Diana Rowland - How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

“What, they don’t have a big flashing sign saying ‘Zombies R here’?”

Kyle gave a rare, dry laugh. “Sadly, no. I’m disappointed in how unhelpful they were.”

I smiled a bit more. “I’m going to check on Philip and grab some Zs.”

“Sleep well, Angel.”

I woke with an arm around me and a warm body against my back. Comfy , I thought with a sleepy smile, and instinctively snuggled back. The warm body behind me murmured something in a low sleep-filled voice, then pulled me closer.

That’s not Marcus. The realization shot me straight to eyes-wide-open awake. Hotel room, daylight filtering through curtains, faint aroma of coffee. Philip asleep and cuddled up against me. He wasn’t cupping a boob or anything, but damn.

Moving slowly, I began to squirm my way out from beneath his arm—not easy since his arm was big and strong and heavy and wrapped pretty much all the way around me.

Crap. “Philip?” I said softly.

“Hmmf?” He shifted and began to tug me close again, then apparently woke enough to realize what he was doing. “Oh. Sorry.” He pulled his arm away, gave me a sleepy smile, and rolled over.

I scooched off the bed, amused at both of us—me for expecting the cuddling to turn into a flood of awkward embarrassment, and him for being so utterly matter-of-fact about it. So matter-of-fact that he was already asleep again. He looked a bit better, I decided. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

After tugging on one of the fluffy bathrobes hanging in the closet, I headed out to the main room, delighted to find coffee ready, along with an assortment of bagel sandwiches. Naomi and Kyle were out on the terrace and, after getting coffee and a bagel, I joined them for a pleasant half hour of meaningless conversation and people watching. On the street below two joggers went by with long, matching strides. A flock of pigeons took to the air as they passed, then settled again. A shabby man shuffled in the other direction, dog on a rope leash walking beside him. On the corner, a woman sold candied nuts from a cart to a couple of teens. They walked off, sharing the nuts, their conversation punctuated by cheerful animated gestures.

After I finished my bagel I returned inside to shower, but the sight of the widening yucky rot patch along my ribs threatened to kill my good mood. My cheery attitude took another hard hit when I went to dry off and managed to scrape a layer of flesh off the patch with the towel. Dismayed, I stared at my reflection and the ugly nasty blotches along my left side. The rot on my ribs was the largest, but the patch on my thigh was gaining ground.

One thing at a time , I told myself after I finished some intensive deep breathing therapy in the form of screaming into a towel pressed to my face. One thing at a time. We would find Pietro and Dr. Nikas and get all this taken care of, but there was a lot of other shit to deal with along the way.

I took another moment to compose myself, then dressed and returned to the bedroom. Philip was awake and out of bed to claim the bathroom, and if he’d heard my towel-screaming he didn’t say a word about it. Then again, he had plenty of reason to do his own screaming, with or without a towel.

After refilling my coffee, I settled in to work on figuring out how the hell to contact Jane on a Saturday when my list of contacts was sitting on my phone in a box at—I hoped—the St. Edwards Parish Coroner’s Office.

It took about half an hour to even get hold of a human, and another ten minutes to find someone willing to take my “I’m a friend of Congresswoman Pennington. No, really I am!” even vaguely seriously. At long last the woman grudgingly agreed to take my number and let the congresswoman know I needed to speak to her. I expected an absolutely endless wait for the message to get through and for her to call back, but to my delighted relief my phone buzzed only a few minutes later.

I snatched it up. “Jane?!”

“Angel? Is everything all right?”

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you called back. Look, this is going to sound kind of crazy, but I need to know if you’re still going to the Child Find League event tomorrow evening.”

“It’s been on my schedule for months,” she replied. “It’s the main reason I’m in New York.”

“I need you to not go.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly taken aback. “Why on earth not?”

“Well, I think something bad might happen,” I said, completely aware of how batshit crazy that sounded, especially coming from me and not from some super duper security specialist. I groaned. “Shit, I know this doesn’t makes any sense. I can’t really say more right now, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Hurt? Me?” she said, alarm in her voice. “Why? Angel, you have to tell me what’s going on. Who told you this?”

“Oh, god, it’s so complicated.” Crap! The stuff about getting hurt was totally NOT in my practiced speech. Clearly, I needed to scratch Become President of the United States off my bucket list. I gave Naomi a desperate look, but she simply rolled her eyes and threw her hands up in defeat. “Just . . . please, Jane, don’t go to that party. Trust me. Please.”

I heard her take a deep breath. “Angel, I do trust you, and I know that your intentions are good. I simply don’t understand.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” I said. Damn it, I was fucking this up big time. “But I really can’t explain it over the phone.” The whole situation sucked, but telling her the truth was out of the question. Hi, Jane, Pietro’s missing, but no, we can’t tell the police, and by the way, you’re probably in danger too. That would generate one hell of an impressive shitstorm.

“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.”