My Undead Heart

by Kacey Shea

  “Careful. He’s strong,” I caution as the other cop comes around to assist his partner in cuffing the man. I step back and out of the way as they maneuver him into the back of the squad car. A second police vehicle pulls up to the curb and a woman officer steps from the passenger side as soon as it rolls to stop.

  “You boys need help?” she asks, her gaze drifting over my frame for a quick assessment before meeting her colleagues.

  “If you’re offering. Yeah.” The cop who cuffed our drunk nods to me. “Any chance you can show her to the others involved in this altercation.”

  “Of course.” I wait for her to reach me and walk toward the door.

  “Did you see what went down or just break it up?” she asks.

  I point over my shoulder. “All I saw was that guy flinging some serious hate speech before he and another guy started pushing each other. There was a girl, too. I grabbed him but she took a shoulder to the head pretty hard.”

  “You think you could pick the guy and girl out of the crowd?” She points at the club doors.

  My smile widens when I consider how I’ll be showing her to the zombies inside. “Oh, that won’t be a problem.” Cops working the beat in this area have probably seen a lot, but my guess is she’s not expecting the undead. Hand on the door, I pull it wide and hold it open for her to step inside first. The zombie girl sits on Tana’s chair while her blue haired friend stands beside her and presses a bag of ice against her forehead.

  “Let me guess. It’s these two,” the cop deadpans, no surprise or humor in her tone.

  “Ding, ding, ding.” I smile.

  “Sir. Ma’am. Do you mind stepping outside to answer a few questions?”

  Zombie girl’s gaze snaps up at the cop’s words and she pushes off the chair. “Not at all, officer. And I’m pressing charges.”

  “Of course you are,” the cop says, as bored as before. She turns to hold the door open for the two to walk out first. “Don’t go too far,” she advises me. “We may need to ask you a few follow-up questions.”

  “I’m here all night.” I nod at Tana and she offers me a soft smile. When the doors shut, I do a quick scan of the bar, thankful the crowd seems happily intoxicated for the moment, dancing and singing along to the band on stage.

  “That was fun.” I wink at Tana and she just shakes her head.

  “Welcome to Friday nights. My bet? You’ll get to do that at least three more times before we lock the doors.”

  I shake my head as soon as the words leave her lips. “I don’t take bets. Sorry.”

  She shrugs. “I’m just glad you’re here to do the dirty work. You handle yourself well, Matt.”

  “Thanks.” Tana’s gaze lingers a little too long on my chest, and for the first time tonight I worry I’ve inadvertently sent her the wrong signals. Don’t get me wrong, she’s cute and nice, but I’m not looking for a hookup. Especially when the zombie beauty whose captured my thoughts is just outside.

  Concern that she might leave before I make sure she’s okay has my feet stepping away from Tana and toward the door. “I’m gonna check and see if I can leave a statement now. Come get me if you need me!” I call over the music and push outside, the air here colder than I remember it from moments ago.

  Zombie girl leans against the exterior wall a few feet from me, her foot tapping against the pavement as the female officer leaves the group gathered by the cars and heads over.

  The cop glances at me but pays no further attention as her stare narrows on zombie girl. “So, from your point of view, how did everything unfold?”

  “That asshole wouldn’t let me or my friend get to the bar. He called Jared names, the homophobic prick.”

  “He started the altercation with name calling. Then what?”

  “We were going to walk away but then he grabbed my ass.” Her voice lowers but she tips her head up in defiance. “Underneath my skirt. That’s when my friend told him to keep his hands to himself.”

  “Do you want to press charges?”

  “I at least want it in the report. I don’t have the time or energy to take all the handsy fuckers in this city to court.”

  “A little advice. Woman to woman.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t leave the house dressed like that to go drink at the bar. It’s not worth the attention.” The cop turns and struts away.

  Wow. I shake my head and turn to zombie girl. “You okay?”

  “No, I’m really not.” Her brow furrows and I try to get a look at where she took a hit to her head, but there’s too much makeup to tell if it’s swollen at all. Her eyes harden and her voice rises. “I can’t believe she said that to me. Don’t dress like a slut. That’s her advice? Jesus. That’s so fucked up.”

  “I don’t know if she meant it like that exactly. Your head’s okay, though? You don’t want to go to the hospital and check it out?”

  “I’m fine.” Her shoulders shove back and her chin lifts, those scowling, feisty eyes train on me. “Just so you know, I didn’t dress like this and come out of my apartment to look for a man.”

  “I never said—”

  “Real men ask before they put their hands on a woman. Always.”

  “That’s not what I—” I start again but she throws up one hand.

  “Save it. I don’t need a lecture from some meathead who works the door. You know, it’s men like you who only foster the normalization of rape culture in our male-dominated society.”

  My brows rise with every insult she slings my way. I don’t know her story because we haven’t had a real conversation, but it grates on my ego that she’s gonna stand there and judge me after everything that went down tonight. She knows nothing about me or my life. The scoff leaves my lips along with my disbelief. “Oh, you’re one of those . . .”

  She pushes off the wall to take a step closer. Even with her ridiculously high heeled boots, the top of her head doesn’t reach my shoulder. She tilts her chin further to maintain her glare. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You presume to know me? Fine. But don’t assume I think the same as that cop. Dress however you want. I can tell you didn’t do it to get the attention of a man because you’ve been giving me the brushoff all day. But I know your type. You probably spend most of your life more emotionally satisfied from the characters in a book or movie than you do real life. That’s what all this is, right? Playing dress up. Being someone other than yourself for a few hours. How am I doing so far?”

  Her jaw locks and her lips pull with a terrifying smile. I’ve only seen a look like that from one other woman before. My mother. When I was a child and really fucked something up. Right before I was about to be punished. “Ah, I see. And you’re one of those . . .” She goads me on, daring me to interrupt but there’s no way in hell I’m playing into her hand.

  Instead, I lift my brow and shrug with a bored challenge that says I don’t really care if she continues talking. I can already tell my indifference irritates the hell out of her and I don’t back down even when she opens her mouth again.

  “Boring adults with no imagination. You probably spend your free time doing super important tasks, like paying bills, exercising, and preparing food. Wait! I do those things, too. You’re probably looking for a “real” girl. One who takes lots of side boob selfies to show off her fitness progress and inspire others. I actually feel sorry for you. I have fun with life. You probably don’t. I bet your lackluster performance in the bedroom disappoints as much as your conversation does.”

  “Whoa!” Damn it. This chick has a mouth on her, and I don’t mean that in a complimentary way. As much as I don’t want to be, I’m already sucked into this argument, and my next words leave in a growl. “Don’t for one fucking second think you know anything about me, little girl.”

  She quirks one eyebrow, a know-it-all smile graces her lips, and she leans back against the wall. “Not so fun to be looped in with stereotypes, is it?” A giggle escapes her lips. Played. That’s exactly how I
feel. She’s a piece of work. Complicated. Maybe a little freaky, too. I’m intrigued, but I should walk away. I have no business starting anything with anyone right now. I can’t even make rent, let alone handle a woman like this. But still . . .

  “Hey, you ready?” Her friend from earlier walks over to join us as the two police cars pull away from the curb.

  “Yeah.” she says to him before pinning me with those gorgeous spitfire eyes. “This was educational, but I’m going now.” She gives her friend the side eye and I can’t help but notice the way he’s blatantly checking me out. I’m not exactly sure how that makes me feel other than a little objectified and uncomfortable.

  I mash my lips together and force myself to return her smile. “By all means.”

  “I’d say I hope we bump into each other again, but my mother raised me not to lie.” She blinks and tilts her head sweetly. Her friend laughs and mutters something under his breath.

  Even though I shouldn’t; even though she’s nothing but trouble, I can’t help but ask, “What’s your name?”

  “It’s zombie girl to you, meathead.” Her smile only grows wider.

  “Nice.” I roll my eyes. “Well, if you ever decide to break down your own biased stereotypes, I’ll be happy to enlighten you.”

  “How generous.” She shakes her head.

  “I like to give back,” I quip and it’s only for a split second, but I don’t miss how her breath catches at my words and the innuendo they hold.

  “Fuck me,” her friend swears and grabs her by the hand. “Come on, Kitten. Let’s get you tucked into bed.” He meets my stare without any teasing or cheekiness this time. “Thanks for the save tonight, muscle man. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s Matt. And you’re welcome. Need me to call a ride?”

  “Nah, we’re taking the train home.”

  “Be safe.” It bothers me that these two are walking back so late. Both intoxicated, well, at least she is, and without any form of defense. “I’m serious. Stay aware of your surroundings.” I reach into my back pocket and produce one of my business cards for the gym. I’m sure she’ll never call, for business or pleasure, but the need to protect her propels me to force the glossy card into her hand.

  “What are you, my mother?” She rolls her eyes and examines the card in the dim lighting.

  “A mixed martial arts instructor, actually. If you have any more problems with that guy, or want to learn how to protect yourself, give me a call.” She shakes her head at my concern and shoves the card into her handbag.

  “It’s all good. I know karate!” her friend says and performs some weird infusion of hip hop dance meets The Karate Kid. She giggles and grabs his hand, pulling him with her to stagger away.

  It’s stupid that I want to follow. At least to see them to the train. Their safety is not my responsibility and I need to get back inside.

  Yet I stand there in a battle between my feet and my mind while I watch her ass sway further away until she turns the corner and disappears into the night. It’s as though I’ve been possessed, or bitten and turned into a lust sick fool. Like the zombie she is. Or is that a vampire? Damn it, I can’t even remember. I was never a fan of folklore or fantasy. Regardless, that sexy zombie has my heart pumping blood throughout my body in overdrive. It’s been far too long since I’ve felt the desire to pursue a woman. Too bad she walked away. Bad timing, anyway.

  Music on, world off. My earbuds mask the idle Monday morning chatter while I dive into work. I arrive at my desk early for two reasons today. One is to play catch up on everything I missed Friday; but two, and more important, I don’t want to deal with the grand inquisition from Jared. Hoping he’ll ignore me and sit at his own desk when he arrives in a few minutes is a long shot, but my heart of stone should deflect his chit chat. Or at the bare minimum, he’ll have the decency to let me lick my wounds alone.

  Because if Friday’s fail wasn’t bad enough, reliving it aloud to all my co-workers is bound to be epically worse. If it weren’t for the looming deadline of Project X, I’d have called in sick today and continued hiding out in my apartment.

  Oh right, and there’s that. I can no longer will myself to leave my apartment alone.

  I’m an independent woman in the twenty-first century who’s lived on my own for the past ten years. I take myself out to brunch at least once a month and use public transit to get around the city on a daily basis. But since Friday’s run in, I’m suddenly crippled by all these what if’s. I hate feeling so helpless, but I can’t stop replaying how it felt when that drunk douchebag from the bar put his hand on my ass. Crazy as it sounds, I didn’t go outside my apartment the entire weekend.

  Part of that was due to a massive hangover and an overall need to hide after watching Rae and Violet’s Instagram posts chronicling their fun both on and off set with a group of TWD actors. I wasn’t ready to face anyone, and I couldn’t get over how a stranger had no qualms about touching me, aggressively and sexually, in a public place where I should have been safe.

  The entire experience has me re-evaluating the false pretense of security I’ve built in my psyche, and in its place I’m left with an irrational fear of being out on my own. Thank God for my neighbor, Dave. This morning I perched just inside my door and stared out my peephole until he stepped out of his apartment across the hall. I quickly followed so I could ride the elevator with someone I knew. So I’d feel safe.

  Once I made it outside into the morning rush of fellow commuters and my daily routine, the fear faded to a level of anxiety I could deal with. Even now sitting at my desk, Rage Against the Machine screams into my ears as my fingers fly across the keyboard. The tempo fuels the anger building inside and justifies my sudden feelings of weakness and insecurity. My fingertips beat down against the keys to match the aggression in the music. Maybe I should switch my playlist to something soothing, maybe country or a classical symphony so I don’t snap at my co-workers in our staff meeting later. Before I can change the music, my headphones are yanked off my ears and I jump in my chair with surprise.

  Jared’s smiling lips mash together. “Morning, sunshine.” He holds my headphones as he leans against my desk.

  I narrow my gaze and snag them back. “Fuck off, Jared.”

  “Hey, don’t be like that. Where were you all weekend? I called and swung by, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Nursing my hangover from hell. You should get to work.” I glance down at my phone. “You’re seven minutes late. I need you to look at the changes proposed for level seven—”

  “So, sulking then?” He cuts me off as I stick one of the buds in my left ear.

  “No.” I bristle with the accurate accusation.

  “Mmm hmm.” His lips pull up with the threat of a smile, but I’m not in the mood to play nice.

  I tilt my gaze away from my friend and back to the computer screen. “You don’t know me,” I grumble but the words taste bitter and all too reminiscent of what the hot bouncer said to me Friday night.

  “You okay, Mia? For real?” He reaches out to place a hand on my arm and I finally lift my gaze. His worried frown etches lines into his otherwise perfect brow. He’s only concerned and I’m being a jerk. I can’t help pushing when feelings are concerned though, and my stare goes back to my work.

  “I’m okay.” But I’m not.

  Even now the code on the screen before me blurs with the racing of my pulse, and my vision spots the way it does every time I remember Friday night. Deep breath in, slow breath out. I don’t chance a look to my right. I can feel Jared’s stare. Calculating and assessing to make sure I truly mean what I say. After a few minutes he must agree or relent because within my peripheral sight I notice him leave and drop down behind his cubical wall.

  Shaking my head to clear the distractions, I get back to what I can control. Immersing myself in work for the next few hours, I don’t pay attention to my co-workers around me. The challenge and pace of my work settles the chaos of my brain. I can’t worry. Or obsess. Or o
verthink my fears. I only work, and it’s far better than any therapy money can buy. I’d guess, anyway.

  A throat clears behind me and I practically jump in my chair. “What the hell!”

  “I’m sorry about what happened Friday,” Jared says as I spin in my chair to meet his stare.

  “God, don’t apologize for that man.”

  “I mean everything. It was all wrong. And nothing good happens when you mix Jack Daniel’s after ten o’clock.”

  “Is that so?”

  “True story. Here.” He holds out his peace offering, a cup of steaming coffee.

  Bringing the paper mug to my lips, I inhale the heavenly aroma before taking a sip. Jared is my ride or die. He gets me, always. Knows what I need—whether it’s a good laugh, a come to Jesus talk, or simply a cup of overpriced coffee. Just the way I like it, heavy on the sugar and cream.

  “Hey, we’re still on for this weekend?”

  The Walking Dead marathon party. Something we’ve been looking forward to since last year’s. An all-day event hosted by my favorite comic book store in a bar next door. We gather with other Walkers, dressed in character of course, to re-watch last season in anticipation of the next one starting. Only the anxiety in my gut crawls with the thought of repeating so many of the same actions from this past weekend. Cosplay. Riding the train downtown. Hanging out in a crowded bar. Handsy assholes without respect for women or homosexuals. I don’t cower from challenge, but the prospect makes me queasy.

  “Mia?”

  “Sorry. Yeah. Of course. Sure.”

  “What’s with you?”

  Exhaling the air in my lungs, I shake my head and decide to suck it up and be truthful. This is Jared, after all. “Don’t you feel . . . I don’t know.” My gaze finds his and I chicken out. “Never mind.”

  His lips pinch together and he raises one eyebrow. “What?”

  “Violated?”

  He shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. “After what that jerk said? No. But I’m pissed as hell he put his hands on you.”