How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

  The sincerity in his voice actually startled me. He wasn’t simply saying that to be nice. He meant it and, damn it, I meant it as well. I would totally have his back. “Really?” I asked, to be sure.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.” I let my thoughts circle a bit before I spoke again. “You were a lot braver than me.”

  “About what?”

  “About wanting to leave. I didn’t do anything directly, but I started doing more and more stupid and destructive shit. You kept on going, until it was time.”

  “It has nothing to do with being brave,” he said, turning his head to look at me. “You and I, we’re not so different. I said yes to one of the most dangerous careers out there. Thing is, I’m honest with what I do. It’s not in me to screw up just to buy an easy ticket out, and I’m good at my job. So, here I am.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I’ve had the chance to know you.”

  He didn’t expect me to say that. A bit of the warmth returned to his eyes and to the room.

  “Did you learn anything when you checked out Saberton?” I asked to fill the silence.

  “Nothing useful other than the entrances. Front door. Underground parking with van loading dock and service entrance. Elevator and stairs to the garage.”

  “What, they don’t have a big flashing sign saying ‘Zombies R here’?”

  Kyle gave a rare, dry laugh. “Sadly, no. I’m disappointed in how unhelpful they were.”

  I smiled a bit more. “I’m going to check on Philip and grab some Zs.”

  “Sleep well, Angel.”

  Chapter 18

  I woke with an arm around me and a warm body against my back. Comfy, I thought with a sleepy smile, and instinctively snuggled back. The warm body behind me murmured something in a low sleep-filled voice, then pulled me closer.

  That’s not Marcus. The realization shot me straight to eyes-wide-open awake. Hotel room, daylight filtering through curtains, faint aroma of coffee. Philip asleep and cuddled up against me. He wasn’t cupping a boob or anything, but damn.

  Moving slowly, I began to squirm my way out from beneath his arm—not easy since his arm was big and strong and heavy and wrapped pretty much all the way around me.

  Crap. “Philip?” I said softly.

  “Hmmf?” He shifted and began to tug me close again, then apparently woke enough to realize what he was doing. “Oh. Sorry.” He pulled his arm away, gave me a sleepy smile, and rolled over.

  I scooched off the bed, amused at both of us—me for expecting the cuddling to turn into a flood of awkward embarrassment, and him for being so utterly matter-of-fact about it. So matter-of-fact that he was already asleep again. He looked a bit better, I decided. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  After tugging on one of the fluffy bathrobes hanging in the closet, I headed out to the main room, delighted to find coffee ready, along with an assortment of bagel sandwiches. Naomi and Kyle were out on the terrace and, after getting coffee and a bagel, I joined them for a pleasant half hour of meaningless conversation and people watching. On the street below two joggers went by with long, matching strides. A flock of pigeons took to the air as they passed, then settled again. A shabby man shuffled in the other direction, dog on a rope leash walking beside him. On the corner, a woman sold candied nuts from a cart to a couple of teens. They walked off, sharing the nuts, their conversation punctuated by cheerful animated gestures.

  After I finished my bagel I returned inside to shower, but the sight of the widening yucky rot patch along my ribs threatened to kill my good mood. My cheery attitude took another hard hit when I went to dry off and managed to scrape a layer of flesh off the patch with the towel. Dismayed, I stared at my reflection and the ugly nasty blotches along my left side. The rot on my ribs was the largest, but the patch on my thigh was gaining ground.

  One thing at a time, I told myself after I finished some intensive deep breathing therapy in the form of screaming into a towel pressed to my face. One thing at a time. We would find Pietro and Dr. Nikas and get all this taken care of, but there was a lot of other shit to deal with along the way.

  I took another moment to compose myself, then dressed and returned to the bedroom. Philip was awake and out of bed to claim the bathroom, and if he’d heard my towel-screaming he didn’t say a word about it. Then again, he had plenty of reason to do his own screaming, with or without a towel.

  After refilling my coffee, I settled in to work on figuring out how the hell to contact Jane on a Saturday when my list of contacts was sitting on my phone in a box at—I hoped—the St. Edwards Parish Coroner’s Office.

  It took about half an hour to even get hold of a human, and another ten minutes to find someone willing to take my “I’m a friend of Congresswoman Pennington. No, really I am!” even vaguely seriously. At long last the woman grudgingly agreed to take my number and let the congresswoman know I needed to speak to her. I expected an absolutely endless wait for the message to get through and for her to call back, but to my delighted relief my phone buzzed only a few minutes later.

  I snatched it up. “Jane?!”

  “Angel? Is everything all right?”

  “Oh my god, I’m so glad you called back. Look, this is going to sound kind of crazy, but I need to know if you’re still going to the Child Find League event tomorrow evening.”

  “It’s been on my schedule for months,” she replied. “It’s the main reason I’m in New York.”

  “I need you to not go.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, clearly taken aback. “Why on earth not?”

  “Well, I think something bad might happen,” I said, completely aware of how batshit crazy that sounded, especially coming from me and not from some super duper security specialist. I groaned. “Shit, I know this doesn’t makes any sense. I can’t really say more right now, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “Hurt? Me?” she said, alarm in her voice. “Why? Angel, you have to tell me what’s going on. Who told you this?”

  “Oh, god, it’s so complicated.” Crap! The stuff about getting hurt was totally NOT in my practiced speech. Clearly, I needed to scratch Become President of the United States off my bucket list. I gave Naomi a desperate look, but she simply rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in defeat. “Just . . . please, Jane, don’t go to that party. Trust me. Please.”

  I heard her take a deep breath. “Angel, I do trust you, and I know that your intentions are good. I simply don’t understand.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. Damn it, I was fucking this up big time. “But I really can’t explain it over the phone.” The whole situation sucked, but telling her the truth was out of the question. Hi, Jane, Pietro’s missing, but no, we can’t tell the police, and by the way, you’re probably in danger too. That would generate one hell of an impressive shitstorm.

  “I can sense this is very important to you,” she said, and I had the feeling she was laying down some standard Congresswoman-to-constituent patter. I couldn’t blame her. I’d be resorting to some patter as well, if I had it. “I’ll see what I can do about excusing myself from the event,” she continued, carefully not promising anything, I noted.

  “Thanks,” I said. It was better than nothing, right? “I promise I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I can.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked, concern still thick in her voice. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “No! I mean, um, no, I’m totally okay.” No more than the usual sort of Angel-trouble.

  “I confess, you have me worried,” she said. “Is Marcus with you?”

  Damn it. It took me a second to get past the pang. “No. He’s looking for apartments in New Orleans.” I paused. “He got accepted to Loyola law school.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she cried. “Pietro must be so pleased. I know he’s encouraged Marcus to
apply for quite some time.”

  The ache rose higher. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Pietro.” I stepped away from Naomi and out onto the terrace, pretending it was to look out at the view. “Marcus and I . . . we broke up.”

  “Oh, no! What happened?” She was all girlfriend now and not congresswoman.

  “Jane, I didn’t even know he was applying to law school,” I said, voice rough and eyes on the pigeons. “Then, out of the blue, he says, ‘Hey, we’re moving to New Orleans!’”

  She sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped a stupid tear away with the palm of my hand. She understood, or at least it felt that way to me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump on you.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” she said, then, “Hold on.” I heard her cover the receiver, and then some muffled talking. “Angel, I’m sorry but I need to go.”

  “That’s all right. Thanks for calling me back. Please be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in Louisiana next week. Maybe we can have coffee.”

  I smiled weakly. “That’d be great. Thanks. You take care.”

  We made our goodbyes. I lowered the phone and leaned on the rail. On the street below I watched a bicycle with a flashing light as it weaved recklessly through traffic, and heard the horn of a taxi as the cyclist cut in front of it. Distant sirens blended with the low thump of music from a passing car. On the sidewalk, a well-dressed couple in long coats walked arm in arm, heads bent toward each other in smiling conversation and carefully avoiding eye contact with a panhandler.

  “Damn it, Angel.”

  Startled, I turned to see Naomi standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest. “You should have told me about Marcus,” she said, annoyance in her tone, but worry and hurt in her eyes.

  I slumped. “Sorry. There really hasn’t been a good time to tell you. I didn’t want to do a ‘I need to pee. Can we take the next exit? Oh, and I broke up with my boyfriend.’”

  “Well, crap,” she sighed. “What the hell was he thinking springing a move to New Orleans on you?”

  “He wanted to surprise me, I guess.” I moved inside to the couch and flopped down. “Apparently he didn’t figure I had all that much tying me down in St. Edwards Parish.”

  She flopped beside me. Had to admit, it was a nicely floppable couch. “I want all of the details, every single one of them,” she stated firmly. “But first, what did Jane say?”

  I filled her in on everything I could remember, along with the frustrating sense that she was going to attend the function anyway.

  “It was the best you could do,” Naomi said, but she obviously shared my frustration.

  “What the hell do we do now?” I raked a hand through my hair. “I think she’s still going to go, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  Naomi abruptly stood, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. “Yes, there is.” She stepped back and swept a gaze over me. “We find you a dress.”

  Chapter 19

  “I look like a kid playing dress-up,” I said, regarding with uncertainty my reflection in the long mirror in our suite. I couldn’t deny that Naomi had great taste and knew fashion. Growing up a Saber would do that, and as irked as I’d been earlier about her warped view of money and income, I had to admit it was damn convenient that she had plenty of money stashed away, and that dropping a godawful amount on dress, shoes, and accessories was barely a blink of an eye for her.

  But actually wearing a dress that cost what I made in a month felt weird as all hell.

  “No, you don’t,” she replied absently as she gave me an appraising look. “It’ll look better once I get your hair and makeup done.” She frowned. “Put the shoes on,” she ordered.

  Sighing, I obeyed. The entire day had been a lot like this. After her We find you a dress announcement, Naomi had hauled me up and down the length of Manhattan to try on what seemed like every dress and shoe in the city. It had been fun for the first couple of stores, but after the seventh or eighth it all became a blur of silk and taxis and snooty clerks. Not to mention, Naomi refused to let me dawdle and gawk at anything, except for one brief stop to watch a group of teen boys doing some insanely cool gymnastic dance moves—and the only reason she let me stop for that was because I plopped my butt on the ground like a three-year-old having a tantrum and told her if she wanted me to move she’d have to carry me.

  Meanwhile, Philip and Kyle were off doing recon. At least that’s the story they gave Naomi. I envied them, especially since I had a dark suspicion part of their “recon” involved a sports bar.

  That said, Naomi had redeemed herself with the last stop before we returned to the hotel: a sleek and fancy salon where smiling women trimmed and buffed and polished my fingers and toes, and a slender man with spiky black hair and a thick and fake French accent adjusted the color of my hair to pale blond instead of over-bleached and trimmed it into something other than a scraggly mess. At one point I thought the outing would end in bloody violence as Naomi fended off Mr. Fake French’s attempts to style my hair, insisting she’d do it herself later. Fortunately the man seemed to realize it wasn’t a battle he could possibly win.

  However, it was the dress Naomi finally decided on that redeemed her the most. “You have to look as if you belong there,” she’d stated, and with this dress I totally would. Dark blue with three-quarter sleeves to cover my rot patch, it had a V-neckline and fitted bodice that skimmed down my hips to flare out into a floor-length skirt—wide enough to walk in easily without being so much fabric it would get in my way. But my favorite and the most awesomest feature of the dress were the billion sheer fabric petals and tiny sparkly beads sewn all over the skirt.

  With the shoes on—pretty and glittery peep-toe pumps—I stepped in front of the dressing room mirror and examined my reflection again. The heels on the shoes weren’t skyscraper-high like some of the ridiculous things I’d seen women shove their feet into, but even a modest three inches was more than I was used to.

  “I’m sorry,” Naomi said when I whined about the height, and it sounded as if she really meant it. “Any lower and the dress will drag on the floor, and there isn’t time to get the hem altered. Now, take all that off, put the bathrobe on, and sit.”

  “Don’t mind me,” I said as I carefully hung the dress up. “I’m a little nervous.” A lot nervous. Talk about being out of my depth. This was a five-thousand dollar a plate event. A year ago I lived in a house with a driveway paved in crushed beer cans.

  She moved behind me after I sat, gave my reflection a smile and started doing stuff with my hair. “I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make you look utterly awesome while blending in.”

  “But how am I supposed to get inside in the first place?” I asked, watching her as she smeared gunk into my hair and proceeded to twist and comb and pin and do all sorts of weird shit.

  “Kyle and I will take care of that,” she said with such absolute confidence in her voice that I didn’t dare question further. She smiled to herself as she shifted in front of me and continued to Do Stuff to my hair. Finally she stepped back to let me see the result.

  “How the hell did you do that?” I blurted. It was amazing. Somehow she’d worked my hair into awesome little finger waves, giving it a terrific twenties vibe but totally elegant. I started to lift my hand up to my hair then yelped as she smacked my fingers.

  “Don’t touch it,” she ordered. “I haven’t sprayed it yet. Close your eyes.” Once I did, she proceeded to lay down what I thought would surely be a few inches of shellac, and was pleasantly surprised to find my hair not at all crunchy. “Keep your eyes closed,” she said once she finished spraying. “I’m going to do your makeup. And stop squinching your eyes!”

  Sighing, I did my best to relax my face while she glooped and smeared and painted and who the hell else knew what. But
once, again, when she allowed me to see my reflection, I could only stare in astonishment.

  “I look . . .”

  “You look amazing,” Philip put in, smiling from the doorway.

  I blushed. “Well, I was going to say I don’t look anything like myself, which is a good thing. But yeah, I look amazing too.” I smiled at Naomi. “Thanks, babe.”

  Naomi preened as she put away the makeup and hair stuff. “I had to do enough socialite bullshit growing up that I developed a few skills besides asskickery.” She unzipped the garment bag that hung behind the door. “And now for the rest.”

  It only took a few minutes to get me into the dress, but it was almost half an hour before I could walk comfortably and confidently in the dress-and-heels combo without looking as if I was, indeed, a kid playing dress up. At long last, Naomi seemed satisfied with my appearance, demeanor, and my overall attitude. She handed me a little purse that contained my phone and the usual crap women carried in little purses like this.

  “The car is waiting downstairs,” she told me. “It’ll take you right to the Norrington Plaza Hotel, but you need to stop outside as if you’re waiting for someone. We’ll be less than a block away and will bring you an invitation to get inside.”

  I clutched the purse and allowed myself to be bundled into the sleek black sedan. Once there I remembered to let the driver open the door and help me out, then couldn’t help but gawk a bit. The hotel dominated the corner, marble and glass, and dizzyingly tall when I craned my neck to look up. On the main street, beautifully dressed people exited vehicles and flowed toward the doors, or paused in clumps of three or four to talk and laugh. I casually wandered toward the small sidestreet that ran beside the hotel and did my “looking for my date” act. A Road Closed barricade stood at the entrance to the sidestreet, and a battered sawhorse and orange plastic fencing marked a night-quiet worksite about a half a block down. A chilly breeze funneled down the street, and I pulled my beaded angora wrap close, glad Naomi had pressed it into my hands at the last minute.