“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.”
Chuckling, he strode off through the crowd. I allowed my attention to drift across the paved path, to the tent that held a booth we’d bypassed earlier, where wonderfully evil-looking bread pudding was served. I could probably stuff a few more pounds of food into my gut. Surely my parasite would keep me from exploding, right? After all, what the hell good was a zombie parasite if it couldn’t help me drastically overeat every now and then?
I felt someone come up behind me. I turned, surprised to see Heels leveling a smirk down at me.
“Well, it looks like my jacket did make it into the Goodwill bag rather than the trash after all,” she said in a smooth purr. “Unless, of course, you dug it out of a dumpster.” She tilted her head, and I instantly hated how perfectly her hair flowed over her shoulder with the movement. “So, which was it?”
Are you fucking kidding me? I’d seen this kind of scenario in movies, but did this actually happen in real life? “Excuse me?” I managed. I didn’t miss that the two women with her had smirks of their own as they eyed me. Perfect noses. Perfect breasts. Perfect bitches.
Heels reached out and tweaked the collar of the jacket with a French-manicured hand. “Simple question,” she said. “Goodwill…or dumpster?”
I eyed the bitch, then widened my eyes in mock comprehension. “Oh!” I made a show of sweeping my gaze over her. “Now it all makes sense! I was wondering why the pockets were stuffed with condoms.” I tilted my head in a mockery of her pose as her eyes narrowed. “So, simple question. Were they yours? Or did men give them to you to keep your skank under control?”
Her mouth tightened then opened in a snarl, but before she could speak I felt an arm tuck through mine. I flicked a glance over, expecting Marcus, and was briefly taken aback when I saw Pietro instead.
“Ah, Jessica Langburn,” Pietro said with a pleasant smile. “I haven’t seen you since you tried to swim the Kreeger River in nothing but your thong and had to be fished out by the Sheriff’s office boat patrol.” He chuckled. “That was…priceless. Do you plan to amuse the crowd with something equally entertaining today?”
Jessica’s eyes went wide in horror. Without another word she spun and fled as quickly as she could in those insane stilettos, her two cronies trailing after her wearing similarly mortified expressions.
I tried not to utterly wilt in relief as Pietro turned a look of amusement on me. “Even though you were doing a marvelous job of cutting that venomous bitch down to size,” he said, “I didn’t think you’d mind some additional firepower.”
I gave a weak laugh. “Not at all. Thanks for the assist.”
“I call those types ‘piranha,’” he said. “You’re okay?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him. “Though my next move would have been to slug her, which might not have gone over so well.”
Laughter flashed in his eyes. “Probably not. And then she would have been the poor victim of an attack, giving her even more drama to spew,” he said. “Not that I would have minded seeing you slug her though,” he added.
I grinned. At times he wasn’t so bad. “Hey, Pietro, Marcus said he was gonna tell you about what happened with Philip and me the other day at the movie set, but I forgot to ask him if he ever did.”
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “He did tell me, and I’m looking into it.”
Nagging worry surfaced. “But does that mean Dr. Charish might be around as well? What if she’s up to more bullshit involving me?”
Pietro’s face grew serious and contemplative. “Legitimate concerns indeed, though she would be a fool to act against me again. My people are working on it, but you be sure to let me know if you have any more trouble whatsoever.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, relieved. “It’s not just me,” I added. “I mean, last time she messed with my dad, and that’s way over the line.”
“She stepped over a lot of lines and burned all of her bridges,” he agreed, a whisper of anger tightening his expression. “Keep your eyes and ears open, and you’ll be fine.” He gave me a genuinely reassuring smile, then lifted what looked like an iced tea in his other hand. “I need to take this to my date. Walk with me?”
At my nod he headed for the back of the tent, keeping his arm tucked through mine. “You and Marcus can sit with us for a few minutes and help keep her piranhas at bay.”
I shot him a questioning look. “Your date has piranhas?”
“A different breed of piranha, perhaps, but still wanting a piece of her.” At my baffled look he explained, “She’s Dr. Jane Pennington—State Senator and recently elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. Way too many piranhas, though a little better now that the election is over.”
“Oh, wow,” I said. Gulping, I swept a glance over myself. Was this jacket stylish or ridiculous? The fact that Heels had owned it wasn’t exactly a glowing recommendation in my eyes.
Who the hell do I think I am, pretending to fit in with important, influential people? Yet even as I thought it, Nick’s face came to mind as though he’d heard the negative self-talk and was prepared to give me a heap of shit for thinking so little of myself. Get over it, Nick, I thought with a stifled snort of amusement. You’re not the one playing Goodwill Girl meets Congresswoman.
Oblivious to my inner angst, Pietro steered me to a table where a slim, dark haired woman sat, thirtyish or so, and looking perfectly at ease in a sleek navy-blue skirt suit. Under the table, I noted the bulk of an air cast on her right leg and a cane leaning against her chair. Not a zombie then, I realized. Not with unhealed injuries. Unless she was faking it too? Whatever the deal was, I had no doubt there was a connection between her possibly-fake injuries and Pietro’s definitely-fake one.
“Jane,” Pietro said with a warmth in his voice that surprised me. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Angel Crawford. Angel, Dr. Jane Pennington.”
My confidence increased as I managed to do the handshake and “pleased to meet you” thing without embarrassing myself.
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“And please call me Jane,” she insisted with a smile. A moment later, Marcus found us and was duly introduced as well. We all got seated, and I tried not to focus on how very out of my depth I was. Good grief, first name basis with a frickin’ congresswoman? Me? What alternate universe had I slipped into?
“And now, with a full table, I can have a few minutes peace,” Jane said with a chuckle.
The drumming of rain on the tent eased to a soft hiss of drizzle. Marcus laid his arm across the back of my chair in a gesture that felt juuuuust right, not too possessive and not too distant. For the next few minutes the conversation shifted to topics that ranged from neutral to mildly amusing—nothing that required a great deal of thought or effort.
A sharp increase in the buzz of the crowd drew our attention to the outside walkway.
“What on earth?” Jane murmured. She straightened and peered in the direction of the increasing murmurs and laughter.
I followed her gaze and drew in a sharp breath. Ten or so zombies shambled down the sidewalk between the tents, giving low moans of “Braaaiiins” and reaching toward people at tables. I shot a quick look at Pietro, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. If anything he looked indulgently pleased.
Duh, they’re the movie zombies! I realized with a wash of relief. What a perfect place to do some promo and fish for more investors. Everybody who was anybody was here. Money. Lots of money.
“Oh my god, Pietro,” Jane breathed. “They look amazing!”
“New makeup people,” he commented, eyes on the lurching actors.
“You’re an investor, Uncle Pietro?” Marcus asked.
His uncle nodded. “One of several. Having the movie here is a nice boost to the local economy. In fact the other investors are here tonight as well. J. M. Farouche, Francis Renauld, and Nicole and Andrew Saber.” He gave a nod toward the fake zombies. “I have no doubt this performance is partly to reassure us that our money is being well-spent.” Pietro’s mouth twitched in amusement.
White Trash Zombie Apocalypse Page 5
