Jessica guide to dating the dark side
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Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side (Jessica's Guide Series #1)
Fantaskey Beth. The young male vampire is a predator by nature. Some boys may look at you not only as a romantic interest, but as prey. It was a dreary early morning right after Labor Day, and I was waiting for the school bus, just minding my own business, standing at the end of the dirt lane that connected my family's farmhouse to the main road into town.
I was thinking about how many times I'd probably waited for that bus over the course of a dozen years, killing time like any mathlete would, by doing calculations in my head, when I noticed him. And suddenly that familiar stretch of blacktop seemed awfully desolate. He was standing under a massive beech tree across the road from me, his arms crossed over his chest. The tree's low, gnarled branches twisted down around him, nearly concealing him in limbs and leaves and shadows.
But it was obvious that he was tall and wearing a long, dark coat, almost like a cloak. My chest clenched, and I swallowed hard. Who stands under a tree at the crack of dawn, in the middle of nowhere, wearing a black cloak? He must have realized I'd spotted him, because he shifted a little, like he was deciding whether to leave. Or maybe cross the road. It had never struck me how vulnerable I'd been all those mornings I'd waited out there alone, but the realization hit me hard then.
I glanced down the road, heart thudding. Where is the stupid bus? And why did my dad have to be so big on mass transit, anyhow? Why couldn't I own a car, like practically every other senior? But no, I had to "share the ride" to save the environment. When I'm abducted by the menacing guy under the tree, Dad will probably insist my face only appear on recycled milk cartons.
In the precious split second I wasted being angry at my father, the stranger really did move in my direction, stepping out from under the tree, and I could have sworn—just as the bus, thank god, crested the rise about fifty yards down the road— I could have sworn I heard him say, "Antanasia. Or maybe I was hearing things, because the word was drowned out by the sound of tires hissing on wet pavement, grinding gears, and the whoosh of the doors as the driver, old Mr. Dilly, swung them open for me.
Wonderful, wonderful bus number I'd never been so happy to climb on board. With his usual grunted "Mornin, Jess," Mr. Dilly put the bus in gear, and I stumbled down the aisle, searching for an empty seat or a friendly face among the half-groggy riders. It sucked sometimes, living in rural Pennsylvania. The town kids were probably still sleeping, safe and sound in their beds.
Locating a spot at the very back of the bus, I plopped down with a rush of relief. Maybe I'd overreacted. Maybe my imagination had run wild, or too many episodes of America's Most Wanted had messed with my head. Or maybe the stranger really had meant me harm. Twisting around, I peered out the rear window, and my heart sank. He was still there, but in the road now, booted feet planted on either side of the double yellow line, arms still crossed, watching the bus drive away.
Watching me. And if he knew that obscure fact, what else did the dark stranger, receding in the mist, know about my past? More to the point, what did he want with me in the present? I just kept eating pie every time I got a break. I followed her gaze down the hall and toward the lockers. Jake Zinn, who lived on a farm near my family's place, was struggling with his new locker combination. Frowning at a scrap of paper in his hand, he spun the lock and rattled the handle.
An obviously brand-new white T-shirt made his summer tan look especially deep. The sleeves hugged tight around bulging biceps. And did he get highlights? Then my mind went blank. Mindy chimed in, preventing an awkward silence. Well, I guess I'll have to catch up with you around school, then. I'm sure we'll have some classes together," I said, feeling my cheeks get warm.
She glanced over her shoulder at Jake. My face grew warmer. You turning bright red—" "It's nothing," I advised her. We hung out a little. And I am not red. The gleam in Mindy's eyes told me she knew I wasn't being completely honest. But the moment I thought of him, the hair on the back of my neck prickled, almost like I was being watched. I rubbed the back of my neck. Maybe I would tell Mindy the story later.
Or maybe the whole thing would just blow over and I'd never even think about the guy again. That was probably what would happen. Yet the prickly sensation didn't go away. Wilhelm promised, bubbling over with enthusiasm as she handed out the reading list for Senior English Literature: Shakespeare to Stoker. Prepare yourselves for a year of epic quests, heart-stopping romances, and the clashes of great armies.
All without ever leaving Woodrow Wilson High School. Wilhelm, because I heard a lot of groans as the reading list circulated through the class. I accepted my copy from my longtime tormentor Frank Dormand, who'd plopped into the seat in front of me like a massive, gooey spitball, and did a quick survey. Oh, no. Not Ivanhoe. And Moby Dick. This was supposed to be the year I had a social life.
Not to mention Dracula. If there was one thing I hated, it was spooky fairy tales with no basis in reality or logic. That was my parents' territory, and I had no interest in going there. Stealing a quick look across the aisle at Mindy, I saw panic and misery in her eyes, too, as she whispered, "What does 'wuthering' mean? Wilhelm continued, squishing around on her sensible shoes. I see some new faces out there, and I want to get to know you all as quickly as possible, so do not move.
I was destined for a whole year of Frank Dormand's moronic, but mean, comments, which I was certain he'd spew every time he turned to hand something back down the aisle. And legendarily bitchy cheerleader Faith Crosse had claimed the seat directly behind me. I was sandwiched between two of the school's nastiest people. At least Mindy was across from me. And—I looked back to my left— Jake had found a desk near mine. He grinned when I met his eyes. It could have been worse, I guess. But not much.
Frank slid around in his chair to toss the seating chart at me. Moronic and mean, just like I'd predicted. And only school days to go. Dormand squirmed back around, scowling, and I dug into my backpack for my pen. When I went to write my name, though, my ballpoint was bone dry, probably because it had lingered uncapped in my pack all summer. I gave the pen a shake and tried again.
I started to turn to my left, thinking maybe Jake could loan me one of his pens. Before I could ask him, though, I felt a tap on my right shoulder. Not now. Not now I considered ignoring it, but the tapper struck me lightly again. I had no choice but to turn around. It was him. The guy from the bus stop.
What made Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side work is that it didn't take itself to seriously. It was light, snarky and fun. Jessica Rules the Dark Side is. The undead can really screw up your senior year Marrying a vampire definitely doesn't fit into Jessica Packwood's senior year “get-a-life” plan. But then a.
The undead can really screw up your senior year. Armed with newfound confidence and a copy of Growing Up Undead: Enabled Enhanced Typesetting: Enabled Page Flip:
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Jessica's Guide to Dating the Dark Side
Fantaskey Beth. The young male vampire is a predator by nature. Some boys may look at you not only as a romantic interest, but as prey. It was a dreary early morning right after Labor Day, and I was waiting for the school bus, just minding my own business, standing at the end of the dirt lane that connected my family's farmhouse to the main road into town. I was thinking about how many times I'd probably waited for that bus over the course of a dozen years, killing time like any mathlete would, by doing calculations in my head, when I noticed him. And suddenly that familiar stretch of blacktop seemed awfully desolate.
Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side
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Старая электрическая сушилка для рук захватана грязными пальцами. Беккер остановился перед зеркалом и тяжело вздохнул. Обычно лучистые и ясные, сейчас его глаза казались усталыми, тусклыми.
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На лице Стратмора тут же появилось виноватое выражение. Он улыбнулся, стараясь ее успокоить. - С Дэвидом все в порядке. Просто мне приходится быть крайне осторожным. В тридцати футах от них, скрытый за стеклом односторонней видимости Грег Хейл стоял у терминала Сьюзан. Черный экран. Хейл бросил взгляд на коммандера и Сьюзан, затем достал из кармана бумажник, извлек из него крохотную каталожную карточку и прочитал то, что было на ней написано.
Еще раз убедившись, что Сьюзан и коммандер поглощены беседой, Хейл аккуратно нажал пять клавиш на клавиатуре ее компьютера, и через секунду монитор вернулся к жизни. - Порядок, - усмехнулся. Завладеть персональными кодами компьютеров Третьего узла было проще простого. У всех терминалов были совершенно одинаковые клавиатуры. Как-то вечером Хейл захватил свою клавиатуру домой и вставил в нее чип, регистрирующий все удары по клавишам.
Севильское солнце бывает безжалостным. Будьте завтра поосторожнее. - Спасибо, - сказал Беккер. - Я сегодня улетаю. Офицер был шокирован. - Вы же только что прибыли.
Красивые девушки, спутницы для обеда и приемов и все такое прочее. Кто дал вам наш номер. Уверен, наш постоянный клиент. Мы можем обслужить вас по особому тарифу. - Ну… вообще-то никто не давал мне ваш номер специально. - В голосе мужчины чувствовалось какая-то озабоченность. - Я нашел его в паспорте и хочу разыскать владельца.
То есть к понедельнику, с самого утра. - Она бросила пачку компьютерных распечаток ему на стол. - Я что, бухгалтер. - Нет, милый, ты директорский автопилот. Надеюсь, не забыл. - Ну и что мне, прожевать все эти цифры. Она поправила прическу.
Ей предстояло узнать это совсем. ГЛАВА 2 На высоте тридцать тысяч футов, над застывшим внизу океаном, Дэвид Беккер грустно смотрел в крохотный овальный иллюминатор самолета Лирджет-60. Ему сказали, что бортовой телефон вышел из строя, поэтому позвонить Сьюзан не удастся. - Что я здесь делаю? - пробормотал. Ответ был очень простым: есть люди, которым не принято отвечать. - Мистер Беккер, - возвестил громкоговоритель.
- Она встряхнула волосами и подмигнула. - Может быть, все-таки скажете что-нибудь. Что помогло бы мне? - сказал Беккер. Росио покачала головой: - Это. Но вам ее не найти.Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side