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

Double crap. No way could I fake it and go to the lab without a full shower. Not with bone dust in my hair and the smell of yuck clinging to me. “I gotta be somewhere,” I shouted. “And I’m all dirty from the morgue.”

“Yeah, well, if you stop shouting at me I’ll be a lot faster,” he shot back.

Sighing, I bit back an obnoxious comeback. He’d only get revenge by staying in the shower even longer. Stripping off my clothes as I went, I headed to my room and killed some time finding stuff to change into once I no longer reeked of morgue-funk. Well, killed a couple of minutes. Didn’t take long to go through my miniscule wardrobe. So far I’d managed to replace the necessities I lost in the flood: work uniforms, bras and undies, socks, a couple of pairs of jeans and some miscellaneous shirts. And I had exactly one nice outfit—a butt-hugging skirt and a silky blouse, with some fuck-me pumps that I’d scooped up on clearance, beating out a busty redhead who’d been reaching for them.

I resisted the very silly urge to put on the skirt and blouse and pumps since they’d be incredibly inappropriate for going to the lab, and pushed down the totally crazy bit of wondering how Philip would react to me in the outfit—and where the hell had that come from anyway? Instead I found jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. But with my clothes all nicely laid out, I had nothing left to do except wait with increasing aggravation as the shower continued to run. And now my dad was singing. Singing! Scowling, I wrapped a towel around me and marched back down the hall.

“C’mon, Dad!” I yelled with an accompanying pound on the door. “I’m gonna be late! What the hell’s taking you so long?”

“I’m washing my goddamn hair!”

“Y’only got about twelve hairs on that head of yours!”

His response was to start singing again. Loudly and badly.

It was war.

I tested the doorknob. Locked, and I had a feeling he’d nipped out and done so while I was going through my clothing. Sneaky bastard. But I could be devious too. I ran to the kitchen and turned the cold water on full blast, then went to the half-bathroom near the front of the house, turned that water on, and flushed the toilet for good measure. Listening, I waited, and about fifteen seconds a yelp and cursing rewarded my efforts, followed by the shower going off.

I quickly turned the water off in the bathroom and kitchen, then returned to the hallway outside the main bathroom, leaned against the wall and folded my arms over my towel-covered chest. I heard grumbling and muttering, but also a rustle of sound that I hoped was a towel drying flesh.

My dad yanked the door open and gave me a dark scowl, but I thought I detected a gleam of appreciation in his eye. “You’re lucky I got somewhere to be, Angel,” he huffed, then marched off toward his bedroom with the towel wrapped around his waist, leaving a trail of wet footprints down the hallway.

With a smug smile, I claimed the shower, and didn’t even mind that I had to clean out the drain first.

Since I was already running late, I made do with a quickie shower that was enough to wash the smell of death off me. Probably a good thing I raced through it, since even at super speed the water temp edged toward not-even-close-to-hot by the time I rinsed off. I dressed quickly, shoved my fingers through my wet hair along with a bit of gel, swiped some mascara across my lashes, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.

Then stopped dead at the sight of my dad standing in the kitchen, buttoning his cuffs and whistling. I sniffed. Cologne? And, wait, cuffs? Not a t-shirt or sweatshirt?

Nope, Dad had on black denim pants—not raggedy jeans—a plaid shirt that actually looked stylish, and cowboy boots. His hair was combed, and his face free from stubble.

“Do you have a job interview?” I asked.

His smile was nothing sort of smug. “Nope. Got me a date.”

It took me a second to re-engage my brain, and I barely stopped myself from saying, With a woman? “With who?” I managed instead.

“Tammy Elwood,” he replied. “She tends bar down at Kaster’s.”

“I don’t know her,” I said, unable to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

The look he gave me was tinged with amusement. “I bet I know lots of people you don’t, Angelkins.”

I knew I was being silly, but damn it, my dad simply didn’t date. “How long have you known her?” I asked, trying a different tack.

He slipped a jacket on. “Not long. It’s actually a double date with Belluci and his lady. They’re kinda settin’ us up together.”

Oh, lordy. Rick Belluci was a loud redneck with a huge beer gut who seemed to know every racist, sexist, and otherwise inappropriate joke in existence. He and my dad used to be drinking buddies, staying out every Thursday night until the bars closed or kicked them out. I could only imagine what kind of woman Belluci would think was right for my dad.

“Are y’all going to a bar?” I asked, trying hard to be casual, but I heard the edge of worry in my voice. Dad had been doing pretty good with controlling his drinking lately, and I wanted it to stay that way.

He gave me a faint smile, understanding in his eyes. “We’re just gonna go see a movie and maybe get a bite after, I promise.”

“Well, call me if you’re gonna be out too late.”

To his credit he didn’t laugh. “Only if you promise to do the same.”

That was fair, I supposed. “Deal.” I moved to him, gave him a kiss on the cheek. God, but we’d come so far. He responded with a hug, then left the house, a spring in his step that I didn’t think I’d ever seen before.