Pam

“This is Lonesome Ridge, so we’d be the lonesome young,” I pointed out. “Sounds like a song.”
“Sounds like a heartache,” he said, tightening his arms around me and resting his cheek on the top of my heard. “I don’t want to be lonesome. I want to be with you.”
― Lucy Connors, The Lonesome Young

“Yeah, okay. You're right. I was having dinner with Zombie Carl the other night. You know, steak, rare, and a bottle of vintage type A. He told me all his secrets, but too bad for you I promised him I wouldn't tell. In exchange I asked him to gather his best undead buddies and stalk me through my friend's yard. And oh, yeah, it was totally fine if they wanted to use me as an all-night-dinner buffet, because having organs is SO last year.”
― Gena Showalter, Alice in Zombieland

“He was ridiculously gorgeous, even with bed-head--maybe because of it. It made her sick--like violently, ill.
He could at least be polite and have some scars, a third nipple, or a low-hanging ear on the side of his head.
But no. He was perfect and adorable and in her bed. And, oh yeah, she felt like punching the shit out of him.”
― Daniel Marks, Velveteen

“Who are you?” I whispered, leaning forward and reaching across the table to touch his sternly gorgeous face, almost afraid he’d disappear beneath my fingertips. “The face of an angel, the soul of a poet, and the fists of a fighter. I don’t know how to understand you, Mickey.”
Mickey caught my hand with his and then turned his head and pressed a soft kiss in my palm. “I’m not the only poet at this table.”
― Lucy Connors, The Lonesome Young