, the boy's brain pops and is put right. It is a beautiful undoing, a beautiful becoming. He doesn't stop to think about it when the punches follow her down to the ground. He doesn't stop to notice when she goes still or when the pool of blood under her head pillows out into a great, liquid heart. He doesn't stop until he's pulled off her and he doesn't start to think again until that night, when he's back at home. For hours and hours his brain stays beautifully popped into place.

When reading dies, the imagination soon follows.

When the time comes, don’t be afraid to open the door, just make sure you choose the right one.

When the pieces fell around him, he'd pick them up. It was what he was good at, after all. Restoring what was once lost, what could never be perfectly whole again.

when the uncertainty is known, certainty is guaranteed. Until we unravel the uncertainties of our lives, we shall always be uncertain with the life we live

When she woke in the morning, there would be no glass on the floor. No comforter lying on the chair. Hawk Cahill, the cowboy hero to the rescue, would have been only a dream in the middle of her waking nightmare.

When we arrive on our floor we head to our rooms, politely bidding each other goodnight. Just as I am about to enter mine, I remember I have his jacket. I can use this to have just one more moment with him tonight. I knock on his door, his lips slightly open when he sees me on the other side. “You forgot your jacket.” It is still on my shoulders. I turn around to offer it up to him. “Thank you Shy,” As he says this he takes both of his hands, grabbing each shoulder of the jacket and oh so slowly pulls it off of me, grazing my bare arms and back as he pulls it off. I close my eyes taking in his touch. Each caress of his fingertips feels like one thousand little sparks. How can just the faintest touch from this man set me off like this? Please kiss me. Kiss my neck. I won’t say no. I hold my position for a second more than I should, but it feels so tortuously long. There is nothing, not another touch, not a kiss. I turn to face him again and bid him goodnight. His face looks sad, almost guilty. Every word, every touch, every action tonight was an implication. This keeps us safe from one another. It keeps me safe from him. “Goodnight Shy,” he says as if dismissing me from his presence. “Goodnight Taylor.

Where I’m taking you, no one will ever find us. We’ll have all the time in the world for you to grow to love me as much as I love you.

When you see me in a scarf you may think “Oh, she went to some trouble there.” But no, when I wear a scarf it means "this grey blouse was unwrinkled and those mocha pants make my behind look fine and voila I have a vivid grey and brown silk scarf which means I have transformed self from bone lazy to coordinated accessory maven.(Maid in Waiting publish date June 2014)

Why did you shoot him?" "You weren't around," I replied, my teeth gritted in pain. "If you'd been here I'd have shot you instead.

Whoever said dogs can't speak was never interested in learning another language.

Who would want to be the prey in a world full of hunters? ~Disarming(Reign of Blood #2)

Why do you even want to be involved with me?" she asked. "I'm a complete mess. I don't have my head on straight. I'm a master at fucking up everything that's good in my life." "But you're my mess." Cole said quietly. "I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to be you because that's who I care about.

Who else are you going to get to scrub your back?

Why do I feel the longing to rub my palms on my jeans? That perverted guy didn’t touch me, yet I crave a shower. Instead, I go to the kitchen to wash my hands and drink some water. The acrid taste in my mouth will go away, as it always does, in a minute or so.

William’s head tilted and the fluorescent lights above us reflected in his eyes, making them glow like translucent sapphires. “I wasn’t sure I had anything here in Providence drawing me back.” He studied my face and then smiled that schoolboy grin from all my memories. “But I don’t think Providence has seen the last of me yet.

Woodhouse's father entered the room violently and without its consent. The rats scurried away from his work boots, and his flat cap was imbued with tweedy malevolence. His moustache bristled with ill intent and the only thing great about his coat was the quantity of fear that it inspired.

Woolrich had a genius for creating types of story perfectly consonant with his world: the noir cop story, the clock race story, the waking nightmare, the oscillation thriller, the headlong through the night story, the annihilation story, the last hours story. These situations, and variations on them, and others like them, are paradigms of our position in the world as Woolrich sees it. His mastery of suspense, his genius (like that of his spiritual brother Alfred Hitchcock) for keeping us on the edge of our seats and gasping with fright, stems not only from the nightmarish situations he conjured up but from his prose, which is compulsively readable, cinematically vivid, high-strung almost to the point of hysteria, forcing us into the skins of the hunted and doomed where we live their agonies and die with them a thousand small deaths.