White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

My jeans and undies were close by, and I began to tug them on. “They were talking about the guy who died,” I told him. “It sounded like they didn’t think it was an accident, that the pipe shouldn’t have fallen the way it did.”

He stood and pulled on underwear and pants. “Probably want to be sure they don’t get blamed for it.” He glanced my way. “Insurance company will check it all out, I’m sure. And Ben’s thorough,” he added, referring to Detective Roth.

I slipped my shirt over my head, ran my fingers through my hair. “Okay, but then one of them said it was good it happened now before ‘everything else’ started so there wouldn’t be cops around.” I leveled a frown at Marcus. “Explain that.”

Marcus grinned. “Filming,” he stated. “They’re in rehearsals and preproduction now. They actually begin filming with the leads in the morning. I suppose it would be a pain in the butt to try and film with a police investigation going on.”

“Damn you for making sense,” I said, lightly smacking him on the chest.

He pulled me close for a kiss. “I always make perfect sense,” he said with a chuckle, then glanced out at the sky. “Rain’s letting up. We should probably get going.”

Taking his hand, I let him lead the way back down and out of the stadium, then together we dashed through the lingering drizzle to his truck.

I fought back a yawn as he drove me back to the morgue and my car. As nice as the date had been—even with the slight strangeness at the end—I couldn’t deny I was ready to get home and chill for a while before bed.

He pulled up next to my car, and I was about to say my goodbyes when Marcus reached into the console and pulled out an envelope. “I have a surprise for you,” he said with a smile. “Compliments of Uncle Pietro.”

I took the envelope he offered and pulled out two tickets to the Gourmet Gala, a swanky annual charity event I’d never even dreamed of attending. Damn near every restaurant in the parish participated, each with a booth or table where they gave out free samples of all sorts of fine cuisine. Tickets were expensive as hell, which meant that all the movers and shakers and rich people made sure to be seen there. I didn’t give a crap about being seen—I just wanted the food.

I stared at the tickets. “You’re serious? Your uncle simply gave these to you?”

“Umm, yeah. Sure,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “He passes stuff like this my way now and then.”

“You’ve gone to this before?”

He smiled. “A couple of times in the past few years.”

“And we’re really going? Tomorrow night?”

Marcus snorted, pretty obviously amused by my enthusiasm. “That’s the plan, if you want to. And judging by the gleam in your eyes, I’d say it was a yes.”

Okay, it’s possible that I gave a squeal of excitement worthy of a teen girl at a Justin Bieber concert. “Oh my god. I have to find something to wear!”

Marcus laughed. “You have time. Don’t sweat it.”

I gaped at him in horror. “Easy for you to say! You have a closet full of clothes, and you’re a guy.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning. “Just make sure you get something with elastic in the waistband. Lots and lots of food.”

“I’ll undo the top button. Not a problem.”

“Sounds good to me.” He leaned over and gave me a kiss which I didn’t mind returning. “Go veg out and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure thing,” I said, giving him a smile as I climbed out of the truck. He waited until I had my car started before driving off. Good dude.

Yet on the way home, my thoughts went back to the weirdness on the movie set this morning. What the hell was Philip doing there? And why save me from a world of hurt and then run away? He was tied in with Dr. Kristi Charish, which left me more than a little unsettled. I didn’t want that psycho bitch anywhere near me. There was only one person I could think of who might have some answers—Pietro Ivanov.

He’d thrown me to the wolves a few months ago when he’d allowed Charish to kidnap me, but had since admitted he’d screwed up and had done a lot to try to make up for it. Like the pardon. About two years ago I’d been arrested for possession of stolen property—while driving a car my loser-ex-boyfriend had insisted was a totally legit purchase—and ended up with probation and suspended sentence, and a felony on my record. But shortly after I managed to pull off my escape from Charish’s secret lab, my probation officer let me know that I wasn’t on probation anymore because I’d been pardoned. Totally clean record. Fresh start. And I had no doubt Pietro was responsible. As well as being the head of the local “zombie mafia,” he was rich as hell and had a zillion political connections. No one else who gave a shit about me had the power to pull off a full pardon from the frickin’ governor. No way did I trust Pietro yet—or forgive him, for that matter—but there was certainly a truce and potential to rebuild.

There was no sign of my dad when I got home, but since it was barely seven p.m. I figured I could hold off worrying that he was out drinking. He never drank at the house anymore—probably because he knew I sure as hell didn’t approve—and to his credit he was pretty damn careful about not drinking and driving.

Unfortunately, that was primarily because a few months ago Mr. Jimmy Crawford got stopped for driving while intoxicated. Fortunately, it was Marcus who had pulled him over. And even though Marcus bent rules like crazy and called me to come get my dad—saving us a ton of hassle and thousands of dollars—the incident pretty much shattered the shaky peace the two men had made, and my dad had gone right back to an active dislike of “that cop.”

Scowling in annoyance and frustration with the whole situation, I slugged down about half a bottle of brain smoothie to make up for what I’d burned off in my exertions with Marcus, then flopped onto the sagging couch to watch TV.

I woke later to screeching laughter on some nighttime talk show. A glance at the clock told me I’d crashed for a solid four hours.

Which meant that now I could worry about my dad’s drinking.