Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men Read Online Free PDF

Dick’s tendency to make comments such as the following.
    “Ah, the lovely Jane. I’ve always said you were a dirty girl,” he said, swiping at the dust on my cheek. Dick could be considered attractive if you considered laughing sea-green eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones, and full pouting lips permanently twisted into a mocking, yet somehow seductive smirk attractive. Combine that with the constant barrage of sassy banter, and you got a “You’ll regret me in the morning” charisma that had almost every female who crossed his path melting into little puddles of giggly goo at his feet. I was a rare exception and, as Dick often reminded me, his only strictly platonic friend who also happened to have breasts.
    I had a soft spot for Dick Cheney. Technically, it was my fault that his trailer had been torched by Missy in an attempt to frame me for his murder. And in between the disturbing innuendos, there was normally a nugget of likability.
    Buried deep, deep down.
    “Wow, you are truly master of the single entendre.” I rolled my eyes. “Do your lines work on anybody, ever?”
    “I just wanted to check on you, Stretch,” he said, patting my head, a gesture that he knew I hated. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. I worry when I’m not called to save your cute little hind end at least once a week.”
    “I don’t have a cute little hind end,” I groused.
    “I know, it’s more medium to large, but I was trying to be kind,” he replied, dodging the
Pocket Guide to Poltergeist Activity
I chucked at him. “Keep that up, and I’ll go outside, take that rusty bucket you call a car, and drive it into a quarry. It would be a mercy killing.”
    I squealed. “She’s here?”
    I ran outside to find my old Ford station wagon, Big Bertha, parked in front of the store. Dick had used some of his not-quite-legal connections to barter for spareparts and repairs that I could not afford on a part-time shopgirl’s salary. I just had to tutor some were-skunk mechanic’s kids in English for the next semester.
    “She’s beautiful.” I sighed, rubbing a loving hand over the dimpled hood.
    “It looks exactly the same,” Dick said. “Pathetic. It probably cost you as much in repairs as it would to put a down payment on a decent car that doesn’t smoke when you turn the ignition.”
    “Big Bertha was my first car, my first love. Aunt Jettie taught me how to drive in this car. I’m just not ready to give her up yet.”
    Dick smiled, an indulgent patriarch tolerating my whims. “I figured, which is why I had Billy make some modifications.”
    My hands froze mid-stroke on Bertha’s hood. “Dick, what did you do to my car?”
    He grinned. “Well, let’s just say Billy had some ideas for how to make Big Bertha a little more vamp-friendly. Tinted windows, SPF 500, thank you very much. Side-curtain sunshields you can pull down in an emergency. Emergency sun-protection packs tacked under the front seats. A little refrigerated cooler for traveling with blood—it’s cooled through the AC. And the pièce de résistance.” He opened the back hatch. There was a coffin-sized door in the floor of the rear compartment. “An emergency hidey-hole.”
    “This is great,” I said. “This is just, wow … “ He shook his head. “Would it be rude of me to question this sudden burst of generosity?”
    “Well.” Dick stretched a companionable arm around my shoulders and offered what I’m sure he thought was a guileless smile. “You could put in a good word with your friend Andrea.”
    This was the thousandth or so anvil-sized hint Dick had dropped on me to hook him up with my blood-surrogate friend. Most vampires are interested in Andrea Byrne’s delicately flavored, extremely rare AB-negative blood. But Dick was far more interested in the fact that Andrea is also coolly, elegantly, irritatingly gorgeous. The two of them had a strange chemistry, like ammonia and bleach.
    Dick and Andrea moved in very different vampire circles. Most of