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

“Crap, I forgot about my car.” I wrinkled my nose. “A ride home, if you don’t mind. I don’t want to deal with the car in the dark, and no one’s going to mess with it here.”

Taking my hand again, he walked me down the street to his truck. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said, glancing down at our hands before releasing me and opening the truck door.

I’d taken his hand just as automatically. Best friends probably didn’t do that sort of thing. “It would’ve been a big change either way,” I said, hating the question in my voice.

He gave me a hand as I climbed in. “They say change is good.” He managed a wry smile. “I’m not so sure.”

“If you don’t change you die,” I replied glibly.

“No chance of that.” He kept the smile, but I knew him well enough to see how hard he was working to keep the hurt from showing. “Let’s get you home,” he said and closed the door for me.

Chapter 7

Marcus pulled into my driveway, put the truck in park and killed the engine.

“I guess this is it,” he said, voice low and rough.

I gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “It’s not like we’re never going to see each other again,” I pointed out. “We’re still best buds. And I’m not giving you back your mix tapes or anything.”

A brief chuckle escaped him. “I’ve never in my life made a mix tape. Don’t lay that on me.” He let out a long breath. “This isn’t at all how I pictured things going.”

I mirrored his sigh. “I know, but you keep forgetting to let me be a part of drawing that picture.”

“I get it. I really do,” he said. “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

“I am too,” I said, though I wondered how much he really did get it. It wasn’t the first time this issue had cropped up. At the same time, I was glad he still wanted to be friends. That was way better than pissed and distant, which would have made the break up a billion times harder. “Marcus, I know this is gonna sound pompous and preachy, but I’m really glad you’re taking control of your life and going to law school.”

“Uncle Pietro has been after me to do it for ages.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Looks like we’ve come full circle. A year ago I was the one getting you to take control of your life.”

I snorted and filed away the fact that Pietro had been nagging him. Another thing he hadn’t bothered to share with me. “I’m not sure me telling you to go to law school after you’d already been accepted compares to everything you did for me, but I’ll take the credit if you’re going to offer it.”

He laughed. “Sure, what the hell.”

“Do you know where you’re going to live?”

“I’ll drive to the city tomorrow and start hunting apartments,” he said.

Without me. “I think you’re going to fucking shine,” I said.

He leaned over and kissed me, chaste and sweet enough to make tears spring to my eyes. “So will you—”

Whatever else he was going to say got cut off as the truck door on my side flew open. Yanked open, I realized as I let out a stupid girly shriek and jerked back against Marcus. “What the shit?” I yelled, bringing my legs up to kick out at the attacker, even though all I could see was a looming shadow.

Marcus grabbed his gun from the console and was out the door in a flash to draw down on the assailant. “Back off!”

“Wait!” I yelled, then dropped my legs and leaned forward. Holy shit, it was Philip, face flushed and one hand gripping the truck door so hard I was shocked he didn’t dent it. “Jesus, dude, are you all right?”

Philip’s lips pulled back from his teeth, and he shot a hand toward me, even as survival instinct had me scrabbling back toward the driver’s side door. He got hold of my ankle for a second, then released it and staggered back several feet, hands held out as if for balance, and face pinched with an expression I knew too well as his splitting-headache face.

Marcus came around the front of the truck to my door. “Angel, you okay?” he asked, continuing to cover Philip.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I quickly slid out of the truck. “But something’s wrong with him.”

“No. No . . . nothing’s wrong,” Philip said, fighting to straighten. His throat worked as he swallowed, and then he plastered a sickly smile onto his face. “I was . . . worried about you. I called you, but you didn’t answer.” He held up his left arm, and the dim light from the truck revealed a mottled patch of skin above his elbow. “I, uh, had a reaction. I put a call in to Dr. Nikas, but I was worried about you.”

Marcus frowned and lowered his gun. Dread rising, I yanked my sleeve up. “Aw, crap.” My arm held a discolored spot in a matching location, and when I poked it with my finger I found it grossly spongy. Pre-rot. But how could I be rotting when I wasn’t hungry for brains?

Worry bloomed on Marcus’s face as his gaze shifted back and forth between us. “What does this mean?”