White Trash Zombie Apocalypse (White Trash Zombie 3)

We made our way through the crowd, then paused to get our bearings. One woman, a leggy brunette in a skin tight sheath of a dress and impossible stiletto heels gave me a startled look that slid to one of amusement. Her eyes met mine briefly before she pulled her gaze away. She leaned close to murmur something to the woman by her side, and a second later they both tittered, glancing at me again.

I turned away, face heating, reminded a bit too much of high school and the way the popular girls pointed and laughed at my complete lack of anything that could “fit in.”

“Marcus,” I murmured. “Is there something on my face? Or a sign stuck to my back?”

To his credit, he actually gave me a solid look-over. “No. Why?”

“Heels over there, the woman behind me in the red and black dress and stupid shoes, keeps looking at me and laughing,” I told him, trying very hard not to be as unsettled as I was.

“Snobby bitches all over this place, babe,” he said with a reassuring smile. “And it doesn’t even matter if you have money or whatever. Someone like that tries to put everyone down they can.” He gave me a squeeze. “You look great. She’s probably jealous. And her feet have to be killing her, which makes her doubly bitchified.”

I laughed. “I never thought I’d hear ‘doubly bitchified’ coming out of your mouth.”

Marcus grinned. “It seemed to fit the moment.”

I smiled up at him. “Thanks. I’m probably overreacting.”

“Don’t sweat it.” He made a face. “Really have to have a thick skin around some of these people. I’m here for the food, and they’re here for dirt and gossip.”

“I hate that crap,” I muttered, then caught a glimpse of a familiar face through the crowd. “Isn’t that your uncle?” I asked with a lift of my chin.

Marcus’s gaze followed mine. “I do believe it is. I wonder if he’s as overstuffed as we are?”

“We should thank him for the tickets,” I said, remembering my inconsistent manners.

He eyed me. “Can you still walk?”

“Waddle,” I replied. “I can most certainly waddle.”

Marcus slipped an arm around my waist. “Waddle on, then.”

Together we wove through the crowd, murmuring apologies and “excuse mes” as appropriate along the way.

Pietro Ivanov looked over at us as we approached. He was slightly stocky with brown hair touched with grey and dark eyes that glinted with keen intelligence. For all outward appearances he was a hale sixty-something, but I’d seen his eyes go ancient once and had no doubt he was far, far older. I didn’t know a damn thing about tailoring or suits, but Pietro looked really good in the dark grey one he wore, and it radiated Expensive. Odd as hell, though, was the splint on his left wrist. Being a zombie with no shortage of brains, there was no way he should have an injury. Faking it? Had to be. But why?

A smile crossed his face. “Angel. Marcus. I’m so glad you could use the tickets.” He gave Marcus’s upper arm a squeeze, then offered me a polite kiss on the cheek, which I managed to accept without appearing as startled as I was.

“Thank you so much,” I gushed, fully aware that I was gushing and not much caring. “This is awesome!”

His smile widened. “You’re more than welcome. Have you been here long?”

“About an hour,” I replied. “Long enough to get totally bloated.” Crap. Not the most couth thing to say. I fought back a wince.

“Not me,” Marcus stated with a smile. “I’ve barely touched a thing.”

Pietro gave a low chuckle. “I don’t believe that for a second.” He shook his head. “I’ve been busier than usual this time with little chance to eat yet.” He tilted his head at the two of us. “Do you have a minute? I need to get my date a drink, and then I’d like to introduce you both to her.”

I assured him we had all the time in the world. He smiled and went off to the refreshments table, and I swept my gaze around the tent area. This one wasn’t as crowded as the others, mostly because it held only tables and a couple of serving booths for drinks. People clustered around tables, plates of all sorts of food piled high before them, and filled the air with the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter.

Marcus gave me a quick kiss. “I’m going to find the men’s room while Uncle Pietro gets drinks. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” I told him. “Or stuffing my face.”

Chuckling, he strode off through the crowd. I allowed my attention to drift across the paved path, to the tent that held a booth we’d bypassed earlier, where wonderfully evil-looking bread pudding was served. I could probably stuff a few more pounds of food into my gut. Surely my parasite would keep me from exploding, right? After all, what the hell good was a zombie parasite if it couldn’t help me drastically overeat every now and then?

I felt someone come up behind me. I turned, surprised to see Heels leveling a smirk down at me.

“Well, it looks like my jacket did make it into the Goodwill bag rather than the trash after all,” she said in a smooth purr. “Unless, of course, you dug it out of a dumpster.” She tilted her head, and I instantly hated how perfectly her hair flowed over her shoulder with the movement. “So, which was it?”