How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (White Trash Zombie 4)

I gave him a warm smile. For all his Nickitude, I appreciated the decent person and friend under it all. I kind of suspected he liked me, but he seemed to be totally respectful of my relationship with Marcus, and he’d never said or done anything to make me feel uncomfortable.

“Thanks,” I said. “Don’t mind me. I’m just moody.” I hesitated, then forged on into scary territory. “I sorta told Doc I was going to sign up for college classes next term.”

His head snapped around. “At TPCC? That’s a big step.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets, his shock confirming my suspicion that it was a big and stupid step. “Yeah. I should probably back out and wait until I have more tutoring under my belt with Jennifer.” And that could be a while since the dyslexia specialist cost a fortune. I had to space out my sessions in order to pay for them. Hell, for that matter, how was I supposed to pay for college?

“No!” Nick commanded, bringing my near escape from college to a screeching halt. “You can do it. No point in putting it off. And, uh . . .” He trailed off and seemed to find the sidewalk ahead very interesting.

The guy could be kind of cute when he got flustered. I hid a smile. “And what?”

“Maybe I could help out,” he blurted a little too eagerly, then backpedaled to a more casual, doesn’t-matter-to-me tone. “I mean, you know, if you get stuck on something.”

My smile slipped out as this particular worry faded away. “I’d like that,” I said and meant it. “Though I still don’t know how I can afford tuition.”

“Financial aid,” he said firmly. “Grants, scholarships, loans. I’ll help you with the applications.”

Well, there went my last remaining excuse. “Okay, so do you think I should take Introduction to Life Sciences or Biology one-oh-one?”

“If you want the credits to really mean something, take one-oh-one. Life Sciences won’t transfer to a four year school.”

“Wait.” I blinked, then shook my head. “A four-year? I haven’t even thought about that.”

Nick shrugged and lifted his chin in his I-know-all-about-this posture. “No point in wasting time,” he declared. “Better to have credits that transfer than not. It’s the only smart choice.”

I gulped. One-oh-one was sure to be a lot harder than Life Sciences. “I guess that makes sense,” I said weakly, wishing it didn’t.

“Of course it does,” he said as he opened the door to the shop. A delicious mix of smells flooded out—coffee and chocolate and all sorts of baked gooey things. “I’ll order. You want anything besides hot chocolate?”

“Since you’re buying, I’ll have one of those cherry cream cheese pastries,” I replied with a grin. “I love those things.”

“You got it,” he said and joined the line by the counter.

Dear John’s Café offered good beverages, pastry, and snacks, along with plentiful booths and decent free Wi-Fi. But its claim to local fame was the paper enshrined on the wall near the register—a Dear John letter that actually started off with “Dear John.” The letter had been written to the owner, John Hickey, ten years ago by his wife when she left him for his brother’s ex-wife. According to local legend, after a heavy drinking binge and a night in jail, John realized it was the best thing that had ever happened to him, quit his insurance sales gig, traded in his Lexus for a Toyota, downsized his house, and invested everything in the café. Who the hell knew if any of it was true, but it made a good story, and great coffee and a solid business model made for a booming business.

“Angel,” a woman called from the far end of the shop.

I looked toward the voice and saw Pietro Ivanov and Jane Pennington cozied up in a half-circle booth by the back wall. Jane gave me a warm smile and gestured for me to come over. A pleased tingle ran through me as I waved and returned the smile. It still floored me that anyone as cool as Congresswoman Jane Pennington wanted anything to do with little old me. She even called me on occasion when she wanted to poll “ordinary, everyday people” for opinions. I was far from either, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

I tapped Nick on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m going to be by that booth by the back wall,” I told him. “Come find me when you’re done? I have some people I want you to meet.”

He nodded acknowledgment, and I headed back toward Pietro and Jane. Pietro was a rich-as-fuck local businessman, and also uncle to my boyfriend, Marcus Ivanov. But more importantly, Pietro as head of the local group of zombies, devoted himself to their survival and welfare, at times by whatever means necessary. I didn’t always agree with the “necessary means” Pietro and his organization used, but I’d also learned that none of the issues they dealt with were black and white.

Plus, I didn’t have much room to talk. Less than five months ago I’d bashed a man’s head in with a baseball bat and then feasted on his brains. Sure, he’d been shooting me seconds before, but there was no denying I’d used necessary means to remove the threat.

Pietro watched me approach, a relaxed smile on his face that only seemed to make its appearance around Jane. Sixtyish-looking, stocky but fit, he complemented her effortless elegance perfectly. Half-finished cups of coffee and the remains of a shared pastry sat on the table in front of them. I gave Pietro a nod of greeting then smiled to Jane. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I’m not really,” she said with a quiet laugh. “Only passing through to take care of a little business in my district and see Pietro.”

I glanced over as Nick approached. “This is my friend Nick Galatas,” I told them. “He’s one of the death investigators at the Coroner’s Office, and he’s also totally responsible for me finally passing the GED.” I grinned. “Nick, this is Congresswoman Jane Pennington and Pietro Ivanov.” I didn’t try to hide the hint of smugness in my tone that I knew such cool people. If the situation was reversed, Nick would be all over it.

Nick did the handshake thing with both of them, seeming totally confident and comfortable. “I helped a little with Angel’s preparation and studying,” he said, “but Angel was the one in the test room. She worked hard and earned it.”

A little heat rose in my face at the praise. I had worked hard, dammit, but it was still cool to have it recognized. “It’s too bad you can’t be here a little longer,” I said to Jane. “You’re going to miss the oh-so-awesome Nutria Festival this weekend.”

Pained amusement lit her eyes. “Believe it or not, I gave a speech there last year on the condition of our wetlands.”

Pietro laid his hand over hers on the table, gave it a squeeze. “We met at an incredibly tedious fundraiser only a few days after that. Jane stopped me from slitting my wrist with a broken champagne glass to escape the boredom.”