A Mad Zombie Party - Showalter Gena - Страница 22

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As usual, I toss and turn all night. I may have gotten my appetite back, but sleep still eludes me. And that’s probably a good thing. I’d only dream about Kat’s death, a horror show I’ve seen so many times the smallest details are forever embedded in my memory.

When the sun rises, I make my way into the living room and see Camilla asleep on the couch. She’s sitting up, and she’s sweating, her body shaking as if she’s having a seizure. I rush to her side, but by the time I reach her, she’s sagging to the side, a streak of soot left in her wake.

Soot?

She tosses and turns, and it’s obvious she’s trapped in a nightmare. I know better than to wake her. I study the tangle of her white-black hair, the rose-tint in her skin, the fragility of her features. She’s beauty and she’s the beast, rolled into one. There are cuts on her bottom lip, where she chewed just a little too hard. The strap of her tank top has fallen down her shoulder, baring bronzed, mouth-watering skin. She’s already kicked off the blanket, revealing the length of her legs. I frown when I notice jagged, raised flesh underneath several of her tattoos. Scars, and lots of them.

The thing is, when scars show on the outside, scars are usually hidden on the inside.

More questions plague me. More questions to stuff inside a mental box.

When she goes still and sighs, a signal she’s calming, the dream waning, I leap into action. “Time to wake up.” I nudge her knee with my own and her eyelids pop open.

Though she hasn’t yet focused, she kicks me in the stomach before hopping to her feet. “Frosty?” Her gaze sweeps over me, from my shirtless chest to my low-slung sweats and bare feet.

“Who else?”

Her frown is deep and intense. “If that’s how you wake a girl, no wonder you’ve had no repeat customers lately. Don’t ever jolt me like that again.”

My hands curl into fists. “I haven’t had any repeat customers because you killed the only customer I wanted.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t kill—”

I storm to the bedroom, gather clean clothes, then lock myself in the bathroom, where I take another shower to cool down. By the time I step out of the stall, there’s a handwritten note perched on my pile of clothes.

Sorry I mule-kicked you.

Camilla snuck in? She would’ve had to pick the lock and move so quietly my trained senses wouldn’t notice.

Well, well. I don’t want to be impressed. No, I really don’t.

I’m calm as I dress in a plain T-shirt, ripped jeans, combat boots and a few weapons hidden for good measure. I never leave home without a semi-arsenal, at the very least.

I step into the living room to find Camilla dressed in a lacy pink shirt and supershort skirt—short enough to make a guy pray for hundred-mile-per-hour winds. She won’t meet my gaze, and I soon learn she won’t leave my side, either.

As one week bleeds into two...three...I grow used to my shadow. We even develop a routine. After a silent breakfast, I do any schoolwork currently due, usually finishing up in one to four hours, and she plans Z-battle strategies in a notebook. We then have lunch together—again, neither of us saying a word—and work out. I try not to watch Camilla as she runs the treadmill, parts of her I shouldn’t admire bouncing.

We have dinner every night—yet another silent meal. She cooks, I do dishes. Afterward we hunt zombies. So far, there have been no new sightings. Not on our end, and not on Cole’s. He and I text each other every night with a progress report. Actually, he texts me all the damn time. All my friends do. What I find on my phone this morning?

Gavin: Giving up the brunettes 4 a tattooed blonde? Sucker! I like a girl who goes 4 the home run rather than the throat.

Bronx: River showed up w/a cage full of Zs so the recruits could get real-world fighting experience. Have U ever seen a kid shit his pants, bro? Once upon a time, I could have said no. Someone bleach my corneas. Please.

Ali: Zombie pickup line! U LOOK SO GOOD I WANT 2 HAVE U OVER 4 DINNER. Hahahaha get it???

I’ve finally started texting back.

To Gavin: U used 2 B a player—now UR not. Get over it. Also, U suck—& I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

To Bronx: Kids these days R pussies. Wouldn’t know a right cross from a left cross. Teach them—& send me vid

To Ali: What about: I love a girl w/BRAAAINS

Not everything is on track, though. Camilla has had a nightmare every night, her moans drawing me out of bed. I’ve witnessed the ends of her fingers catching fire. A flame here, a flame there, though they never burn more than a few seconds—but even that’s too long. Explains the soot, at least.

What I can’t reason out? Why the flames are the color of blood.

I dose her with antidote every morning, and a few times Reeve has come over to collect blood samples for testing. But whatever the cause of the odd-colored flames, Camilla is always in top form during the day. The perfect bodyguard.

Once, we were ambling down a sidewalk and a car backfired. She jumped in front of me, thinking someone was shooting at me. And every time I enter a building, she insists on going in first, just in case someone is lying in wait.

She takes her role seriously and...hell, it’s starting to bother me. Despite everything, I don’t want her taking a bullet meant for me, even if she won’t be harmed. Hell, she’d probably like it better if she was harmed. The way she rubs that Betrayal tattoo, yeah, I know guilt is her constant companion.

“Frosty? Are you even listening to me?” Kat snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Your words are poetry,” I say out of habit. “Of course I’m listening.”

She visits me once a day, as promised, but only for an hour. Today, I chose to spend our time in the kitchen rather than my bedroom. Don’t ask me why.

Because the counter has been doused in Blood Lines, she’s able to sit in front of me, legs crossed, as I eat a perfectly mediocre sandwich. Camilla is in the living room, watching TV and enjoying a bowl of what she calls SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs. Somehow she was able to turn a canned mess into a gourmet meal with sauteed peppers and a mix of spices.

“Frosty,” Kat says on a sigh.

“I’m one hundred percent invested in this conversation.” I want a bite of those SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs so bad I’m willing to risk a forking to get it.

“You’re killing me here,” Kat mutters.

I glare at her.

She smirks.

Every day, I’ve tried to charm her, to make her fall in love with me again. Today, though, my heart just isn’t in it. She’s resisted me at every turn, kept me in the friend zone, and my shredded heart just can’t take anymore.

I love you, kitten.

I love you, too. Hey, ask Ali about such and such girl. She’s pretty.

I’m tired, so tired. And hell, did Camilla just take the last bite of those SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs?

“You feeling okay?” Kat waves her hand to encompass my entire body. “Or are you coming down with something?”

Used to be, she would have given me a sizzling kiss and said something like, “If you’re going to die of plague, I’m going to die of plague.” She’d had a spark, a zest for life. Now? She’s all business all the time.

“I’m fine,” I say and glance—again—at Camilla.

She looks away hastily. Has she been watching me? The way I’ve so often found myself watching her...

“Usually I have to tell a guy to look away from my boobs,” Kat says, “not another girl.”

I grit my teeth. “You want me to fall for another girl, remember? You insist on it. You can’t get pissed when I oblige.”

“Not her,” she says quietly. “Anyone but her.”

I don’t want Camilla, not like that—damn it, I don’t.

A beep sounds from my phone, saving me from a reply. Kat attempts to lift the device, but her hand ghosts through it and she growls with frustration, banging a fist against the counter, rattling my plate.

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