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

“Got it,” Philip said, making a turn. About ten minutes later we pulled into the gravel lot. The old neon sign on the roof simply spelled out BAR in big block letters like a beacon to outsiders. Everyone around these parts knew it was Pillar’s, so why waste money on the sign? Over thirty cars and pickups crowded the lot, along with half dozen motorcycles up near the entrance. Randy’s 1968 red Dodge Charger sat in the first space at the end of the building, where he always parked. Nothing had changed.

An odd curl of nerves wound through my belly. I hadn’t set foot in this place in over a year, and I hadn’t spoken to most of the people from that old life in just as long, including Randy. “It might be best if I go in by myself,” I said.

“Probably so,” Philip agreed. He reached into the bag resting on the console and pulled out a packet, handed it to me. “Eat that first. I’ll be right outside.”

I obediently sucked it down, then scraped my fingers through my hair to get it to lie down in a slightly more orderly fashion. “Wish me luck,” I said, then slipped out of the car and headed toward the entrance. I heard a car door close and looked back to see Philip following me.

“I’ll be right outside,” he repeated.

My nerves eased slightly. “Thanks.”

&n

bsp; The people clustered by the door gave me a glance then returned to their cigarettes and low conversation. Music poured out when I opened the door, like hot air on a cold day. I quickly stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind me, feeling as if I’d let all the music out if I left it open.

The four piece band on the crude stage against the back wall kicked out a decent version of a Blake Shelton song while a cluster of worn lights flashed to the beat of the music, sending weak pulses of red and blue through the haze of cigarette smoke. Loud conversation, drunken laughter, and the occasional crack of pool balls surrounded me like a comfortable blanket. How much time had I wasted here?

Winding my way through familiar faces with forgotten names, I returned glares and scowls with defensive ones of my own and made my way toward the man behind the bar. He gave an odd double take when he saw me, then pushed a beer toward a regular at the other end of the bar. He took the bills offered and stuffed them into the till, then came over to me and leaned an elbow on the bar.

“Been a while since you been in here, Angel,” he said as I racked my mind for his name. Bill. Yeah, that was it. I’d scored Percocet from him a time or two. Bill had pills.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to raise my voice enough to be heard over the din without actually shouting. “It’s been a weird year. Can I get a beer?”

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “I heard you got Clive busted. Called the cops on him.”

Shit. Now I understood all the hostile looks. I narrowed my eyes. “Is that what he told you? That weasely little shitball. I guess he left out the part where he called the cops on me. And I can fucking prove that shit. That’s on motherfucking nine-one-one.”

That took him slightly aback. “He told everyone you set him up,” Bill said, expression remaining accusing.

“Why the hell would I set him up?” I demanded. “I was trying to get clean after fucking overdosing. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him.”

A frown started between his eyebrows. “Huh. Yeah, I heard you almost died.” He picked up a rag and swiped at some unknown liquid on the bar.

“You heard right,” I said. Kind of did die, depending on how you defined it. “Clive was a whiny bitch and was all butthurt ’cause I wouldn’t buy from him anymore.” It wasn’t a total lie. Clive had been pissed when I wouldn’t steal confiscated drugs from the Coroner’s Office and pass them his way. “He called the cops on me because he’s a little prick, then when the cops came and wouldn’t arrest me for his bullshit, he fought with them and got his own ass busted.” I couldn’t help but smirk. “And of course he had a car full of steroids, so they busted his stupid ass for that too.”

Bill’s gaze remained hard and distrusting for another moment while the band shifted to a crappy cover of a Garth Brooks song. Finally he reached for a beer, popped the top off and set it in front of me. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

Doing my best not to show relief, I took the bottle and sipped. “He’s a fucking moron.”

“You still clean?” he asked. He glanced at the bottle in my hand.

“No drugs, no pills in a year,” I said then set the bottle down and gave it a tap. “This is as hard as I go anymore, and not much of that.”

A smile kicked up one side of Bill’s mouth. “That’s cool, Angel,” he said, and I decided he really meant it. “I got my one month chip last week,” he continued, ducking his head a bit as if embarrassed.

“Yeah?” I smiled. “That’s fucking awesome. Must be hard to do while working here.”

Someone called his name from farther down the bar. He held up a finger to him, then looked back at me and shrugged. “Nah. Not as long as I keep my head on straight. Every day I see how fucked up people can be, and it helps me remember why I’m doing it.”

“I get that,” I said.

“Look.” He leaned slightly closer. “You need to watch your back in here. Pretty much everyone thinks you fucked Clive over.” Then his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’m looking for Randy,” I said. “I saw his car out front.”

Bill jerked his head toward the back. “He’s playing pool. Him and Carol Ann.”

At the mention of that woman’s name, my face heated in a flush of anger that should’ve been dead. For the last two years of my relationship with Randy, she’d hung on the edge, trying to slide her loser self between us any time we had one of our breakups.