Deer In The Headlights Quotes

He was gorgeous, and I absolutely, no question, had to be drooling. After a quick and hopefully stealthy check – big show, I wasn’t!- I found myself wonder what color his eyes were. Brown maybe. Or even hazel. Either way…wow, just wow. Deer? Headlights? Hi, I’m Ali.

Tell me again was it love at first sight When I walked by and you caught my eye Didn't you know love could shine this bright? Well, smile because you're the deer in the headlights.

If we feel like deers in headlights, let us tread lightly, back up for some time, and rebound later while building on our desire to empower our backbone and guts, restore our identity and kindle our fury of living. ("Resilience")

Trick looks up and his eyes meet mine. I am a deer caught in the headlights. I am a girl charmed by the cobra. I am breathless and mesmerized. And then he grins. Just like that, I'm his. Whether he knows it or not.

Tell me again was it love at first sight When I walked by and you caught my eye. Didn't you know love could shine this bright? If love was a game, you would never play nice. If love was a beam, you'd be blind in both eyes. Put your sunglasses on 'cause you're a deer in the headlights.

The young officer, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, stopped for a moment and then said, a bit shakily, “You’re under arrest.

Personally, I find this turn of events delightful,” Max declared. “But you look like a motherfaxing deer caught in motherfaxing headlights.

A solitary eyebrow inched up Perry’s forehead. “Your lust for meat never ceases to amaze me.” “Don’t judge,” Dita said around a mouthful of bacon.

You have this deer-in-headlights look sometimes that I'm sure means you're going to run. Run to me, Amy, not from me.

Girls got sucked into Dean’s gravity like rogue meteors, only to go down in glorious flames.

Deer in headlights. Cornered suspect. Mouse in the open, owls circling.

It's one thing if your hobby is to put ships inside a bottle, but a deer in the headlights!... That's a real talent

fawn face, the expression a deer makes not when it's caught in headlights but when it catches a human looking at it in wonder. The deer looks back, acknowledging not only its own terror but its own grace, and it shows off for a moment in front of the human. It flirts.

I keep waiting for things to go back to normal," Blue admitted. "But I know now that that's not going to happen, even when Mom comes back." She meant "if", but she said "when" "I wouldn't have pegged you for a fan of normal," the Gray Man said. He slowed slightly as the headlights illuminated the eyes of three deers standing by the side of the road. It was warming to be so known. She said, "I'm not, really, but I was used to it, I guess. It's boring, but at least it's not scary. Do you ever get scared? Or are you too badass for that?" He looked amused, but also like a badass, sitting quietly and efficiently behind the wheel of the car. "In my experience," the Gray Man said, "the badasses are the most scared. I just avoid being inappropriately frightened." Blue thought this seemed like a reasonable goal. After a pause, she said, "You know, I like you." He glanced over at her. "I do, too." "Like me or like you? The grammar was unspecific." The two of them enjoyed another laugh and the presence of someone else with their precise sense of humour.

I can hear banging and rustling before I even open the door, and part of me is worried I’m about to walk in on Sabrina and Robbie doing something weird on the couch, but instead I open the door and Russ is standing in my living room, looking like a deer in headlights, holding a box labeled SMUT in huge letters.

Neil, you can use the girls' shower while we're busy." Neil stared at her. "What?" Dan frowned at him, so Matt explained. "There aren't stalls here." Neil had noticed, but he hadn't thought his teammates would. That they had, and that they were doing something about it, knocked the wind out of him. He tried to answer, but he didn't know what to say. The best he managed was, "Is that really okay?" "Kid, you're killing me," Nicky said. "Why do you always get that deer-in-headlights look when someone does something nice for you?

You going to suck my cock, baby?” he whispers, studying my features. “Or are you going to sit there like a deer caught in headlights all day?” I bat his hand away. “I don’t know how,” I mutter. His lips twitch. “As long as it’s in your mouth, I’m sure I’ll be a happy man.

He was a demon in the sack. -Dita

He was funny, smart, charming...and a monumental slut. Dean had all the makings of a man-sized Venus Flytrap. -Lex

So close I can almost touch you But then you're gone Like mist around the edge...

He was lost in her eyes as the two pulled together like magnets.

Immediately crouching down, Aiden scooped up his blond ball and hoisted him up into those brawny arms that seemed so at odds with the now ten-pound puppy. His eyes swung from Leo to Zac then to me. I was sure we looked pretty suspicious just standing there like deer caught in the headlights, but oh well. I smiled at him, hoping I didn’t look as flustered as I felt. “Hey, big guy.” “Hi.” With the arm that wasn’t holding Leo up, he reached up to stroke down the length of Leo’s spine, his irises bouncing back and forth between Zac and me once more. Walking toward us, he tipped his chin down to nuzzle the puppy before stopping in front of me and dipping his cheek to plant a soft, dry kiss on my cheek that had me rooted in place. What the hell was happening? What in the hell was happening? “I’m going to shower,” Zac said, shooting me a smirk that said ‘See?

Lex’s long eyelashes almost brushed her eyebrows as she looked up at him, her cheeks pink, a secret smile in the corner of her rosy lips. And he was supposed to stay away from that? A battle of will, indeed. He took a long pull of his drink as she walked by.

In the mirror I stand, an injured deer in headlights, or maybe high beams, judging by the way my eyes water. I measure my wrists with my fingers, and I clutch at my rib cage, fingering it languidly, tracing the rise and fall of sharp bones until my heartbeat slows, and I dream of a faraway ocean.

His panty moistening skills are off the charts. -Kara

People sitting all day for hours looking at a glowing light are bound to get ran over like a deer in headlights.

Just as I’m about ready to blow, the buzzer to the door sounds. Alexis pauses, looking like a deer in headlights, except this little doe has a rock hard cock protruding from her mouth. The buzzer sounds again, and the look in her eyes asks me what she should do. Sitting and staring at her beautifully compromised face, there’s no question what I want. There’s no question what any man would want. Finish me off! Only the inhumane would leave a man on the brink of ejaculation.

E-Liz-A-Beth, you'll take me to Noctem Falls won't you?" Meryn begged giving her puppy dog eyes. "Of course I will. We can go there after DragonCon next year," she promised. "Oh no. She talked you into that convention thing." Aiden glared at his mate. "It's perfectly safe. Think of it this way. It's an event where thousands of people just like Meryn get together for a couple days and live it up," Elizabeth explained. All five men paled. "Thousands of people," Colton whispered. "Just like Meryn?" Keelan asked. Elizabeth looked around. The men had that deer in the headlights looks. "Maybe not just like her." "Thank goodness. One Meryn in the world is enough," Colton teased, looking relieved. "It's because I'm a 'Limited Edition'. Y'all should be grateful for even knowing me," Meryn huffed. "We are, my love. We are." Aiden scowled at his men over Meryn's head. "We wouldn't trade you for a sane version any day," Colton reassured her. Meryn smiled then frowned. "What do you mean 'sane version'?

Sasha was the epitome of the "don't look because you'll be caught like a deer in headlights" type of guy.

I've only ever leapt away when happiness approached - a deer caught in headlights, or maybe a dog with its leg bleeding in a trap.

Police officers often look like deer caught in the car headlights when they notice the public is video recording them!

Tyson Blake was standing inches away from me. My gaze met his brillant blue eyes, turning me speechless. Now I knew what it was like to be a deer in headlights.

My fight-or-flight response was currently telling me to get the hell outta there. Except that my fight-or-flight response had a third, less-evolved option called deer-in-the-headlights.

She awoke knowing what she had been dreaming about. She was a deer in the headlights to his grinning face. In those first moments before she was fully awakened she hadn’t had time to hide her true feelings. He’d read them loud and clear. This was the moment that would start the seductive tango. There was one giant problem. Kayn could not dance her way out of a paper bag.

Neil had noticed, but he hadn't thought his teammates would. That they had, and that they were doing something about it, knocked the wind out of him. He tried to answer, but he didn't know what to say. The best he managed was, "Is that really okay?" "Kid, you're killing me," Nicky said. "Why do you always get that deer-in-headlights look when someone does something nice for you?

And to make matters worse, the two deer shining the lanterns inside the ambulance’s headlights were tired and explained through an intercom system that would not be working again until the morning.

Tossing it to a corner, he turns back to take my hand. And I’m facing the chest that I’ve not been able to dislodge from my brain for weeks. The one that instantly makes my breath hitch. The one that I’ve never had a chance to stare at so blatantly while sober. And I do stare now. Like a deer caught in headlights, I can’t seem to turn away as I take in all the ridges and curves. “What does that mean?” I ask, jutting my chin toward the inked symbol over his heart. Ashton doesn’t answer. He avoids the question completely by sliding his thumb across my bottom lip. “You have a bit of drool there,

Wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights, she made no sign to get to the point and then fuck off again, leaving him to the darkness clouding his thoughts and the unusual soreness in his chest. He sighed

In the mountains they saw deer in the headlights and in the headlights the deer were pale as ghosts and as soundless. They turned their red eyes toward this unreckoned sun and sidled and grouped and leapt the bar ditch by ones and twos. A small doe lost her footing on the macadam and scrabbled wildly and sank onto her hindquarters and rose again and vanished with the others into the chaparral beyond the roadside.

She wasn't gorgeous, wasn't ugly. A sprinkle of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose. Mostly, she looked like a hundred other girls in school, except for two things, She wore no makeup, and her eyes were the biggest I had ever seen, like deer's eyes caught in headlights.

Once we know that something turned out all right, that we navigated a rough patch more or less intact, it becomes harder to pity our younger self or remember the grief and confusion, the dread of the disaster that didn’t happen, the panic of the deer frozen in the headlights of the car that stopped in time.

I’m going to need you to do something besides the deer in headlights look. You’re giving everyone the impression that I brought you here at gunpoint.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re sweet.” “Seriously. Looking even moderately enthused will do.” “Yeah, duly noted. How could I say no to such a sweet and sensitive boyfriend?” Mason smirked… “I didn’t realize sweet and sensitive was what you wanted.” “I think that’s what most girlfriends want, but I understand that you wouldn’t know that,” I replied, averting my eyes as Mason watched me gather my hair over one shoulder. “Duly noted. If that’s what works with you, then here.” One step forward and Mason was suddenly inches from me. The breath hitched in my throat as he locked his gaze on mine. Shit.

Hyper-aroused youth can look hyperactive or inattentive because what they are attending to is the teacher’s tone of voice or the other children’s body language, not the content of their lessons. The aggression and impulsivity that the fight or flight response provokes can also appear as defiance or opposition, when in fact it is the remnants of a response to some prior traumatic situation that the child has somehow been prompted to recall. The “freezing” response that the body makes when stressed—sudden immobility, like a deer caught in the headlights—is also often misinterpreted as defiant refusal by teachers because, when it occurs, the child literally cannot respond to commands. While not all ADD, hyperactivity and oppositional-defiant disorder are trauma-related, it is likely that the symptoms that lead to these diagnoses are trauma-related more often than anyone has begun to suspect.

Detective Jeremy Fisk of the NYPD Intelligence Division hated upstate New York. Hated the whole idea of it. Even though he had lived all over the world during his childhood, he had spent most of his adult life in New York City and had the passion of the convert for his adopted home. And as a confirmed New Yorker, he despised upstate on principle. Upstate was hillbillies and trailer parks and suicidal deer that plunged heedlessly into the headlights of your car, forcing you to swerve into the nearest ditch.

Men could be with whomever they pleased. But women had to date better, kinder, richer, and bright, bright, bright, or else people got embarrassed. It suggested sexual things. “I’m a very average person,” she said desperately, somehow detecting that Charlotte already knew that, knew the deep, dark, wildly obvious secret of that, and how it made Sidra slightly pathetic, unseemly – inferior, when you got right down to it. Charlotte studied Sidra’s face, headlights caught in the stare of a deer. Guns don’t kill people, thought Sidra fizzily. Deer kill people.

It’s actually entertaining.” “You say that like you’re surprised.” He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, and I realized I’d really put him on the spot. What could he say to that? Based on our numerous conversations, I was under the impression communication wasn’t your strong suit? “Never mind,” I said, taking the steam kettle off the stove and filling it with water. I was a British-breakfast-tea-in-the-morning girl, and I made it using a real teapot and everything. “I’m not fishing for compliments.” Okay, I was a little. “I just…I just didn’t expect it to be so funny,” Jason said. “You wanted a serious column about hot dogs?

You can’t get caught up in perfect. It’s not about what the paddle says. If you immerse yourself every single day for three months in this journey, you’re going to grow. You’re going to learn stuff about yourself; you’re going to overcome your obstacle--be it physical or emotional. That’s what’s important. But I want to be 100 percent honest here: there are days when I’m freaking out and I don’t have the answers. I get frustrated, but I try and see it as a temporary situation and a separate entity from who I am. I step away from it. I’ve learned a ton about myself and how to manage myself and my expectations. There have been days when I’ve said to my partner, “I need you to help me today.” I put them in the teacher role, and they wind up giving me the pep talk: “We can do this, Derek. We can do it.” They’re saying it, they’re doing it, they’re believing it. Before DWTS, my work was instinctual and internal. It was something I could never put into words. But being a teacher forced me to dissect what I was doing and explain it. Some partners I could be really tough with and they’d respond to me. Others would shut down. If I got a little intense with Jennifer Grey, it was counterproductive, because she would block me out. But if I did this to Maria Menounos, she would get a fire in her belly and try harder. I have to learn to adjust myself to cater to each partner’s needs and style of learning. If the look I get from her is deer in the headlights, I know I am on the wrong path. I have to find a way to make them understand. Great teachers strive to get through. My fulfillment comes when the lightbulb goes on and they experience that aha moment. They see not just what I want them to do, but what they’re capable of.

Okay, so I shouldn't have fucked with her on the introduction thing. Writing nothing except, Saturday night. You and me. Driving lessons and hot sex ... in her notebook probably wasn't the smartest move. But I was itching to make Little Miss Perfecta stumble in her introduction of me. And stumbling she is. "Miss Ellis?" I watch in amusement as Perfection herself looks up at Peterson. Oh, she's good. This partner of mine knows how to hide her true emotions, something I recognize because I do it all the time. "Yes?" Brittany says, tilting her head and smiling like a beauty queen. I wonder if that smile has ever gotten her out of a speeding ticket. "It's your turn. Introduce Alex to the class." I lean an elbow on the lab table, waiting for an introduction she has to either make up or fess up she knows less than crap about me. She glances at my comfortable position and I can tell from her deer-in-the-headlights look I've stumped her. "This is Alejandro Fuentes," she starts, her voice hitching the slightest bit. My temper flares at the mention of my given name, but I keep a cool facade as she continues with a made-up introduction. "When he wasn't hanging out on street corners and harassing innocent people this summer, he toured the inside of jails around the city, if you know what I mean. And he has a secret desire nobody would ever guess." The room suddenly becomes quiet. Even Peterson straightens to attention. Hell, even I'm listening like the words coming out of Brittany's lying, pink-frosted lips are gospel. "His secret desire," she continues, "is to go to college and become a chemistry teacher, like you, Mrs. Peterson." Yeah, right. I look over at my friend Isa, who seems amused that a white girl isn't afraid of giving me smack in front of the entire class. Brittany flashes me a triumphant smile, thinking she's won this round. Guess again, gringa. I sit up in my chair while the class remains silent. "This is Brittany Ellis," I say, all eyes now focused on me. "This summer she went to the mall, bought new clothes so she could expand her wardrobe, and spent her daddy's money on plastic surgery to enhance her, ahem, assets." It might not be what she wrote, but it's probably close enough to the truth. Unlike her introduction of me. Chuckles come from mis cuates in the back of the class, and Brittany is as stiff as a board beside me, as if my words hurt her precious ego. Brittany Ellis is used to people fawning all over her and she could use a little wake-up call. I'm actually doing her a favor. Little does she know I'm not finished with her intro. "Her secret desire," I add, getting the same reaction as she did during her introduction, "is to date a Mexicano before she graduates." As expected, my words are met by comments and low whistles from the back of the room. "Way to go, Fuentes," my friend Lucky barks out. "I'll date you, mamacita, " another says. I give a high five to another Latino Blood named Marcus sitting behind me just as I catch Isa shaking her head as if I did something wrong. What? I'm just having a little fun with a rich girl from the north side. Brittany's gaze shifts from Colin to me. I take one look at Colin and with my eyes tell him game on. Colin's face instantly turns bright red, resembling a chile pepper. I have definitely invaded his territory.

Not only will those ultra bright European sulphur diode high beams ' catch a deer in the headlights' they'll vaporize it too

Maybe I should have kept my rock. At least I wouldn’t look quite so much like a deer caught in the headlights. No. I’d look like a deer with a rock. Forget it. We

I closed my eyes, laid my head back on the pillow, and savored my first moments alone with my child. Seconds later, the door to my room opened and my brother-in-law, Tim, walked in. He’d just finished working a huge load of cattle. Marlboro Man would have been, too, if I hadn’t gone into labor the night before. “Hey!” Tim said enthusiastically. “How’s it going?” I yanked the bedsheet far enough north to cover the baby’s head and my exposed breast; as much as I loved my new brother-in-law, I just couldn’t see myself being that open with him. He caught on immediately. “Oops--did I come at a bad time?” Tim asked, a deer caught in the headlights. “You just missed your brother,” I said. The baby’s lips fell off my nipple and she rooted around and tried to find it again. I tried to act like nothing was happening under the covers. “No kidding?” Tim asked, looking nervously around the room. “Oh, I should have called first.” “Come on in,” I said, sitting up in the bed as tall as I could. The epidural had definitely worn off. My bottom was beginning to throb. “How’s the baby?” he asked, wanting to look but unsure if he should look in her direction. “She’s great,” I answered, pulling the little one out from under the covers. I prayed I could get my nipple quickly tucked away without incident. Tim smiled as he regarded his new niece. “She’s so cute,” he said tenderly. “Can I hold her?” He reached out his arms like a child wanting to hold a puppy. “Sure,” I said, handing her over, my bottom stinging by now. All I could think about was getting in the shower and spraying it with the nozzle I’d noticed earlier in the day when the nurse escorted me to the bathroom. I’d started obsessing over it, in fact. The nozzle was all I could think about. Tim seemed as surprised at the baby’s gender as his brother had been. “I was shocked when I heard!” he said, looking at me with a smile. I laughed, imagining what Marlboro Man’s dad might be thinking. That the first grandchild in such a male-dominated ranching family turned out to be a girl was becoming more humorous to me each minute. This was going to be an adventure.

Within several minutes, we’re at the front of the line. I assume we’re going to keep walking, but the young English couple in front of us has me take their picture, and then they offer to take ours. I open my mouth to decline, but Bruno bursts out with a “Grazie!” and unhooks the camera from my neck, handing it to the woman. He leads me to the bench and we sit, the sides of our legs touching. My stomach clenches. This is the kissing bench. Not a single couple before us has smiled for the camera. They kiss for the camera. My eyes lock on the lens like a deer in the headlights. I force a smile, a big one, with teeth. My head nearly vibrates with the strain. This is fine. We’re going to break the trend and smile. Absolutely no kissing. The woman lifts my camera to her face. “One, two--” On two, Bruno reaches behind me and cups the back of my head in his hand, turning me to face him. His other hand is on my cheek. His lips press onto mine. The camera clicks. “WOOOOOO!” echoes around us. One person claps. Bruno pulls away but stares into my eyes for a moment before hopping up and getting my camera back for me. My head is spinning. I’ve been kissed. In Italy. By an Italian! I remain seated, stupefied, until a couple shoos me away for their turn, and soon we’re walking the next section of the path along with the English couple. Bruno chats with them--heavy accent enforced--but their words turn to garble. All I hear is He kissed me. Bruno I-don’t-even-know-how-to-pronounce-his-last-name kissed me! And it was short. Too short. No. Too long. Shouldn’t have happened. Chiara will kill us if she finds out. But she won’t find out. I’ll hide the picture from her. I’ll delete the picture! No, I have to show Morgan. And I want proof for myself. I’ll just make sure Chiara doesn’t see it. It only happened because it’s what you do at the kissing bench when you’re sitting next to the hottest Italian boy you’ve ever seen. I just have to stay away from that bench.

At the unexpected sight of Spence, Colbie startled hard. How was it that he was the one who needed glasses and yet she’d not seen him standing against the window? “No, I don’t kill a lot of people,” she said cautiously because she was wearing only a towelin front of a strange man. “But I’m happy to make an exception.” He laughed, a rough rumble that was more than a little contagious but she controlled herself because, hello, she was once again dripping wet before the man who seemed to make her knees forget to hold her up. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said and pushed off the wall to come close. She froze, but he held up his hands like, I come in peace, and crouched at her feet to scoop up the clothes she hadn’t realized she’d dropped. Leggings, a long forgiving tee, and the peach silk bra-and-panty set that hadn’t gotten so much as a blink from the TSA guy. But it got one out of Spence. He also swallowed hard as she snatched them back from him. “Hold on,” he said and caught her arm, pulling it toward him to look at her bleeding elbow. “Sit,” he said and gently pushed her down to a weight bench. He vanished into the bathroom and came back out with a first aid kit. It took him less than two minutes to clean and bandage the scrape. Then, easily balanced at her side on the balls of his feet, he did the same for both her knees, which she hadn’t noticed were also scraped up. “You must’ve hit the brick coping as you fell in the fountain,” he said and let his thumb slide over the skin just above one bandaged knee. She shivered, and not from the cold either. “Not going to kiss it better?” she heard herself ask before biting her tongue for running away with her good sense. She’d raised her younger twin brothers. Scrappy, roughhouse wild animals, the both of them, so there’d been plenty of injuries she’d kissed over the years. But no one had ever kissed hers. Not surprising, since most of her injuries tended to be on the inside, where they didn’t show. Still, she was horrified she’d said anything at all. “I didn’t mean—” She broke off, frozen like a deer in the headlights as Spence slowly lowered his head, brushing his lips over the Band-Aid on her elbow, then her knees. When he lifted his head, he pushed his glasses higher on his nose, those whiskey eyes warm and amused behind his lenses. “Better?” Shockingly better. Since she didn’t quite trust her voice at the moment, she gave a jerky nod and took her clothes back into the bathroom. She shut the door and then leaned against it, letting out a slow, deliberate breath. Holy cow, she was out of her league. He was somehow both cute and hot, and those glasses .

The debate of August 6, 2015 was held in Cleveland, Ohio, and broadcast on Fox News and Facebook. It was the first debate and the most anticipated question that loomed was how Trump would perform. He’d never participated in a formal debate before, making him a neophyte up against practiced and supposedly ruthless opposition. The world had no idea what was coming, and neither did the deer-in-the-headlights Republicans who were helpless to counter the sheer aggressive force of Donald Trump.

I’m sure I looked like deer caught in the headlights. I didn’t know what the heck was going on.

It's hard to explain, Cass, she said one night in my room, her arms around me. It's a look that comes in a different way or that you send out in a different way. It's just a tiny bit longer than a normal look. And it's completely still, it's not moving with a smile or talking or even eyes squinting or your eyebrows lifting up or anything at all. It's totally frozen, like a deer in headlights. It's frozen by a thought that has just hijacked your brain for that second and that's why it lasts too long, because you have to rescue your brain from the hijacker. I asked her what that thought was that could hijack your brain and freeze your face like that. It's the thought that you want that person.

I open the door and Russ is standing in my living room, looking like a deer in headlights, holding a box labeled SMUT in huge letters.

No one was doing anything," Davis said. "They were all standing around like deer caught in headlights." He saw Mathis leaning against the wall banging her head.

My biggest mistakes include, but are not limited to: Revenge trading. Repeatedly trading the same choppy stock over and over as if it personally owes me money. Overtrading. Thinking I can recover from losses by taking low quality setups in rapid succession. Not stopping at my daily goal or 11:30 AM. Slowly giving back all of my gains. Not stopping out. Freezing like a deer in the headlights and letting a small loss grow into a big one. Not taking a break after a bad trade. Continuing to trade when my psychology is in tatters. Thinking I need to be in every move. Forcing bad trades rather than waiting for the chart to provide confirmation.

My biggest mistakes include, but are not limited to: Revenge trading. Repeatedly trading the same choppy stock over and over as if it personally owes me money. Overtrading. Thinking I can recover from losses by taking low quality setups in rapid succession. Not stopping at my daily goal or 11:30 AM. Slowly giving back all of my gains. Not stopping out. Freezing like a deer in the headlights and letting a small loss grow into a big one. Not taking a break after a bad trade. Continuing to trade when my psychology is in tatters. Thinking I need to be in every move. Forcing bad trades rather than waiting for the chart to provide confirmation. Averaging down. Increasing share size when losing. Trying to double down and recoup losses.

That’s the problem with amateurs, they only have half a plan, the easy half. They know how much of a profit they’re willing to take, but they don’t have the foggiest idea how much they’re willing to lose. They’re like deer in the headlights, they just freeze and wait to get run over. Their plan for a position that goes south is, “Please God, let me out of this and I’ll never do it again,” but that’s bullshit, because if by chance the position turns around, they’ll soon forget about God.

All of a sudden, he felt that palpable, magnetic dread that makes horror-movie heroines look behind the curtains. There she was, a drink in each hand, parting the crowd like somebody who didn’t have to wait in line. He wasn’t a deer in headlights, but there was nowhere to run.

All of a sudden, he felt that palpable, magnetic dread that makes horror-movie heroines look behind the curtains. There she was, a drink in each hand, parting the crowd like somebody who didn’t have to wait in line. He wasn’t a deer in headlights, but there was nowhere to run.

She’s a baby deer with shaky legs, learning how to walk again, trapped in the headlights.

I can’t hear you, people! Make some noise if you want a good show. How about death? Do you wanna see lots and lots of death tonight?” I took in the applause, the hollering, the hammering feet, basking in it. Then my arm shot up, pointing one finger to the ceiling. The guard-tower window exploded. A man plummeted from the tower, slamming on the concrete floor behind me with a splat like someone stomping on a tomato. He’d been torn open from throat to groin, his chest a ragged ruin of splintered, wrenched-back ribs and mangled organs. His dead eyes were still open, jaw wrenched wide in terror. Then came the rain. The second sniper, one piece at a time. Hands. Feet. Arms, wrenched off at the elbows. His severed head bounced like a basketball as it hit the concrete, rolling across the floor and coming to a stop next to Warden Lancaster’s Italian leather shoe. A horrified silence fell across the room. The guards looked at one another, uncertain, hands on their guns but not sure if they should draw. Lancaster stared down at the severed head, frozen like a deer in the headlights. “Well,” I said, “you’re about to get everything you asked for. What do you think, Warden? Is this good and messy enough for you? Wouldn’t want you to think I ‘pussied out’ again.” His gaze snapped toward me. He took a halting step back, away from the carnage. “How? How did you—” A third body dove from the shattered window. Not in a guard’s uniform, but a billowing white leather coat. She landed as graceful as a raptor, absorbing the impact with one knee and the outstretched fingers of a single hand, and slowly rose to her full willowy height. Her eyes blazed like molten copper, as radiant as her twist of scarlet hair. “If anyone in this room believes themselves to be a righteous soul,” Caitlin said, “I suggest you kneel down and pray. If nobody answers…then you belong to me.

there wasn't enough room on the narrow trail to go around them: to his left was the sheer rock wall of the escarpment; to his right the abyss of the ravine. If he plowed into the senior citizens at that speed, he'd kill them for sure. But if he veered off the trail, he'd fly down the ravine and kill himself. The women saw him—he tried to wave them off the trail—but they stood frozen in place, like deer caught in headlights, terrified at the bike and rider hurtling at them at high speed. One screamed. She looked like his mother. Andy said, "Aw, shit," cut the handlebars hard to the right just a split second before impact, and rode straight off the trail—and the Earth. He caught big air. He was now flying through the blue sky and enjoying an incredible panoramic view

My staff is made up of politicians, Rachel, not scientists. You’ve met Dr. Marlinson. I think he’s terrific, but if I let an astrophysicist loose on my team of left-brain, think-inside-the-box intellectuals, I’ll end up with a herd of deer in the headlights.

The Sound of Killing [10w] + [10w] A doe, a deer, a femaledeer in my headlights. A doe, a deer, a femaledeer on my sunroof.

Don't make the mistake of doing nothing. Standing still is not an acceptable option. You can be like a deer on the highway caught in the headlights--freezing in your tracks until life passes you by--or you can move. If you move, you increase the odds of living longer and better.

You said yourself that Thomas was like family, so why? What could he possibly have to gain?” He shook his head, gritting his teeth. He’d been hoping to avoid this part. No wonder he’d stuck to women with low expectations for the last three years. “I haven’t always been a nice guy, Maddie.” “Yeah, yeah.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “What’s your theory?” “I don’t have to theorize,” he said, shrugging. “I know why.” “So?” “I slept with his wife.” She froze, blinking at him like a deer caught in headlights. “How stupid could you be?” For the first time in three years, he laughed about it. “Pretty fucking stupid, Princess.” She wrinkled her nose, her gaze darting away as she ran a hand through her hair. “Why would you pick her, out of all women in Chicago?” How could he explain to a good, Catholic girl who’d only had sex with one guy her whole life that sometimes you’re just an idiot? That’s how things had been in his world. He’d moved in a circle of entitled, privileged people who took what they wanted, and he’d been one of them. Consequences hadn’t even been part of the equation. “I didn’t pick her. It was more like she fell into my lap and I didn’t say no.” She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break. You weren’t eighteen. You’ll need to do better than that.” He thought about Charlie’s comment earlier about his preference for unavailable women. He blew out a breath. “I worked sixty to seventy hours a week. It didn’t leave a lot of time for relationships. Sara was his second wife and not much older than I was. I took her home one night after a benefit we both attended and it just . . . happened.” It

I sometimes had what I called “sitting duck syndrome,” also known as “deer in the headlights malady,” where I simply stared at trouble as it came toward me.

Jared stared at the back of Gabriel’s head. Eric was blinking rapidly. Tristan was the one who broke the silence, his amused eyes fixed on his brother. “You know, you’d better put a sack on his head if you don’t want people to look at Jared.” The intern looked between them, puzzled. “What?” “It’s not your fault,” Tristan told him. “It’s Eric, right?” When the intern nodded, Tristan smiled at him. “There are a few unwritten rules here, Eric. No one talks about them, but everyone knows them.” He pointed at Jared and winked at the intern. “Dr. Sheldon is very hot, huh?” Eric flushed, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Jared shook his head. “Tristan—” But Tristan continued, “Now see the other guy? The one who looks like he wants to piss all over Jared?” Gabriel spluttered, the tips of his ears turning bright red. “Tristan, that’s enough,” Jared said, his voice hard. Tristan put on an innocent face, widening his eyes. “My bad, I forgot we were all supposed to ignore the elephant in the room.” “You—” Gabriel started, taking a step to the table, but Jared caught Gabriel’s fist and pulled him back against his chest. “Enough, both of you.” He glanced at the intern. “Ice and compression, Eric. Keep his leg elevated and don’t let him move until I’m back.” He steered Gabriel out of the office.

Agamben speaks of the difference between men and animals being that animals are in thrall to stimuli. Think a deer in the headlights. He describes experiments where scientists give a worker bee a source of nectar. As it imbibes, they cut away its abdomen, so that instead of filling the bee up, the nectar falls out through the wound in a trickle that pours as fast as the bee drinks. You’d think the bee might change its behavior in response, but it doesn’t. It keeps happily sucking away at the nectar and will continue indefinitely, enthralled by one stimulus—the presence of nectar—until released by another—the sensation of satiety. But that second stimulus never comes—the wound keeps the bee drinking until it finally starves.

First, I got rid of Alex, telling him I had cramps and wanted to rest. Mention cramps and guys get a panicked, deer-in-headlights look and develop a sudden urge to go hunting or drink beer. Like hormones might be contagious. Too bad they're not. The world would be a more equitable place. Or more violent. It could go either way.

I had a few moments where I was full on deer in the headlights look, but that was mainly when I was trying to fax or use the copier. They were different from the usual office apparatus I was used to.

Michael Oliver, did you have groceries delivered to my door via my neighbor, or did I imagine that?” The deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face makes me laugh. “Will you be mad if I admit that was me?” “Why would I be mad?” He shrugs. “You like to do things on your own. Didn’t want to mess with your girl power vibe.” Girl power vibe? “Plus, we’d had that horrible conversation at the store. Didn’t want to upset you again, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop worrying that maybe you needed some groceries.” I’m momentarily speechless. As we sway to the music, I dust off some lint on his tux. “You know, I baked you a pie and left it on your doorstep to thank you. Did you get it?” He stops moving. Tilts his head. Growls. “Johnny ate my damn pie!” His outrage puts another smile on my face. “It probably wasn’t even that good.” “Everyone knows you’re a damn good cook, Maggie.” Little flutters fill my belly at the compliment, and I make a mental note to bake him another one.

Dad lets out a sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Well, did you ask Billy to explain what’s going on?” “He said it’s not what I think it is. That he would never cheat on me. But he was so cagey and weird, and when I asked him to prove it by showing me the messages on his phone, he looked like a deer in headlights. It was like dating Ezra all over again.” I freeze when my father’s eyes snap to mine. Oh, shit. I slap my hand over my mouth and frantically shake my head. “No. Forget I said that last part.” He braces his arms on the table and looks down. We sit in silence for several minutes. “I wondered if Ezra was Marley’s father. She has his dark hair. And Billy punched him in the face. The better I got to know Billy, the more I realized he wasn’t just a loose cannon, that he must’ve had a good reason for doing that, but I didn’t want to believe the kid I treated like my own son would get you pregnant and then bail on you.” Finally, he looks at me. “I’m assuming you told Ezra the truth?” It’s a sad day when my father wonders whether I told the father of my baby I was pregnant. After how I behaved back then, I guess I deserve that doubt. “Of course.” “And he didn’t want to be involved?” “His response was basically, ‘Fuck no, I don’t want a baby.’” I take a deep breath. “Swear to me you won’t say anything. Because I promised Ezra I wouldn’t tell you the truth if he dropped the charges against Billy.

A good but plain-Jane drill you prob’ly know pits the shooter against two to four standard IDPA/ USPSA cardboard torso targets. Using a shot-timer like the PACT Club Timer III, from the beep, put two rounds in each, slow enough to assure all hits are in top-scoring zones. Check your elapsed times. Push faster until you start dropping rounds outside the sweet spots, then back off, slow down and work your way up again. Maybe you integrate a reload. It’s sound, but it lacks panache. Kick it up. Between and around those full-size cardboards, add in half-size*, and some 10" and 5" mini-torsos**. Vary your drills; don’t just shoot left-to-right and back again. Shoot the little guys first, then the larger ones or vice versa or “Connor-versa,” which appears to onlookers to be a spazz-pattern. It is actually coldly calculated — by a spazz. Me. The variety is healthy. You can snap-shoot the full and half-size targets, but the minis force you to concentrate, bear down and get squinty. Sure, program reloads in too, and switching from right to left hand. Now add more fun with malfunction drills: Say you have 10 identical 15-round magazines and six inert dry-fire rounds. In six mags, stagger placement of duds, like second round in one, sixth round in another, blah-blah. Then mix the mags up so you don’t know where the surprises are. And on the timer, give yourself no slack for correcting your malf’s. Now for the spicy stir-fry sauce: Between sweeps of the targets, while gripping your pistol in one hand, bring your other hand back, touch your thumb to your nose, waggle your fingers vigorously, and shout as loudly as possible “O ye sinners, now shall ye repent! Let the Great Slaying begin!” or, “For freedom, Fritos and chicken-fried steak!” or, “Back awaaay from the bulgogi and nobody gets hurt!” Note: Never mess with my bulgogi. Never. Or, try shouting “I love you and blood sausage too!” — but shout it in German; makes it confusing and terrifying. Ich liebe dich und blutwurst auch! Exercising exemplary muzzle control and strictly observing all range safety protocols, slump your shoulders, hang your head and slowly turn around, looking dazed, lost, spaced-out ... Then, by degrees, “recover consciousness” and smile. It’s unlikely anyone will be there by this point, so that smile can be very genuine. If any looky-lou’s are still present, they’ll prob’ly be frozen like deer caught in headlights. Perfecto! If you see me at the range and I’m munchin’ a sammich and sippin’ coffee, stop and say howdy. But if I’m shooting drills, well ... Trouble not, etcetera. Connor OUT

Healthy fear keeps you alive. It’s that gut instinct we women tend to ignore. You listen to that, you keep breathin’. Fear warns you to pay attention. To get out. To stand your ground and fight. Fear’s the body’s warnin’ system. Without it, we’re the deer trapped in the middle of the road stunned by oncomin’ headlights. Roadkill every time.

But I’m a deer caught in the headlights after being nailed by a car because his smile blinds me momentarily stupid. It’s not necessarily bright, nor perfectly straight, but it’s so open and it shines a high beam on the most closed-off parts of myself.

Eyes the shade of tempered steel floated in the back of my mind, still shooting glacial daggers at me. The queen “B”. I never asked for her name, but it wasn’t necessary to know she was school royalty. That kind of confidence always came with a crown. The question was, why had she deigned to wield her power against me? I rarely faced that kind of blatant rejection. What did she have against me? Poor Reyna looked like a deer in headlights when forced to choose between us. Was she a mindless minion, powerless to go against her ruthless monarch? I was endlessly curious in the same way people scan for bodies as they pass a car wreck.

There were traces of wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but they seemed to have been smoothed out surgically. For what Jenner charged for his deprogramming services, he could afford the best plastic surgeons in the world, but his face had that startled, deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression so common with inferior cosmetic work. It was an incongruity of little importance, but Max was still surprised

but I always end up staring at it like a deer in headlights.

Monroe, the next time you kiss me, and believe me when I tell you there will be a next time,” and he laid a thumb over her lips to shut her up before she said more shit she had to take back. “You’ll crawl into my mouth because you need it. Look at those eyes, fuck. You want it already, don’t you, Lucky?” She was like a frozen deer in the headlights as he stroked that thumb over her trembling lips.

She tried the front door and it was unlocked, which actually surprised her. “Not open,” Mac’s deep, rumbly voice called out from the back about a second before he stepped out from his workshop. His eyes widened when he saw her. And he stood there looking like deer in headlights. Good. “Adeline,” he began. “A text? Seriously? You blow me off with a freaking text,” she snapped out, her boots stomping forward of their own volition. That burning fire that had spent days kindling was licking up her spine now as she worked up a good head of anger. He closed his eyes briefly as he moved toward her. “Look, it’s not what you think.” “Really? It’s not what I think? You didn’t send me a dismissive, crappy text about an hour before our date? After spending all that time together and becoming…friends.” Or she’d thought they had. Obviously she was wrong. “So you didn’t blow me off after all that? And then ignore me right in front of people on Main Street?” It was quite literally possible there was actual steam coming out of her ears right now. Guilt flickered across his expression for a moment but then his face went carefully neutral. “Look, I didn’t know how else to handle it. I just don’t think we should see each other. I shouldn’t have ignored you and I should have called, but—” She’d took another step forward, hands on hips, when the front door behind her swung open with a bang. She jumped and turned to find some guy stalking in. He had on heavy-looking boots, jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and there was a chain hanging from his back pocket attached to his belt. And he had some ugly-looking tattoos on his arms. Prison tats.

Bend down, will you?" She was already reaching up for me. Rendered a deer in headlights, I did as she asked, my face slack, my gaze stuck on hers. With gentle but deft movements, she ran the pads of her fingers over my skin, along the bridge of my nose, down the sides of my cheeks. Biting back a groan, I lowered my lids and breathed deeply. They were simple touches, nothing more than her smearing sunscreen on me. And it felt so good I wanted to purr or whimper. Something. Anything to get her to keep doing it.

...and that dumbass deer—sorry, that beautiful creature of God—that thing’s character was drawn within the limitations of a non-sentient brain. It stood there, unmoving, as the car closed the last fifty feet on it; it just hunched there, watching Death come hurtling at it, staring at the car like, well, like exactly what it was, there’s a goddamn good reason for that cliché, so maybe it was fitting that the first thing that hit the deer was the headlight.

The worst of all self limiting beliefs is the fear of failure. This is the fear of loss, poverty, mistakes, or not achieving a goal that you have set for yourself. People who are preoccupied with the fear of failure continually look for reasons why something cannot be done, why it’s a bad idea, or why they may lose their time and money. The fear of failure, like all fears, paralyzes behavior, clouds thinking, and causes a person to feel like the proverbial deer in headlights.

I wanted her to weep, but it couldn’t have been a surprise and probably wasn’t her deer, anyway—they don’t have much of a life expectancy where there are busy highways, and we lived in a place meant to be passed through. She knew that better than I did, and her shrug was just the sort of hardened we were both after. When she started the truck, the spider’s web glistened in the headlights: a beautiful twelve-hour palace. The brakes squeaked as she eased into the world, and I swept the web away as if we were women who knew how to look after ourselves.

Miles nodded, his head bobbing loosely on his neck. “Yeah. Ellie and I have been besties forever.” Then he frowned. “Wait. I can’t call you Ellie anymore. Sorry, Ellie.” The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Elise had told me not to call her Ellie. I’d wondered why at the time but had dropped it. Miles knew, though. He knew something about her I didn’t. Elise waved him off. “It’s fine.” Sam turned to her. “Wait, what’s wrong with Ellie? It’s a cute nickname.” Miles tried to snap his fingers, but when he couldn’t, he pointed at her. “Right? It is a cute nickname, but I had to go ruin it. I ruin everything.” His head dropped and Elise reached for him, but he flung her hand off and stumbled to his feet. Elliot and I exchanged a glance. He lifted a shoulder. Neither of us understood what was going on, but my gut told me it wasn’t good. My gut told me to shut my brother up before he continued his path of destruction. I got to my feet, but Miles was already ranting. “I thought it would be funny, you know?” He shook his head. “Maybe I didn’t think that. Maybe I didn’t think at all. I saw you on the first day of school. You had a sparkly headband on, and you were laughing with friends. Friends, Lisie. You had friends, but I was supposed to be looking out for you when I had no one.” He was staring right at Elise, red-faced, his chest heaving. “So, I called you that. Ellie the Elephant, and they laughed. Then I had friends. People laughed with me, they wanted to be around me.” My mouth fell open, trying to wrap my head around what my brother was saying. Elliot’s chair scraped back. He circled the table to get to Elise, who looked like a deer caught in headlights. She was frozen, eyes wide, watching my brother. We all were.

Ishmael’s transformation echoes what was happening to the northern portion of the United States when Melville was working on Moby-Dick. During the fall of 1850 and the winter of 1851, Boston became the epicenter of outrage over the Fugitive Slave Law, and Melville’s father-in-law, Judge Lemuel Shaw, was the reluctant focal point. Although Shaw hated slavery, he also loved his country and its laws, which it was his duty to uphold. So it was Shaw who ordered that a slave who’d made his way to Boston be turned over to his Southern captors. Riots and general bedlam erupted, with Shaw being hanged in effigy after the decision. New England gentlemen who had once viewed the South from the safety of their own mastheads had finally been drawn into slavery’s pernicious vortex. What to do? Nothing, of course. As Starbuck discovers, simply being a good guy with a positive worldview is not enough to stop a force of nature like Ahab, who feeds on the fears and hatreds in us all. “My soul is more than matched,” Starbuck laments, “she’s overmanned; and by a madman!” Just like Starbuck, America’s leaders in the 1850s looked at one another with vacant, deer-in-the-headlights stares as the United States, a great and noble country crippled by a lie, slowly but inevitably sailed toward its cataclysmic encounter with the source of its discontents.

Seven years ago tonight, every dream I ever had came true. That's not something too many men get to claim. I'm very lucky, blessed, whichever you believe. Probably a lot of both. Tonight marks the anniversary of my debut performance at Ceasars Palace." On his cue, the crowd whipped into congratulary rapture. Blindsided by his recollection, Isavel was motionless. That's what he recalls happening on this date? "Indulgent, lazy, self-centered... jerk!" she said, grabbing her purse, thinking she'd climb over the seat. "I'm going home!" Before she could turn, hositing herself over, a spotlight landed on her. In the darkened arena Aidan and Isabel were face-to-face. He stared. The same way he did years ago in his pickup truck, holding tight to her wrist, the same way he did on the dance floor at the gala. The same way he did in the moment she left him. "If you can believe it," he said, still staring, "something even more important happened that day. As dreams of fame and fortune go, this topped everything. I've always know that." Then, in a softer voice: "And I'm a fool because I should have never given up." Even from her vantage point, Isabel could see the gulp roll through his throat. "It's my great privilege this evening to introduce my wife, Isabel Royce." He gestered to the box. Isabel responded by sinking to her seat. "What's he talking about?" she hissed to Mary Louise. "We're divorced!" From her right, Tanya nudged her. It was like being on a palace balcony, Isabel offering a deer-in-the-headlights wave to the subjects, a thoroughly baffled look at Aidan. In return, he smiled at her clear confusion. "My wife ..." Why is he calling me that? There was a mixed reaction, lots of gasps, some applause, and the disappointed groans from female fans. "She's done me the tremendous honor of making a rare appearance at one of my shows. Seven years ago, she agreed to marry me. At the time, my life was more trouble than promise. We were two scared kids who had nothing but each other. Really, it was all I needed. We were married in true Vegas fashion." Hoots and hollers echoed, his glance dropping to the stage floor. Sharing this was making the performer uncomfortable. He pushed on. "While most women would have been satisfied with a ring ... " His long fingers fluttered over the snake. "This was Isabel's idea of a permanent bond." It drew a wave of subtle laughter, Isabel included. "Do you remember how the story went?" he said, speaking only to Isabel in a crowd of thousands. "As long as I had it, I'd never be without you. Turns out, it wasn't a story, it was the absolute truth. Lately though," he said, turning back to his public narrative, "circumstance, some serious, some calculated, has prevented me from getting my wife's attention. So tonight I resorted to an old performer's trick, a captive audience. I planned this moment, Isabel, knowing you'd be here. Regardless of anything you may believe, I meant what I said on our wedding night, in the moment I said it. I love you. I always have.

His hand moves toward me, and my breath hitches in my lungs. I’m like a deer caught in headlights, too shocked and mesmerized to run from danger.

mouths dangling open, like deer caught in headlights or something.

The breath whooshes out of me. “Oh, thank gods. You look so nice and put-together, I thought for sure you were going to peg me as a weirdo.” “Do you want me to peg you?” Now it’s my turn to freeze, deer-in-the-headlights style.

Media when it is functioning has an adversarial role with government. It worked best in Watergate. But in the Foster murder, the MSM betrayed the people. They let Clinton get away with this murder by standing there the whole time like deer staring into headlights.

Who is it?” “A Mr. Smith,” she said, her sarcastic tone telling him she suspected otherwise. “Put it through,” he said, and then before she closed the door, “Oh, and Abby?” “Sir?” “Luck or skill?” She gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look at the non sequitur. “If you could only have one, which would you choose—luck or skill?” “Skill,” she said without hesitation. He nodded at her. “Thank you; that will be all.” Skill. He chuckled to himself. When I was her age I would have answered the same. Now, I’m not so sure.

The whole idea of driving trips was grounded on the concept of going where you wanted for as far as you liked. Particularly in rural parts of America, towns were infrequent, and the hotels in them, if any, varied greatly in cost and quality. If you found yourself driving between towns and it grew dark, continuing on the road was dangerous. Car headlights were still primitive, and even the best roads were poorly marked. Wildlife and livestock frequently ambled across—at night, a deer or cow might be practically on your fender before you realized it. Even if you did reach town safely, its hotels might not have rooms available. If there were rooms, and if the hotel was a nice one with a restaurant, guests were frequently required to “dress for dinner,” coats and ties for gentlemen, nice dresses for ladies.

The whole idea of driving trips was grounded on the concept of going where you wanted for as far as you liked. Particularly in rural parts of America, towns were infrequent, and the hotels in them, if any, varied greatly in cost and quality. If you found yourself driving between towns and it grew dark, continuing on the road was dangerous. Car headlights were still primitive, and even the best roads were poorly marked. Wildlife and livestock frequently ambled across—at night, a deer or cow might be practically on your fender before you realized it. Even if you did reach town safely, its hotels might not have rooms available. If there were rooms, and if the hotel was a nice one with a restaurant, guests were frequently required to “dress for dinner,” coats and ties for gentlemen, nice dresses for ladies. Much of the appeal of car trips lay in wearing comfortable clothes.

Whether it’s a major decision like accepting a job, or a minor decision like what to order at a restaurant, people struggling with anxiety often find themselves frozen like a deer in the headlights when it comes time to decide.