Hungry for Your Love: An Anthology of Zombie Romance

by Lori Perkins

  No way.

  Pretty as she was, with those turquoise eyes and waves of tawny hair to her shoulders, Julia Brainchild was exactly what I didn’t need on my show.

  “My show isn’t about butter and cream and sauce. We’re about health. Brains are pure protein and no fat. Americans love ‘em.”

  Harold countered, “Julia’s the world’s expert on brains, plus she’s photogenic as hell and will attract new viewers to the show, Dick. Young male viewers, for example.”

  But my ratings were through the roof. “McBrains are bigger than ever, you know that. Teenage boys like McBrains better than pizzas.”

  “I’ve heard your Kentucky Fried Brain is doing well, too,” said Julia Brainchild.

  Was she on my side? Startled, I added, “Then there are my BLTs—brain, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. Pure protein. For God’s sakes, Harold, we’re bigger than any diet since—”

  “South Park?” asked Julia.

  I frowned. “South Beach. And we’re bigger than Atkins ever was, too.”

  She said, “I know you are Brain Burger King, Richard. But it might be fun to”—she batted her eyelashes at me—“to add some zest, some épice, to the American diet.”

  She lifted my spatula—

  my spatula! —

  —and stirred the Fruity Brain Crispees in my pan.

  “Work with her.” Harold’s tone was sharp; he was ordering me, and in his glare was a threat. Julia Brainchild was famous. I was disposable. Any short order cook who worked out in the gym a few hours a day and had a nice face could fill my shoes. I was just Brain Burger King because of Harold.

  I took my spatula back from Julia Brainchild. “We air in a few hours. I’ll be teaching Americans how to make healthy breakfasts and snacks.”

  Her turquoise eyes flared with excitement. “Brain snacks, oh yum!” She licked her lips.

  Julia Brainchild was getting off on the thought of my recipes.

  I could barely contain my surprise. What a thrill! Against my better judgment, my body took charge and I felt myself getting hard, my stomach starting to flip-flop as it did whenever I got aroused.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.

  She worked with me for hours before the show aired. She tasted my Fruity Brain Crispees, gasped with delight; nibbled on my Brainola Bars, declared them to be savoureux, savory. By two o’clock when the crew showed up, we were giggling and trading secrets about Grilled Brain Kebobs (mine), Lobes Benedict (hers), Brain McNuggets (mine), Brains Normandy (hers), and past lovers (ours).

  “In three, two, one…” Jason, one of our crew, gave me the “on the air” signal.

  It was a half-hour show. Live.

  “And now, it’s Chef Dick Ashford and the lovely Miss Julia Brainchild!”

  Julia smiled at the camera as if she’d done this a million times. Then she picked up one of my spare aprons—white cloth, covers everything—and winked at me. “I cover all my special parts,” she said, “so the creams will not spray me.”

  The guys operating the equipment turned red. My brain went on hold. “Today,”

  I managed to say to the cameras and to the diet-crazed American public, “on Brain and Soul, we welcome French art and love to our dishes. You all know Julia Brainchild, and today, she’s going to help us make Honey Roasted Brain n’ Oats. It’s good for the digestion, good for your heart, and it tastes like candy.”

  “Oh, Richard…” Julia smacked her lips. “You are like candy. Isn’t he, dear viewers?”

  “Yes, well, choose a brain, maybe cow or goat—”

  “Or,” said Julia, “quail or ostrich—”

  “Yes, or quail or ostrich, as Julia suggests in her French way. Soak the brain for at least a few hours.”

  “Two point one five hours, to be precise,” said Julia.

  “Yes, that would be good, then roast the brain—“

  “No,

  Dicky

  dear.

  Richard. Braise the brain in a light sauce of lemon and butter, then roast it.”

  And on it went. No matter what I said, Julia interrupted with her French cooking tips. She contradicted everything I said. And all the while, she managed to wriggle her body next to mine, sending shivers through me, and she managed to make me say things like “a fine Beaujolais would go well with this brain” and “sautéed ganglia in bean sauce at your place tonight?”

  By the time the show ended, the technicians were all abuzz: Julia Brainchild was a big hit. Harold rushed in with the news. People were already Twittering about the sexual tension between Dick Ashford and Julia, the fun quips, the dynamite she added to my recipes. Blogs already had thousands of comments. And the part when she whipped off the white apron and pranced around the stove and counter, showing off her legs, that body, those breasts, that face—

  Well, already, stills of her were all over the internet, vids on YouTube. Julia Brainchild was the next Heidi Klum, Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie. Already, requests were hitting Harold for Julia to pose in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

  “You want to get coffee?” I switched on my sexiest grin, beamed my crystal green eyes her way. Most girls couldn’t resist me when I pumped up the charm. I was well over six feet tall, packed with 215 pounds of hard flesh and muscle, and I’d been told my face was what really got me the job as Brain Burger King. How could she resist?

  But she acted coy. Smoothed her hands over the cashmere sweater, making her breasts stand out more. Turned and pretended to putter with the pots and pans on the set, so I could get a better look at her butt in that tight pencil skirt. Leaned over the sink, playing at washing the spatula, just to entice me with the view.

  Then abruptly, she was upright and turning towards me, those turquoise eyes filmed with lust, or so I thought, and those lips parted ever so slightly.

  “You love the brains?” Her voice was low and seductive. She stepped closer.

  One step. Two. Now inches from me, her eyes fixated on mine.

  I bobbed my head. “I do. I do.”

  “Ah, most men do not understand this love for brains.”

  Lots of women want you to tell them you love them for their brains, but with Julia, the meaning was totally different. She pressed her cheek to mine and shuddered as I said that canned thing that all men say at some point in their lives. “I love you for your brains, Julia.”

  She laughed, the citrus scent moving closer, then she whispered in my ear. “Love so soon, Richard? But we’ve only just met.” I didn’t feel her hot breath on my ear, which was strange, but the words alone set me sizzling even more. I was hard and ready to go, and I knew she felt it because the peach skirt and the creamy sweater were right up against me. She was on fire. I was on fire.

  “Petit cerveau,” she said. Then she laughed. “Tete de linotte!”

  Was she complimenting me, remarking on my big hard penis? I didn’t know French, still don’t. So I said, “And you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Julia. Your eyes are stunning, your hair, your lips…” And I moved in for the kill. I grabbed her head with both hands and kissed her, long and hard. Our tongues met, intertwined, licked. She wrapped one long leg around me, shoved me against the stove.

  Her body was in flames, but cold to the touch. I knew she was on fire, knew it, and yet the pearly white skin had the chill of thawed beef.

  I couldn’t convince her to see me that night. She came up with one excuse after another. She had to perfect the Consommé Brunoise. The Brain en Croute took time.

  Brain Bouillabaisse with Rouille required one final step, the fennel seeds and saffron threads.

  I ate dinner alone. A double order of large fries and a thirty-two-ounce super-sized Coffee Mate Deluxe. I watched cartoon re-runs for hours. South Park. Finally fell into a stupor, then a deep sleep around 3 a.m.

  The following afternoon, I was late to the set, but it didn’t really matter. I could make brain dip and chips in my sleep.

  Julia wore a li
ght blue skirt and aquamarine silk blouse. The blouse was semi-transparent. The blue and aquamarine really set off her eyes, which blazed like fine gems. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  “Richard?” She made my name into a caress. “You’re watching me.” Then she was close again, scraping her fingernails down my face and neck.

  A groan rumbled up my throat.

  She tipped my chin up, then passed her tongue across my lips.

  I shouldn’t, she was a seductress, she wanted my job, she was better with brains than me—

  But I couldn’t help myself. My hands were on her waist, my mouth clamped to hers, both of us writhing with desire. All I could think was: I need more, more, more…now, now, now.

  “In three, two, one…”

  We were getting the “on the air” signal.

  We pulled away from each other. Julia’s eyes were wide. She tucked her shirt back into her skirt, straightened, and smiled for the camera.

  I wasn’t wearing my apron.

  I always had my apron on before I went live.

  I was digging beneath the counter for it when I heard:

  “And now, it’s Chef Dick Ashford and the lovely Miss Julia Brainchild!”

  I bet the bloggers are going wild with this, I thought, as I scrambled to get the apron on and appear as if nothing had happened between me and Julia Brainchild right before the viewers saw us.

  We debated diet orange soda versus Perrier water.

  We argued about Brain on the Cob versus Brains Riviera.

  She insisted we make Eiffel Tower of Brain, the ultimate French dessert for special occasions. I refused.

  “Brain food is smart food,” I said. “And smart food is healthy food. A nice brain steak on the grill. No salt, no sauces.”

  We bickered about Brains Monte Carlo, where diners took their chances, not knowing about Julia’s secret of using a mystery brain: camel, fish, or boar, you never knew.

  “All you need is catsup,” I said.

  “All you need is wine,” Julia said. “A Rothschild, an Ott Chateau de Selle, perhaps a Frontignan.”

  And when the show was over, Harold ran in and told us the ratings had soared higher than ever before, that the network wanted to sign us both for another two years of Brain and Soul.

  “Viewers love it!” he cried. “The romance, the tension, the brains! It’s wonderful!”

  But it was no longer about health food and dieting. We were insanely attracted to each other, that was clear. It wouldn’t take much, I decided, to seduce her. Then she would be totally under my spell, and I would rule again, with her on set to follow my commands and make lovely chitchat about French brains without threatening my superior views.

  I would seduce her with the one brain dish that nobody else could possibly make.

  The dish my mother had passed down to me from my ancestors. Something special, something not French that Julia would already know.

  It took two weeks of preparation. In the meantime, we kissed, we groped, we nearly made love right before the shows aired, but always Julia stopped me before I could strip off her clothes and have her. And always, she refused to see me after the show was over.

  I would have Julia Brainchild.

  I bought the brains, two of them: alpaca and llama. I soaked the brains for twenty-four hours. If not prepared correctly, this dish would kill. Pickled raw brain ceviche, a rare delicacy: extremely dangerous like the Fugu puffer fish. You eat bad brain ceviche, you get neurological diseases, go mad, and die. I pickled the ceviche for twelve days to kill all the bacteria. It sat by my bed in a giant crock filled with lemon and lime essences, onion, garlic, minced chillies, and a drop of vinegar. I watched South Park.

  And I waited.

  On air, we flirted, we cooked, we talked brains.

  Finally, when the ceviche was ready, I told her. “Julia, I have a surprise for you, a special dish I’ve been preparing for weeks. Please, you must come tonight and let me treat you with it.”

  She hesitated. Her eyes clouded. “But I can’t, Richard.”

  “Yes, you can, Julia.”

  “What kind of special dish is this?”

  “Brains, Julia.”

  “What kind of brains, Richard?”

  “Alpaca and llama.”

  She gasped. A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Oh, Richard, how did you know?

  That is my favorite.”

  I’d struck gold. Yes. Finally, she would succumb to me. Finally, she would be mine, all mine, and Brain and Soul would be my kingdom again. She would be my queen. I loved her.

  “How is it prepared?” she asked.

  Satin sheets. Bear rug.

  “It is prepared, the special dish, as ceviche,” I said.

  She, who never flushed at all, paled to an even whiter shade than before. She staggered back against the stove, gripped the handle. “Alpaca and llama ceviche?”

  “You know of it? It’s not French,” I said.

  She nodded, swallowing rapidly. “It’s not in The Art of French Brain Cooking. I never speak of it. You’re right, it’s not a French dish.”

  Of course, my Julia would know this rare specialty. She was a world expert in cooking brains, French or otherwise.

  “I will come,” she said.

  And my heart started thumping like crazy, and the blood rushed to my head.

  She.

  Would.

  Be.

  Mine.

  I rushed home, cleaned up the apartment as best as I could, made sure the bed had the black silk sheets, tidied the bear rug at the foot of the bed by the TV. I lifted the lid from the ceviche crock. Took a little taste. Perfect. We would dine here, then make love all night. Perhaps I would propose marriage to her on Brain and Soul. Not tomorrow, though, but soon.

  She arrived at seven, kicked off her heels, and threw her arms around me. I kissed her neck, and she tossed back her head and begged me to nibble further and yet further down. I did. I nibbled down to the buttons on her blouse, opened them, nibbled down, down, slid my fingers under the top of her bra. She smelled like tangerines and limes, like my grandmother. It was odd, but somehow sexy and comforting at the same time. Her skin was cold, as always.

  I carried her into the bedroom, gently set her on the bear rug. “It’s been so long,”

  she said, “since I’ve made love. You will be gentle, won’t you?”

  “Always, my sweetest.”

  I’d rip her clothes to shreds and fuck her till she screamed.

  I fumbled with the remaining buttons, slipped off her shirt. Unzipped the skirt, slid it down. Peeled off the pantyhose.

  My clothes were off in less than five seconds.

  I surveyed her. She was perfection. No blemishes anywhere. Perfect pearly white skin, pink nipples, tawny hair.

  But then she pushed at my chest. She tried to sit up. She grabbed at her clothes.

  “No,” she cried, “I can’t do this, I can’t!”

  “But why?” My erection started to shrink.

  “I…my skin, it’s too fragile. It might flake off.”

  Say,

  what?

  That had to be the lamest excuse I’d ever heard from a girl. “I’ll be gentle, I swear,” I said.

  “No!” She was crying, backing away from me, her butt moving across the bear rug. Scrabbling to dress herself.

  For God’s sakes.

  I’d give her the ceviche. That would do it.

  I gave her my bathrobe, then wrapped myself in a towel. I calmed her down. She cried on my shoulder, telling me she’d not let a man this close to her in many years.

  “How many years?” I asked.

  Flustered, she said, “I don’t know. Maybe sixty.”

  I laughed. She was so adorable. Sixty years. Yeah, right. “You’re like, twenty-five years old, Julia.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Uh-huh. I meant, sixty months.”

  I didn’t believe that, either.

  But whatever, she would be mine, that was tha
t. I would fuck her all night, she would be queen to the Brain Burger King, and Harold could make some big PR

  announcement about our engagement. Not tomorrow, but soon.

  I opened the crock, showed her the ceviche. She nearly fainted from joy. “My mother’s friend taught me how to make this when I was a little girl,” she said. “She was Peruvian, but we were all very poor, so my mother and her friend had to substitute rabbit brain for the alpaca and llama brains. Rabbits were easy to come by in the French countryside, you see.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve actually had this dish—in any form, actually. It’s a family secret. I never make it. And I don’t know anybody who’s ever had it.”

  Julia Brainchild was obviously perfect for me. Here was a beautiful woman, sexually intoxicating, untouched by any man for years, twenty-five years old, the world’s expert on brain cooking, and she knew of the alpaca and llama ceviche!

  I drank in the aroma of the ceviche: citrus and spices. I admired the perfect little wedges of brain that I’d diced for hours and hours.

  We cuddled on the bed, pillows behind our backs. Her robe fell open. She didn’t notice. My towel unwrapped. She didn’t notice.

  I held a spoon of ceviche to her lips.

  She flicked her tongue. It dipped into the ceviche. “Ahhh…” A long sigh. She grabbed the spoon and stuck it in her mouth, chewed for what seemed like minutes, then swallowed.

  “More!”

  she

  cried.

  I scooped a bunch of ceviche into a bowl, gave it to her with the spoon. With her robe fully open now, her breasts bobbing as she gulped, she swallowed chunk after chunk of my special family ceviche.

  And finally, a slight bluish flush rose to her cheeks. She handed the bowl and spoon back to me. Tugged the robe around her body to hide everything again.

  “You have Peruvian ancestors?” she asked.

  “No.” I explained that “my mother was American, but my grandfather, Julian LeBlanc, originally came from France, or so I was told. I have no Peruvian ancestors that I know of.”

  “LeBlanc?” She leapt off the bed, pointed a finger at me as if accusing me of something.

  “Well, yeah…so, what of it?” I hopped off the bed, grabbed her by the waist, and pressed her to me. I stared into her eyes.