How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (6 page)

“It's not fancy,” Philip continued, “but the food is good.”

I gave Jacques a smile of thanks as he removed the IV and the last of the other stuff. “Good food works for me.” But my eyes went to Jacques as he returned to stare at the whiteboard. “Everything cool, Jacques?”

His brow furrowed, gaze remaining on the whiteboard for another few seconds, then he moved to the cookie sheet of injectables to check what was there. He finally looked up and gave me a nod. “You can go.”

I stood and stretched to work out the kinks in my back. “Is Dr. Nikas still around?”

“No, he left to meet Mr. Ivanov,” Jacques replied with a tiny smile. “Forgot to tell me he was leaving. Again.”

I snorted, smiled. “I guess that happens often?”

“Often enough over the years,” he replied with a resigned shrug.

“Well, tell him to give me a buzz if he needs anything more from me.”

Jacques gave a distracted nod, brow furrowing as he looked at the whiteboard.

“That was almost a conversation,” Philip said as we headed out.

“I could barely get a word in edgewise.”

We exited the security doors. Philip stuck sunglasses on as soon as we were outside. “So far I'm not sick,” he said. “That's promising.”

“It's a good sign,” I agreed. “But if you do get sick, warn me so I can avoid splatter, okay?”

Philip winked. “Where's the fun in that?”

“I can think of all sorts of things that are more fun without puke splatter,” I shot back. “Where are we going?”

“Nice little café called Top Cow,” he said, and somehow I kept my expression even. That was the first place Marcus and I ever had lunch together, though we hadn't been
together
-together at the time.

As if the thought of him had been a summons, my phone rang with the Marcus ringtone.

I glanced at Philip as I pulled it out of my purse. “Hold that thought?” He nodded, and I stepped a few feet away before answering, even though I knew it was silly to be self-conscious about talking to my boyfriend in front of Philip.

“Hey, babe,” I said as I answered. “What's up?”

“Just checking on my favorite zombie,” Marcus said, a smile in his voice.

“Ooh, do I even outrank your uncle on that scale?”

He laughed. “Well, I know which one I'd rather see naked.”

“Jeez, now I have a mental image.”

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. “Actually, I was calling to see if you wanted to grab an early supper.”

“Perfect timing.” I winced as soon as I said it. “I mean, I'm leaving the lab right now, and Philip and I were about to head to Top Cow Café since we're kind of starving. Would you be okay with joining us?”

“Yes, sure thing,” he replied quickly, but I heard the slight catch in his voice. He'd never been to the lab—had never even been invited. I also knew he wasn't exactly thrilled to pieces about my spending time with Philip. It didn't even matter that it wasn't a whole lot of time. Philip was, well, Philip.

“We should be there in about twenty,” I told him. “Meet us there?”

“Will do,” he said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” The words tripped from me with the ease of habit. I hung up and turned back to Philip. “Marcus is going to meet us there. I hope that's okay?”

He smiled beneath the sunglasses. “Totally.” I tried to hear if there was anything beneath his words—jealousy, resentment, annoyance—but he seemed completely fine, and I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed.

Oh, god,
I groaned to myself.
I'm going to lunch with my hunky boyfriend and my also-hunky zombie kid. Awkward City, party of three.
I kept the smile on my face, but the second I was in my car and on the road I stuck my headset in my ear and hit the dial for “Naomi Comtesse.” Naomi worked for Pietro, but she wasn't a zombie. Hell, she wasn't really “Naomi” either.

I'd first met her when she was stalking me—taking pictures and generally being kind of suspicious. After I confronted her she told me her name was Heather Miller, however, it turned out she was really Julia Saber, daughter of Nicole Saber, the CEO of Saberton Corporation. Following in her grandfather Richard Saber's footsteps, Julia worked industrial espionage for Saberton as Heather Miller for nearly a decade. In fact, a little over four years ago, it was Heather who stole documents from Pietro that allowed Saberton to learn of the existence of zombies. She came to regret that, big time, after she stumbled onto the uglier side of Saberton's zombie research, and in a tangled twist of events during the filming of a zombie movie, she defected from Saberton, came into the Tribe, and became Naomi Comtesse.

But more importantly, she became my best friend.

“Hey, chick,” she said with a bright lilt to her voice. “Calling to hear me gloat about my trip to Tahiti? Totally magical, I tell you!”

“Oh, sure,” I replied sourly. “Please do tell me all about your tan lines, or lack thereof. But later. Right now I need your help.”

“What's wrong?” she asked, instantly completely serious.

“I'm about to have lunch with Philip and Marcus. Together,” I said. “I need you there. And maybe Kyle should be there too. And it might not hurt to pick up some of the day workers hanging out in front of the hardware store to bring along for some more manpower.”

“You . . .” She laughed. “How the
hell
did you get yourself in that situation?”

Scowling, I gave her a quick explanation. “C'mon,” I whined. “Don't you owe me some favors?”

“Under any other circumstance, being the human shield between two testosterone factories would burn up any and all favors owed, but I wouldn't miss this for the world.” Amusement resonated in her tone. “I'll roust Kyle, and we'll meet you there.”

“You are beyond wonderful,” I said fervently.

“And you're pathetic,” she shot back.

“Guilty!”

The Parking Gods decided to be nice and left a spot on the street open for me less than a block from the restaurant. They even placed it near the corner so that I didn't have to embarrass myself by demonstrating to the world that my parallel parking skills sucked ass. Totally cool of them, and I offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks as I slid my car into the space.

Unfortunately, the Car Gods didn't like me anywhere near as much, as demonstrated by the way my car lurched and died before I could turn the ignition off. And, when I tried to start it again, it clicked and nothing more.
I'll deal with it after I eat
, I told myself while silently praying that, whatever the issue, it wouldn't cost more to fix than the car was worth.

I grabbed my purse and left my stupid dead car behind. Marcus was already there, waiting outside and leaning against the wall beneath the Top Cow Café logo. The restaurant sign had been repainted at some point in the last year, but I suspected the painter had been high or drunk. The cow looked more like a blotchy meerkat on its hind legs, and the top hat perched on its—were those supposed to be horns?—looked more like a crouching walrus.

The restaurant itself was a hole-in-the-wall, with tables and chairs crammed so close together the waitresses barely had room to squeeze through. Apparently the tight quarters made it impossible for the servers to carry any sort of pleasant attitude as well, and it was widely known that one came to Top Cow for the excellent food, not sunny dispositions and bright smiling faces. If the waitress cursed you out, you probably deserved it and, even if you didn't deserve it, the food was still good, so shut up and get over it.

“My car died,” I told Marcus when I reached him. “I may need a ride home. Or a flamethrower.”

He chuckled and gave me a kiss. “Ride, yes. Flamethrower, not so much,” he said. “I put us on the waiting list. Should only be a couple of minutes, since we're early for the supper rush.”

“Thanks, but it's going to be five of us now,” I said with an apologetic wince. “Naomi and Kyle are coming as well.”

A wave of obvious relief passed over his face, and I realized he knew damn well how uncomfortable it might've been with only the original three.
One point to me for inviting the others!

“Not a problem,” he said. “I'll go tell the hostess.” He slipped past the other waiting people and inside, then returned about half a minute later, though he kept twisting his head awkwardly to look behind him.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Do I still have an ass?” He grinned. “I think the hostess just chewed half of it off.”

“I'll be glad to check later,” I offered with an appropriate leer.

He opened his mouth to say something that I knew would be nice and naughty, but then he closed it, expression shifting to polite and bland as Philip walked up.

“You snagged the last parking place in three blocks,” Philip said to me, then turned to Marcus. “Hey, man. Good to see you.”

“You too,” Marcus replied, acting for all the world as if Philip was a guy pal he hung out with all the time. Which I didn't
think
they were. Were they? That would be weird as all hell. Or, was I reading too much into their reactions to each other? The whole “two hunky guys must obviously be jealous of each other because of me” thing
was
a bit conceited and self-centered, if I stopped and thought about it.

The hostess hollered Marcus's name, and we obediently followed her to a round table in the corner set for five. Marcus and Philip started some silent jockeying for who would get to sit with their back to the wall, which I solved by scooting forward and claiming the wall-seat for myself.

The two men exchanged a look that clearly meant
Great. Now we're all fucked if terrorists storm the restaurant,
but managed to seat themselves without overt conflict—Marcus to my left, and Philip across from us with an empty chair on either side of him. Smart man.

A waitress with purple streaks in her hair and rings in her eyebrows slapped menus onto the table and tapped her foot impatiently as we gave her our drink orders. As she stalked off, Naomi bopped in with a mischievous gleam in her blue eyes that told me she was ready to stir up some shit. Six or seven years older than me, she'd seen the world a hundred times over and had plenty of opportunities to perfect her troublemaking skills. Defecting from Saberton had meant faking her death and a Pietro-funded change in appearance. Hair color, facial plastic surgery, and even a tasteful boob job. Her Heather identity had worn hazel contact lenses, but she'd fiercely refused to even consider shifting to green or brown for the Naomi persona, declaring that contacts were too much of a pain in the ass to bother with. She was one of a handful of non-zombies who worked for Pietro. Philip had been another until I'd turned him. I knew there were several others scattered throughout the organization, but I had yet to meet any of them since their jobs tended to be fairly specialized.

As Naomi made her way toward us, she gathered her chestnut hair into a ponytail and wrapped it with a scrunchie. Kyle moved more sedately in Naomi's wake, tall and lanky with dark skin and smooth, catlike movement, calmly exuding an air of danger without even trying. The other patrons in the restaurant edged away from him, probably not even aware they were doing so. He scared me a bit as well, but I totally approved of the way he looked at Naomi—caring and thoughtful and deeply affectionate.

“Move, Zoldier,” Naomi said with a teasing grin to Philip. “I wanna sit next to Kyle.” Pietro had even bought her a new voice, a little deeper and throatier. I hadn't even known that was possible.

She plopped down in the empty chair beside Marcus. Crap. Of course Philip was too nice to stand his ground and tell her to piss off, which meant he shifted over to the only available seat—beside
me.
I fixed a smile on my face and gave Naomi an exasperated
You were supposed to HELP! You did that on purpose!
look which she acknowledged with a wink. Just my luck to land a BestFriendForever who thought trouble and mayhem were fun.

The waitress dropped a plate of biscuits on the table and took Naomi's and Kyle's drink orders. As soon as she left I grabbed a biscuit and proceeded to stuff it with butter.

“What's your weekend looking like?” Naomi asked me as she followed suit.

“Can you believe I actually have it off?” I said around butter and biscuit. “I think this is the first weekend in about a zillion years that I haven't even been on call.”

Her smile widened. “Cool. I talked Kyle into going to Paintball Palisades on Saturday if I can find worthy teammates.” Her gaze raked Marcus, Philip, and me. “Or
opponents
.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, brow puckering. “Paintball, huh? That sounds like it could be interesting.” Beneath the table he found my hand and gave it a light squeeze. I squeezed it right back. Marcus was a
beast
at paintball, but he obviously didn't want the others to know. A little hustle action? I hid a smile. His secret was safe with me.

“Y'all would wipe the floor with me,” I said, not lying one bit. “Me no have grunt grunt combat skills.” My
jiu jitsu
sensei
could attest to that. Sadly, I would most likely never become a zombie ninja.

Naomi leveled a stern glare at me. “No combat skills? I've seen you hold your own a time or two for realsies.”

Marcus squeezed my hand again. “Plus, Angel's getting to be a pretty good shot,” he surprised me by saying. “She might be harder to wipe the floor with than you think.”

“What about you?” Kyle said, looking over at Philip with a slight smile of challenge. “I have some floors that need wiping. Are you a man or a mop?”

Philip simply shrugged. “Haven't you heard? I'm an invalid. Damaged. I doubt I'm worth your time.” Yet his eyes said the opposite.

Kyle leaned forward a few inches, eyes still on Philip. “You'll have Angel and Marcus to protect you . . . for a few seconds.”

Marcus stiffened, and I tightened my grip on his hand. I knew—or rather
hoped
—that Kyle hadn't intended to insult Marcus by implying he'd pose as little threat as I would.

Unfortunately, Kyle seemed unaware, as did Philip. “That's all I'll need,” he responded, also leaning forward.

Tension vibrated through Marcus's body, even though he kept his face composed. More composed than I'd have been in a similar position.
Shit.
I caught Naomi's eye. Her smile was fixed, and a wince hovered just below the surface. She knew, even if the other two men were oblivious.

I abruptly grabbed the neckline of my shirt, pulled it out and peered down at my chest. “Oh my god! I think I just sprouted a chest hair from all the excess testosterone at the table.”

Naomi let out a laugh, bless her, and Kyle and Philip broke their eye contact and sat back in their seats. Philip glanced my way, and I saw the shift in his expression when he noted the tension in Marcus. He opened his mouth to speak, but I gave a micro-shake of my head. Saying anything now would only make it worse.

To my undying relief the waitress arrived at that moment to bring drinks and take food orders. Marcus shifted his attention to the waitress and rolled his eyes as usual when I ordered the Philly Cheesesteak without bell peppers. Everyone else found that amusing as well, despite my insistence that bell peppers were nasty, and the tension leached away. Naomi made small talk about some innocuous and forgettable topic, and all of us relaxed into her banter. She had an inexplicable talent for putting zombies at ease, sometimes enough to spill their deepest secrets. That, paired with her natural intuition, made her one sharp cookie. By the time the waitress delivered food everyone seemed to be a shitload less stressed.

Kyle's phone buzzed as the waitress took our orders for pie. He answered with a low, “Griffin,” then listened in silence for almost half a minute during which time the waitress gave up on him and flounced off in impatience. “Got it,” he finally said, hung up and looked over at Naomi. “We need to go.”

She dug money out of her purse and dropped some bills on the table. “Duty calls,” she said with a smile as she and Kyle stood. “Y'all play nice, and yes, you can have my pie.”

“If you're going back to Tahiti, I don't want to know,” I told her.

She simply laughed, tucked her arm through Kyle's and threaded through the tables to the exit.

Philip cleared his throat softly. “I should probably be on my way as well,” he said, also dropping money to cover his share. I was pretty sure he didn't have anywhere he needed to be, but he was gracious enough to recognize his third wheel status. “I'll catch you later, Angel,” he said. I responded with something similar, and after giving Marcus a parting guy-nod thing, he departed.

Since people were waiting for tables, Marcus and I didn't linger much longer—only enough to scarf down pie, pay the bill, and overtip the waitress with the excess the others had left. By the time we stepped outside the sun had dropped below the buildings, and the western sky glowed with orange and purple. The temperature had dropped as well, and I hugged my arms around myself.

“Sorry that turned out kind of weird,” I said as we walked down the street to where my car was parked.

“It's okay.” His expression was a mix of tired and resigned, but he dropped his arm over my shoulders and pulled me close in reassurance. “It helped me clear out some doubts.”

I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? Doubts about what?”

He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I'm quitting the sheriff's office.”

That stopped me in my tracks, but once I had a second or two to process his statement, I realized it wasn't all that surprising. “Okay,” I said, walking again. “I know you didn't want to be a cop forever, but do you have something else planned?”

A smile touched his mouth. “I got accepted into law school.”

Squealing, I threw my arms around him. “Oh my god! Law school? Marcus, that's fantastic!” I knew he'd wanted to go to law school close to a decade ago, but he put that on hold and became a cop when his mother developed breast cancer.

He hugged me close. “I probably should've gone that direction a few years ago, but then I'd have missed getting together with you.”

“I didn't even know you were applying.” I grinned up at him. “I'm so happy for you! Wow, law school!”

“It's only in New Orleans, which means we don't have to move a long distance away,” he continued, smiling. “I know you'd hate to be far from your dad and friends.”

The fuck? My grin disintegrated, and I pulled back. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I sent it to voicemail without even looking at it. “Wait. Marcus, don't you think we should
discuss
moving?” Hell, we weren't even officially living together. There'd been some preliminary “wouldn't it be cool if” discussion, but that was about it.

“Okay, I guess I jumped the gun on that, but I figured since it was just to New Orleans . . .” He sighed. “Sorry.”

My dismay climbed higher. New Orleans was over two hours away. This wasn't as if he'd suggested a move across town. “Marcus, I love you,” I said, “but I don't want to move. I'm just starting to get my life figured out.”

Exhaling, he pulled me close again. “Okay, okay. Sorry. We'll make it work. I don't think two hours even qualifies as a long distance relationship.”

I hugged him back, but suddenly it was as if he'd left a box of bait open and all the thoughts and worries and uncertainties began to worm their way out. Law school was a big deal, yet he'd never even told me he was applying. And for him to simply assume we'd move in together—in a different city, no less—with zero warning or discussion . . .