Everyone who knows me knows I LOVE the Charley Davidson series. It makes me laugh, makes me mad, make me pant from the sexual tension, puts me at the edge of my seat, and there are coffee addicts like me. LOL! I am always recommending this series to friends and fellow readers. Right now I am currently half way through the newest book and I am really taking my time with it. I just don't want it to end!!!! So, I know you guys aren't here to hear me rave about this series so lets get to the rest of the post.
Here is the newest book of the series!
Never underestimate the power of a woman
on a double espresso with a mocha latte chaser high.
—T-shirt
Charley
Davidson isn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill grim reaper. She’s more of
a paranormal private eye/grim reaper extraordinaire. However, she gets
sidetracked when the sexy, sultry son of Satan, Reyes Farrow, moves in next
door. To further complicate matters, Reyes is her main suspect in an arson
case. Charley has vowed to stay away from him until she can find out the
truth…but then dead women start appearing in her apartment, one after another,
each lost, confused, and terrified beyond reason. When it becomes
apparent that her own sister, Gemma, is the serial killer’s next target Charley
has no choice but to ask for Reyes’ help. Arsonist or not, he’s the one
man alive who could protect Gemma no matter who or what came at her. But he
wants something in return. Charley. All of her, body and soul. And to keep her
sister safe, it is a price she is willing to pay.
Charley
Davidson is at it again in Fifth Grave Past the Light, the sexy,
suspenseful, and laugh-out-loud funny fifth installment of the New York
Times bestselling series by Darynda Jones.
Guess what! I have an excerpt for you and it's great! Here it is:
Ask
me about life after death.
—T-shirt often seen on
Charley Davidson,
a grim reaper with questionable morals
The dead guy at the end of
the bar kept trying to buy me a drink.
Which figured. No one else
was even taking a second look and I’d
dressed to the nines. Or,
at the very least, the eight- and- a-halves.
But the truly disturbing
part of my evening was the fact that my
mark, one Mr. Marvin
Tidwell, blond real estate broker and suspected
adulterer, actually turned
down the drink I’d tried to buy
him.
Turned it down!
I felt violated.
I sat at the bar, sipping
a margarita, lamenting the sad turn my life
had taken. Especially to
night. This case was not going as planned.
Maybe I wasn’t Marv’s
type. It happened. But I was oozing interest.
And I wore makeup. And I
had cleavage. Even with all that going for
me, this investigation was
firmly wedged between the cracks of no and
where. At least I could
tell my client, aka Mrs. Marvin Tidwell, that it
would seem her husband was
not cheating on her. Not randomly,
anyway. The fact that he
could’ve been meeting someone in par tic ular
kept me glued to my
barstool.
“C-come here often?”
I looked over at the dead
guy. He’d finally worked up the courage
to approach and I got a
better view of him. I figured him for the runt
of the litter. He wore
round- rimmed glasses and a tattered baseball
cap that sat backwards on
top of muddy brown hair. Add to that a
faded blue T-shirt and
loosely ripped jeans and he could’ve been a
skater, a computer geek,
or a backwoods moonshiner.
His cause of death was not
immediately apparent. No stab wounds
or gaping holes. No
missing limbs or tire tracks across his face. He
didn’t even look like a
drug addict, so I couldn’t tell why he’d died at
such a young age. Taking
into account the fact that his baby- faced
features would make him
look younger than he probably was, I estimated
him to be somewhere around
my age when he’d passed.
He stood waiting for an
answer. I thought “Come here often?”
was rhetorical, but okay.
Not wanting to be perceived as talking to
myself in a room full of
people, I responded by lifting one shoulder
in a halfhearted shrug.
Sadly, I did. Come here
often. This was my dad’s bar, and while I
never set up stings here
for fear of someone I knew blowing my
cover, this just happened
to be the very same bar Mr. Tidwell frequented.
At least if it came to a
knockdown drag- out, I might have
some backup. I knew most
of the regulars and all of the employees.
Dead Guy glanced toward
the kitchen, seeming nervous before he
refocused on me. I glanced
that way as well. Saw a door.
“Y-you’re very shiny,” he
said, drawing my attention back to him.
He had a stutter. Few
things were more adorable than a grown
man with boyish features
and a stutter. I stirred my margarita and
pasted on a fake smile. I
couldn’t talk to him in a room full of living,
breathing patrons.
Especially when one was named Jessica Guinn, to
my utter mortification. I
hadn’t seen her fiery red hair since high
school but there she sat,
a few seats down from me, surrounded by a
group of chattering
socialites who looked almost as fake as her boobs.
But that could be my
bitterness rearing its ugly head.
Unfortunately, my forced
smile only encouraged Dead Guy.
“Y-you are. You’re like
the s-sun reflecting off the chrome bumper of
a f-fifty- seven Chevy.”
He splayed his fingers in
the air to demonstrate, and my heart was
gone. Damn it. He was like
all those lost puppies I tried to save as a
child to no avail because
I had an evil stepmother who believed all
stray dogs were rabid and
would try to rip out her jugular. A fact that
had nothing to do with my
desire to bring them into the house.
“Yeah,” I said under my
breath, doing my best ventriloquist impersonation,
“thanks.”
“I’m D-Duff ,” he said.
“I’m Charley.” I kept my
hands wrapped around my drink lest he
decide we needed to shake.
Not many things looked stranger to the
living world than a grown
woman shaking air. You know those kids
with invisible friends?
Well, I was one of those. Only I wasn’t a kid,
and my friends weren’t
invisible. Not to me, anyway. And I could see
them because I’d been born
the grim reaper, which was not as bad as
it sounded. I was
basically a portal to heaven, and whenever someone
was stuck on Earth, having
chosen not to cross over immediately after
death, they could cross to
the other side through me. I was like a giant
bug light, only what I
lured was already dead.
I pulled at my extra-
tight sweater. “Is it just me, or is it really
warm in here?”
His baby blues shot toward
the kitchen again. “Hot is m-more
like it. S-so, I— I
couldn’t help but notice you t-tried to buy that guy
over there a drink.”
I let my fake smile go.
Freed it like a captured bird. If it came back
to me, it would be mine.
If not, it never was. “And?”
“You’re b-barking up the
wrong tree with that one.”
Surprised, I put my drink
down— the one I bought myself— and
leaned in a little closer.
“He’s gay?”
Duff snorted. “N-no. But
he’s been in here a lot lately. He l-likes
his women a little . . .
l-looser.”
“Dude, how much sluttier
can I get?” I indicated my attire with a
sweep of my hand.
“N-no, I mean, well,
you’re a l-little—” He let his gaze travel the
length of me. “—t-tight.”
I gasped. “I look anal?”
He drew in a deep breath
and tried again. “H-he only hits on
women who are more
s-substantial than you.”
Oh, that wasn’t offensive
at all. “I have depth. I’ve read Proust.
No, wait, that was Pooh. Winnie-
the- Pooh. My bad.”
He shifted his non ex is
tent weight, cleared his throat, and tried
again. “More
v-voluptuous.”
“I have curves,” I said
through a clenched jaw. “Have you seen
my ass?”
“Heavier!” he blurted out.
“I weigh— Oh, you mean he
likes bigger women.”
“E-exactly, while I on the
other hand—”
Duff ’s words faded into
the background like elevator music. So
Marv liked big women. A
new plan formed in the darkest, most corrupt
corners of Barbara. My
brain.
Cookie, otherwise known as
my receptionist during regular business
hours and my best friend
24/7, was perfect. She was large and in
charge. Or well, large and
kind of bossy. I picked up my cell phone
and called her.
“This better be good,” she
said.
“It is. I need your
assistance.”
“I’m watching the first
season of Prison Break.”
“Cookie, you’re my
assistant. I need assistance. With a case. You
know those things we take
on to make money?”
“Prison. Break. It’s
about these brothers who—”
“I know what Prison
Break is.”
“Then have you ever
actually seen these boys? If you had, you
would not expect me to
abandon them in their time of need. I think
there’s a shower scene
coming up.”
“Do these brothers sign
your paycheck?”
“No, but technically
neither do you.”
Damn. She was right. It
was much easier to just have her forge my
name.
“I need you to come flirt
with my mark.”
“Oh, okay. I can do that.”
Nice. The F-word always
worked with her. I filled her in and told
her the deal with Tidwell,
then ordered her to hurry over.
“And dress sexy,” I said
right before hanging up. But I regretted
the sexy part instantly.
The last time I told Cookie to dress sexy for a
much- needed girls’ night
out on the town, she wore a lace- up corset,
fishnet stockings, and a
feather boa. She looked like a dominatrix. I’d
never been the same.
I just want to take Duff home with me.
Now a lot of you know I have met Darynda in person (I even have photos lol). I was star struck when I met her. :) She is so cool and laid back. Here is more about her.
NYTimes and USA Today Bestselling Author Darynda Jones has
won numerous awards for her work, including a prestigious Golden Heart®, a
Rebecca, two Hold Medallions, a RITA ®, and a Daphne du Maurier, and
she has received stellar reviews from dozens of publications including starred
reviews from Publisher’s Weekly, Booklist, and the Library Journal. As a born
storyteller, Darynda grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in
distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast
alike, and she is ever so grateful for the opportunity to carry on that
tradition. She currently has two series with St. Martin’s Press: The Charley
Davidson Series and the Darklight Trilogy. She lives in the Land of
Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband of almost 30 years and
two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. She can be found at
www.daryndajones.com.
Check Darynda out. Follow her. Stalk her lol Just not the creepy knid of stalking
Now if you haven't read any of the books I HIGHLY suggest you pick them up. You won't regret it. One thing I like most about the cover of the books... They are all different colors. (I know; I'm a dork) Here are the links where you can find them.
Before I let you go and check out the giveaway. I can't stress enough how good this series is. If you like comedy, if you like suspense, if you like mystery, and if you are a coffee drinker you will like this! I promise!!!
Giveaway
1 Autographed copy of
Fifth Grave Past the Light to one lucky winner.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Sabrina's take on this story!
About the Author: Laura Howard lives in New Hampshire with her husband and four children. Her obsession with books began at the age of 6 when she got her first library card. Nancy Drew, Sweet Valley High and other girly novels were routinely devoured in single sittings. Books took a backseat to diapers when she had her first child. It wasn't until the release of a little novel called Twilight, 8 years later, that she rediscovered her love of fiction. Soon after, her own characters began to make themselves known.
