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

“I can sense this is very important to you,” she said, and I had the feeling she was laying down some standard Congresswoman-to-constituent patter. I couldn’t blame her. I’d be resorting to some patter as well, if I had it. “I’ll see what I can do about excusing myself from the event,” she continued, carefully not promising anything, I noted.

“Thanks,” I said. It was better than nothing, right? “I promise I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I can.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, concern still thick in her voice. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No! I mean, um, no, I’m totally okay.” No more than the usual sort of Angel-trouble.

“I confess, you have me worried,” she said. “Is Marcus with you?”

Damn it. It took me a second to get past the pang. “No. He’s looking for apartments in New Orleans.” I paused. “He got accepted to Loyola law school.”

“That’s wonderful!” she cried. “Pietro must be so pleased. I know he’s encouraged Marcus to

apply for quite some time.”

The ache rose higher. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Pietro.” I stepped away from Naomi and out onto the terrace, pretending it was to look out at the view. “Marcus and I . . . we broke up.”

“Oh, no! What happened?” She was all girlfriend now and not congresswoman.

“Jane, I didn’t even know he was applying to law school,” I said, voice rough and eyes on the pigeons. “Then, out of the blue, he says, ‘Hey, we’re moving to New Orleans!’”

She sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” I wiped a stupid tear away with the palm of my hand. She understood, or at least it felt that way to me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump on you.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she said, then, “Hold on.” I heard her cover the receiver, and then some muffled talking. “Angel, I’m sorry but I need to go.”

“That’s all right. Thanks for calling me back. Please be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in Louisiana next week. Maybe we can have coffee.”

I smiled weakly. “That’d be great. Thanks. You take care.”

We made our goodbyes. I lowered the phone and leaned on the rail. On the street below I watched a bicycle with a flashing light as it weaved recklessly through traffic, and heard the horn of a taxi as the cyclist cut in front of it. Distant sirens blended with the low thump of music from a passing car. On the sidewalk, a well-dressed couple in long coats walked arm in arm, heads bent toward each other in smiling conversation and carefully avoiding eye contact with a panhandler.

“Damn it, Angel.”

Startled, I turned to see Naomi standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest. “You should have told me about Marcus,” she said, annoyance in her tone, but worry and hurt in her eyes.

I slumped. “Sorry. There really hasn’t been a good time to tell you. I didn’t want to do a ‘I need to pee. Can we take the next exit? Oh, and I broke up with my boyfriend.’”

“Well, crap,” she sighed. “What the hell was he thinking springing a move to New Orleans on you?”

“He wanted to surprise me, I guess.” I moved inside to the couch and flopped down. “Apparently he didn’t figure I had all that much tying me down in St. Edwards Parish.”

She flopped beside me. Had to admit, it was a nicely floppable couch. “I want all of the details, every single one of them,” she stated firmly. “But first, what did Jane say?”

I filled her in on everything I could remember, along with the frustrating sense that she was going to attend the function anyway.

“It was the best you could do,” Naomi said, but she obviously shared my frustration.

“What the hell do we do now?” I raked a hand through my hair. “I think she’s still going to go, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Naomi abruptly stood, then grabbed my wrist and hauled me to my feet. “Yes, there is.” She stepped back and swept a gaze over me. “We find you a dress.”

Chapter 19

“I look like a kid playing dress-up,” I said, regarding with uncertainty my reflection in the long mirror in our suite. I couldn’t deny that Naomi had great taste and knew fashion. Growing up a Saber would do that, and as irked as I’d been earlier about her warped view of money and income, I had to admit it was damn convenient that she had plenty of money stashed away, and that dropping a godawful amount on dress, shoes, and accessories was barely a blink of an eye for her.