White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (6 page)

With a sigh, I headed for my car, happy and sad…but mostly sad.

I raced home, showered and changed, even spent about twenty minutes on my hair and makeup and was mostly pleased with the result. I also made sure to chug down half a smoothie to give that extra glow of “yes, I’m really alive” to my skin. Nothing like grey and rotting flesh to kill a great look.

I’d hit the thrift store before my tutoring date with Nick and totally struck gold in my quest for a properly stylish and dressy outfit to wear to the Gourmet Gala that wouldn’t break my pathetic budget. It helped that I was a pro at finding cool stuff for next to nothing. For about thirty bucks I walked out with a cream silk blouse, black dress slacks, and a really striking thigh-length jacket in a dark red velvet. And as rainy as it was, I intended to wear my black boots, and to hell with whether they were appropriate for the event. They had low heels, so would hopefully be dressy enough.

My dad was in his usual spot in front of the TV when I came out to the living room. I plopped down on the other end of the couch and pulled my boots on. His gaze stayed
on whatever show he was watching without even the barest acknowledgement of my presence. He had his feet propped on the coffee table, a position he claimed took the pressure off an old back injury he’d sustained a decade ago on an offshore oil rig. Years of hard drinking and smoking had left him looking way older than his actual age of forty-eight. Even though he’d made an effort to clean up his act in the past few months, it couldn’t erase the haggard look and sagging jowls that had been long in the making. His light brown eyes were clearer though, and these days he kept his face clean-shaven most of the time, a big change from the scraggly beard he used to keep so he didn’t have to bother shaving.

“Have you eaten yet?” I asked.

“If you’d be home sometimes you’d know.” He finally looked over at me, eyes narrowing at the sight of me all dressed up. “Where the hell you going now?”

Scowling, I zipped up my boots. “I spend pretty much every night here, Dad. You don’t see me ’cause you’re not here in the evenings.” I gave him a hard look, cocked an eyebrow at him. “What, are you out feeding the poor or something noble like that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded. “I can damn well be out if I want to be out.”

I stood and pulled on my jacket, reveling in the way it flared out and swirled as I moved. I loved that jacket. Loved the way it felt. Loved everything about it. “You know what I mean. You making the rounds of the bars again?”

His expression darkened. “Well, what if I am?”

My mouth tightened. “Yeah, what if you are.” I sighed, shook my head. “Whatever. I’m going out with Marcus tonight. He got tickets to the Gourmet Gala.”

“Well, that’s some shit,” he said with a small sneer. “Act like you’re all worried about whether or not I’ve eaten anything and then go off with that asshole to stuff your face and leave me here to fend for myself.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dad! Y’know what? I won’t ever ask how you’re doing again.” I stomped out of the house and slammed the door behind me, only to hit the steps and realize I’d forgotten my purse. Scowl deepening, I slammed back into the house, grabbed my purse, and then once again stomped out and closed the door hard. Didn’t help my mood that I thought I heard my dad give a snort of laughter. Yeah, so much for a dramatic exit.

Plus, Marcus wasn’t even there yet, but I wasn’t about to go back inside to wait. Fortunately, for my own state of mind, it was only a few minutes before he pulled up. I dashed through the rain to the truck and climbed in as quickly as I could.

“You look great, hon’,” Marcus said with an appreciative smile as soon as I had the door closed. He leaned over and gave me a kiss.

“Thanks. Ugh,” I said, returning the kiss. “Sorry, the ‘ugh’ wasn’t for you. Let’s get out of here. Dad’s being a pain again.”

“Uh oh,” he said as he pulled out onto the road. “I was wondering why you were huddled on the porch. I didn’t think I was running
that
late.” He slanted a glance my way. “What’s he doing now?”

I heaved a sigh. “The usual. Defensive bullshit. Pissed that I’m with you. Whinery and bitchery. Same old same old.”

“Crap,” he replied, grimacing. “I thought he’d gotten better.”

“I thought he had too.” I controlled the urge to rub my eyes and smear my makeup all over my face. At least I’d remembered to use waterproof mascara and eyeliner since it was raining and so damn humid. “I don’t know what the deal is,” I continued. “There’s no beer or booze at the house, so I figure he’s drinking somewhere else. He knows I’ll go ballistic if I find any at home.”

“Sounds like you’ve at least put the fear of Angel into him,” he said with a low chuckle. “It’s a start.”

I gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, there is that.” And it was true. Late last year he’d given me some real bullshit, and I’d used zombie strength to pin him against the wall. He didn’t have a clue I was a zombie, but he sure as hell knew he couldn’t mess with me like that anymore.

I peered out the window. “When is this damn rain supposed to stop?”

“Never?” Marcus made a pained face. “The forecast says it’s supposed to be hard rain like this for at least the next four to five days. And this past winter was wet as hell, which means we’re primed for flooding in all the low lying areas.” He looked over at me, worry flickering in his eyes. “Like where you live.”

“We’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “I mean, the worst we’ve ever had is some water across the road.”

Marcus nodded, clearly relieved. A wave of warmth went through me at the concern. Damn it, he was nice, sexy, considerate, and we were great in bed together. Why the hell was I holding back?

“Still, five days of rain sucks ass,” I said, yanking my thoughts away from my issues. “There’s not much worse than picking up a body in the rain.”

“You could get lucky,” he said. “Maybe no one will die, and there’ll be no bodies to pick up for a couple of weeks.”

I shook my head. “Nope. Then Allen would convince the coroner to lay off staff, and I’d be the first to go.” I made a sour face.

He raised an eyebrow. “But you’re the shining star of the Coroner’s Office, remember?”

“Election’s over,” I reminded him. “He can dump me at will. I think I only still have a job ’cause Dr. Leblanc sticks up for me.”

“At least you don’t give them any real reason to fire you.”
He paused, then chuckled. “I mean, any that they know of. Swiping brains would do it.”

“Swiping brains would get me
committed
if I ever got caught,” I shot back, laughing.

We made it to the fairgrounds and found parking that wasn’t too far of a hike, then Marcus and I huddled close beneath a compact umbrella, arms around each other as we headed to the entrance.

The venue itself consisted of a half dozen or so long tents spaced out on either side of a paved walkway. Each tent had about fifteen tables around the perimeter, each table belonging to a local restaurant eager to hand out small samples of their cuisine. The rain had slacked off to a drizzle, yet I still saw quite a few elegantly dressed couples pop open umbrellas to walk the ten feet or so between tents. Maybe it was a bitch to get water marks out of silk? I sure as hell wouldn’t know.

As we made our way through the tents, I amused myself with some people-watching. No surprise, there were plenty of folks here who absolutely reeked of wealth. Quite a few trophy wives and even a scattering of trophy husbands. High powered business-types and a generous handful of politicians roamed the event, including the coroner, Dr. Duplessis, who I shamelessly avoided by ducking behind a thick-necked man who turned out to be a former Saints player. Last thing I needed was to annoy my boss by making him feel he had to stop meeting-and-greeting to be sociable with me.

Marcus did his best to murmur names of people he recognized, or point out who he thought I’d get a kick out of seeing in the flesh. “Karla Stanford,” he told me with a nod toward the C-level actress—well past her prime but still dressing like a twenty year-old, and not doing it well. “Jerome Leroux,” he said, subtly indicating the silver-haired and quite handsome man who owned the high end Leroux Jewelry. That surprised me. Rumor had it that he’d
been a recluse since his partner—in more ways than business—had committed suicide last year for no known reason. He sat alone at a table looking so forlorn I wished someone would go sit with him. “Nicole Saber,” Marcus said with a nod toward the CEO of Saberton Corporation and daughter of its founder, Richard Saber. A tall woman with honey-blond hair pulled back in an elegant twist, she wore an elegant black pantsuit that managed to be sensible and sexy at the same. She sipped her wine and idly twisted a stray lock of hair around her index finger over and over as she conversed and laughed with table mates, all the while watching the proceedings with a keen eye. “And that’s her son, Andrew Saber,” Marcus added. He didn’t gesture or point, but I had no trouble picking out who Marcus meant. Andrew Saber was a good-looking man in his late-twenties or so, tall and broad-shouldered, with the same honey-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and regal profile as his mother. He stood near her table, faint smile touching his mouth as he idly scanned the area and pretended interest in the eager conversation of a forgettable man beside him.

Yeah, we did some people watching, but mostly, we ate.

“I do so love free food,” Marcus said. He took a bite of an oyster-something and let out a small moan. “And good free food is even better.”

“Oh my god,” I said with a weak laugh. “I should have paced myself better. There are still three tents to go, and I’m about to explode.”

“Now you know what I meant about the elastic waistband,” he replied, grinning.

“Yes, next time I’ll wear my sweat pants with the designer jacket.”

We made our way through the crowd, then paused to get our bearings. One woman, a leggy brunette in a skin tight sheath of a dress and impossible stiletto heels gave
me a startled look that slid to one of amusement. Her eyes met mine briefly before she pulled her gaze away. She leaned close to murmur something to the woman by her side, and a second later they both tittered, glancing at me again.

I turned away, face heating, reminded a bit too much of high school and the way the popular girls pointed and laughed at my complete lack of anything that could “fit in.”

“Marcus,” I murmured. “Is there something on my face? Or a sign stuck to my back?”

To his credit, he actually gave me a solid look-over. “No. Why?”

“Heels over there, the woman behind me in the red and black dress and stupid shoes, keeps looking at me and laughing,” I told him, trying very hard not to be as unsettled as I was.

“Snobby bitches all over this place, babe,” he said with a reassuring smile. “And it doesn’t even matter if you have money or whatever. Someone like that tries to put everyone down they can.” He gave me a squeeze. “You look great. She’s probably jealous. And her feet have to be killing her, which makes her doubly bitchified.”

I laughed. “I never thought I’d hear ‘doubly bitchified’ coming out of your mouth.”

Marcus grinned. “It seemed to fit the moment.”

I smiled up at him. “Thanks. I’m probably overreacting.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He made a face. “Really have to have a thick skin around some of these people. I’m here for the food, and they’re here for dirt and gossip.”

“I hate that crap,” I muttered, then caught a glimpse of a familiar face through the crowd. “Isn’t that your uncle?” I asked with a lift of my chin.

Marcus’s gaze followed mine. “I do believe it is. I wonder if he’s as overstuffed as we are?”

“We should thank him for the tickets,” I said, remembering my inconsistent manners.

He eyed me. “Can you still walk?”

“Waddle,” I replied. “I can most certainly waddle.”

Marcus slipped an arm around my waist. “Waddle on, then.”

Together we wove through the crowd, murmuring apologies and “excuse mes” as appropriate along the way.

Pietro Ivanov looked over at us as we approached. He was slightly stocky with brown hair touched with grey and dark eyes that glinted with keen intelligence. For all outward appearances he was a hale sixty-something, but I’d seen his eyes go ancient once and had no doubt he was far, far older. I didn’t know a damn thing about tailoring or suits, but Pietro looked
really
good in the dark grey one he wore, and it radiated Expensive. Odd as hell, though, was the splint on his left wrist. Being a zombie with no shortage of brains, there was no way he should have an injury. Faking it? Had to be. But why?

A smile crossed his face. “Angel. Marcus. I’m so glad you could use the tickets.” He gave Marcus’s upper arm a squeeze, then offered me a polite kiss on the cheek, which I managed to accept without appearing as startled as I was.

“Thank you
so
much,” I gushed, fully aware that I was gushing and not much caring. “This is awesome!”

His smile widened. “You’re more than welcome. Have you been here long?”

“About an hour,” I replied. “Long enough to get totally bloated.” Crap. Not the most couth thing to say. I fought back a wince.

“Not me,” Marcus stated with a smile. “I’ve barely touched a thing.”

Pietro gave a low chuckle. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He shook his head. “I’ve been busier than usual this time with little chance to eat yet.” He tilted his head
at the two of us. “Do you have a minute? I need to get my date a drink, and then I’d like to introduce you both to her.”

I assured him we had all the time in the world. He smiled and went off to the refreshments table, and I swept my gaze around the tent area. This one wasn’t as crowded as the others, mostly because it held only tables and a couple of serving booths for drinks. People clustered around tables, plates of all sorts of food piled high before them, and filled the air with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter.

Marcus gave me a quick kiss. “I’m going to find the men’s room while Uncle Pietro gets drinks. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” I told him. “Or stuffing my face.”