Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues (White Trash Zombie 2)

“Are you ever mad at me for doing what I did?” he asked, breaking the silence. “I mean, turning you into a zombie.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Hon’, I’d be dead, remember?”

“I know, but—”

“Stop it,” I said, cutting him off. “No, I’m not mad. It’s never even occurred to me to be mad. It’s not just that I’d be dead, but look at me—I have a job, and I’m not a complete fucking loser anymore.”

“You were never a loser,” he said.

I let out a rude snort. “Now you’re just spewing bullshit. Trust me, I was. I’d given up and didn’t give a shit.”

“You’re not one anymore,” he said.

“I damn well try at least.” And that really was the biggest change, I realized. I cared about my “loserness” and did what I could to fix it. Some things could never be fixed, though, only lived down. I was a convicted felon, my dad was an alcoholic, and my mom had gone to prison for child abuse and then committed suicide while incarcerated. Don’t give a shit had been my mantra for the last several years, which I’d pulled off by neglecting and abusing myself far more than my mother ever had. I couldn’t go back to that uncaring attitude now. Not and survive. Maybe that was why that article stung so badly. I did give a shit, and it pissed me off that anyone might still think I didn’t.

I snuck a glance at Marcus. He had a lazy smile on his face as he drove, clearly in a good mood. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about the damn article now. Let’s get through this party thing, I told myself. An hour or so of making nice, and then I could get back to what passed for normal in my life.

I had the first inkling I might be in over my head when Marcus made a turn in to a subdivision and had to stop at the guard gate to show his ID. A short ways past the gate I got a good look at the type of houses in here. Nothing less than two stories, and all big enough for my dinky house to fit into them half a dozen times over. Pristine yards, expensive cars, and the occasional jogger wearing an outfit that cost more than my car. I knew that Pietro Ivanov was, as Marcus put it, “filthy stinking rich,” but I was only now beginning to realize what that meant.

After a few turns we pulled up to a three story—well, “mansion” was really the only word that worked. Pale grey brick, three stories, columns in the front, exquisite landscaping including trees near the front door that were shaped into spirals. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was that this was clearly not going to be “just a few people.” The broad circular driveway was already packed with cars, and the street had at least a dozen more lined up along it.

I gave Marcus a panicked look. “I thought I was just meeting your uncle and a couple of others?”

He winced. “I guess my uncle invited some more people over.”

“Some?” I cast a frantic gaze over the ten or so cars in the driveway alone.

He gave me a sheepish smile. “He did say it was a cookout. And he likes to have a big crowd.” He paused as he scanned the line of cars. “Looks like he invited my folks over as well. There’ll probably be a number of associates and family friends…” He trailed off at the aghast expression on my face.

I stared at him. “Did you know this was a possibility?” He didn’t have to reply; the guilty expression on his face told me everything. “You knew. And you didn’t warn me? Marcus, how could you do this to me?”

“Angel, relax. I knew you’d get nervous if I told you that you might be meeting my whole extended family—”

“For good reason!” I wailed. I looked down at what I was wearing. I’d dithered for over half an hour on my clothes and had ended up with my nicest pair of jeans, a plain black sweater, and black boots. But the jeans were pretty low cut, and the sweater was a bit tight on me. Fine for meeting a zombie uncle, but…parents? I could lie to myself and say that I looked fashionable, but I was fairly certain I looked more skanky than vogue. I flipped the visor down to quickly peer at my reflection. Being well fed on brains was making my hair grow like crazy, which meant I had about half an inch of dark roots at the base of my bleached blond hair. Which made no sense to me at all. How could my hair grow if I was dead? I scowled as I swiped at my eye makeup in a doomed effort to make it look less whore-ish.

“Angel, you look great. Please stop worrying.”

I gave up on my makeup and settled for wiping away smudges. “Yeah, whatever,” I muttered, unable to hide my anger and hurt. “I guess I’m pretty much screwed now anyway.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head and closed it. I started to get out of the truck but he reached out and caught my arm in a gentle grip. “I’m sorry.”

I responded with a sour glare. He sighed and released me, but I didn’t make another move to get out.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I was trying to protect you…keep you from getting uptight—”

“Uptight?”

He winced and lifted his hands in surrender. “Wrong word. Um, nervous, ill at ease.” He groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, Angel. I guess I was hoping that if I could avoid telling you about my parents maybe being here, that by the time we got here and you saw them you wouldn’t have time to get upset.” He exhaled. “It was a dumb, dumb plan. I’m sorry. Will you please go in with me?”

A weird feeling of betrayal swam through me, and I had to fight for several seconds to get past it. “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?” I finally said. “I don’t like surprises, let alone being blindsided.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

He looked so damn forlorn and upset that I had to sigh. “Fine. Let’s go meet your family.”

I tugged my sweater down and my jeans up as we walked up to the house. For the first time in my life I was glad that I had hardly any boobs at all. At least I could maybe get by with just “skanky” instead of “skanky whore.”

“Wait,” I said. “Do your parents know about me?”