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

I could feel a knot building up in my throat, made worse by the look of pity that Ben gave me. He was being nice, damn it, and it fucking sucked. I was trying so damn hard to change my life and yet my past still kept biting me in the ass. “It’s cool,” I said as calmly and evenly as I could manage. I even forced out a smile that hopefully didn’t look too sickly.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” he said. “I just need more.”

I nodded. “It’s cool,” I repeated. “Lemme know what you find in the coffin,” I said, then turned and left without waiting for a response. I knew if I stayed there another second I’d either start crying or punch someone in the throat—though I liked to think it would’ve been Allen Prejean instead of Ben.

And, damn it, I still had a little pride left, even if my self-control was hanging by a thread.

Chapter 17

I went home, stripped off my clothes, and crawled under the covers in an effort to grab something resembling a nap. I was tired enough to fall right asleep, until a loud banging on my bedroom door yanked me awake.

“Angel!” my dad yelled from the hall. “Wake the fuck up and open this goddamn door now!”

I groaned and sat up. “I’m awake!” I croaked. “What the hell’s wrong?” I looked blearily at the clock on my nightstand. Wow, I’d managed to get a whole hour of sleep. Go me.

“Get the fuck out here! I need to talk to you!”

It didn’t sound like a I need to talk to you about what color we should paint the house either. More like You’re a fuckup and I want to yell at you because it will make me feel better. Trust me, I knew the difference.

“Gimme a sec,” I shouted.

“I mean it!” More pounding, as if he wasn’t sure if I was awake. “I’ll break this damn door down!”

“Gimme a fucking second, Dad! I’m putting on some fucking clothes so, unless the goddamn house is on fire, chill your ass out!”

I heard him muttering under his breath, but the pounding and yelling both stopped. Maybe he remembered the last time we had a confrontation—the one that had ended with me using only one hand to hold him pinned against the wall a foot off the floor.

I yanked on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, quickly spun open the combination lock that I’d installed on my mini-fridge, and downed about half a bottle of brain-shake. Things had been decent and non-violent between my dad and me for the past several weeks, but that didn’t mean I trusted it to stay that way. Besides, I felt like shit and needed the push of awesome that being full on brains gave me. It wasn’t a physical thing—mostly a fucked up accumulation of the past few days’ emotional knocks. Marianne’s death, the holdup, the bullshit with Pietro, and the breakup with Marcus. And Ed. That right there was damn good reason to stay tanked up.

“Dear Universe,” I muttered as I tugged slippers on. Damn this house was cold. “I’m ready for things to swing back my way now.” Yeah, I was selfish like that.

I stomped out to the living room—or at least, as much stomping as fuzzy slippers would allow. “Okay, what’s the deal?”

In answer he thrust a newspaper in my face, so closely that I had to take a step back in order to actually see what it was. Scowling, I took it from his hands and peered at it. It was the front page, with a picture in the middle of a house with crime scene tape strung across the front of it—Marianne’s house, I realized.

And then I saw what had my dad so riled up. There in the bottom left were two people sitting on the curb: Marcus, and me with my arms around him.

I lifted my eyes to his, utterly refusing to show any sort of guilt or shame or chagrin or anything else. “Yeah? So? A friend of mine was murdered.”

That took him aback, but only for a second. He jabbed a finger at the picture. “Yeah, well why the fuck you bein’ all huggy and shit with that cop? Y’know who that is, right? He’s the motherfucker who arrested me!”

I set the paper down on the table, crossed my arms over my chest. “Uh huh. He was.”

My dad’s face reddened. “What the fuck are you thinking? Why’d you betray me like that?”

I probably shouldn’t have, but I let out a bark of laughter. “Betray you? Are you serious? Dad, get a fucking grip.”

He jabbed his finger at me, though I noticed he was careful not to actually touch me. “That cocksucker put me in handcuffs! I spent three days in that shithole jail because of him!”

“No, Dad,” I replied, raising my voice. “It wasn’t because of him, and you know it! You got arrested ’cause you were beating the shit out of me. Remember that? Huh? So don’t go fucking blaming him, and don’t you dare tell me who I can and can’t talk to or date or anything else like that!”

Pain and guilt spasmed across his face, and I instantly felt guilty for bringing up that time. Though in the next instant I reminded myself that he was the one who’d actually brought it up.

“Look, Dad,” I said, lowering my voice and uncrossing my arms. “The thing is, you and me, we’re a couple of fuckups, but at least right now we’re trying to not fuck up quite so often.” I shrugged. “Besides, if it makes you feel better, he was also the cop who arrested me for having that stolen car.”

He grumbled, but some of the anger left his face. “It just don’t feel right cozying up like that to a cop.”

“Dad, Marcus is the one who helped me get off drugs and got me the job I have.”