A Mad Zombie Party - Showalter Gena (читать лучшие читаемые книги TXT) 📗

My motions are jerky as I dress in a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. When I step into the hall, the scent of bacon and eggs greets me, and my mouth waters. Camilla is sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of food in front of her and a plate of food in front of the only other chair. Finally, she’s eating. And despite my deplorable treatment of her, she continues to respond to me with little gestures of kindness.

I’m more baffled by her every minute of every day.

My stomach rumbles for the first time in months, and I join her at the table to dig in. After a few bites of the best (and only) bacon pancakes I’ve ever had, I mutter, “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you cook for your brother’s crew?” Is that how she developed such obvious culinary skill?

She doesn’t comment on my uncharacteristic display of curiosity and says, “No. My mom was a chef, and me and my—” A muscle clenches in her jaw. “I used to shadow her in the kitchen.”

She and...who? “Was a chef?”

“Still could be. She took off a little over nine years ago. I haven’t heard from her since.”

Making Camilla far too young to be abandoned by a loved one. But then, was there ever a right age for that kind of betrayal? “I’m sorry.”

My odd display of sympathy earns a small smile of gratitude. “What about your parents?” she asks, and a moment later, she sinks deep into her chair, realizing she’s asked a personal question I will most likely refuse to answer. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

I should take the out, but I say, “Both of my parents died when I was six. I’ve lived with an aunt and uncle until recently.” They were decent people, but they had a family of their own and it hadn’t included me, the troubled boy whose parents adopted him at the age of three.

“Your parents...did they love you?”

“Yes, but they didn’t know how to deal with a kid who saw monsters they couldn’t.”

Meeting Cole was a bona fide miracle. For the first time in my life, I’d actually felt as though I wasn’t alone.

“Losing both of your parents had to suck,” she says, “which makes this next part terrible for me to say, but... I kind of wish my dad left with my mom. He wasn’t a nice man, and the system would have been a better place for my siblings and me.”

Siblings. Plural. And just how not nice are we talking? Mentally, physically or even sexually abusive? I press my lips together to keep from asking. We’re getting way personal here. Too personal for two people who only agreed to fight zombies together, each for their own reasons.

I stand, my chair skidding behind me. As I wash my dishes, I say, “If we’re going to live together—”

“If? We are.”

“—we need to set some ground rules.”

“Agreed.” She hands me her plate and fork and arches a brow. “I cooked, you clean.”

I could refuse, just to be contrary, but I take the dishes and get to scrubbing. I want her to cook again.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Rule one. I do what you say when you say.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. Let’s go with that.” I dry my hands and face her. There’s only an arm’s length of distance between us. It’s not enough. Up close I can see the different shades of brown in her eyes, from pale amber to rich sable, and I want to kick my own ass for noticing. I take a step back.

“Rule two,” I say. “You will be honest with me at all times about everything. You get caught in a lie and you’re out, no questions asked.”

“In that case, I’d love to share my honest opinion about you. You have moments of great asshattery, and one day I’ll probably disembowel you just for grins and giggles.”

“That’s fair.”

She nudges me out of the way to fill a glass with water. “I can live with those rules.”

“Good, but I wasn’t done. Rule three,” I say. “No more personal conversations.”

Her gaze darts away from me, but not before I catch a glint of hurt. “No problem,” she says. “We will forever remain strangers.”

I frown, not liking that I’ve hurt her again and not liking that I don’t like it. “Rule four. If I want to be alone, you will leave me alone.”

Her lips purse as if she’s just sucked on a lemon. “That kind of defeats the purpose of my presence.”

“And yet it’s still a rule.”

“One I will not obey,” she says.

Girls. Can’t live with them—the end. I mean, seriously. There are two ways to argue with them, saying yes and saying no, and neither way works.

While dating Kat, I probably learned more about girls than anyone else on the planet, and yet I still know absolutely nothing about them.

I take the water glass from Camilla and set it aside. Don’t want the liquid tossed at my pretty mug as I imprison her against the counter. We were too close before and we are way too close now, but I need her to hear me and understand how serious I am.

Her eyes go wide, but not with fear. I don’t know what she’s projecting at me, not sure I want to know. Her breaths come fast and shallow.

“Maybe you were able to steamroll your brother’s crew. Maybe the guys were intimidated by you or by River, or maybe even both of you, but I’m made of tougher stuff. You step on my toes, and I’ll step on yours right back. A girl who willingly gets into the ring with me never receives special treatment. I’ll dish to her what I dish to guys.”

Up goes her chin. Light shines over her features, paying the bronze of her skin absolute tribute. She’s only a bit taller than Kat, but the added inch puts her closer to my face than I’m used to. The smell of roses and pecans is stronger now, the heat of her intense. I like it. I like it too much.

My body is obviously attracted to hers, not caring anything for my thoughts or feelings.

My body is a traitor. And so is Kat. She wanted me to date other girls. To want—crave—other girls. Happy now, kitten?

“Do you understand?” I demand.

“Yes. But Frosty?” Camilla pauses, frowns as if she’s just hit a brick wall. “Wait. What’s your first name?”

I straighten and latch onto the subject change as if it’s a life raft. In a way, it is. “That’s delving into personal territory, don’t you think?”

“A first name is personal to you? Hardly. I know the first name of my former mailman and believe me, there’s nothing personal about our relationship. He’s, like, three hundred years old.”

“Don’t care. I’m not telling you my name.”

“Why not? Is it embarrassing? I bet it’s embarrassing.”

“Give me an example of what you consider embarrassing.”

“Dick. Or Dijon.”

“I only wish my name was Dijon.”

“Because you like to be the condiment in a flesh sandwich?” She smirks up at me. “I remember your ‘friend.’” She air quotes the word. “She would have done anything you asked, even a three-way.”

“I’m not interested in a three-way. Never have been.” Despite my recent behavior, I actually prefer to be in love with my partner. Don’t get me wrong. I adore the act of touching and kissing and being together, but I want it to mean something, because I’m vulnerable in those moments—hours—with all my defenses down, and I like to know my girl is right there with me, giving as much as she takes. “What about you?”

“I’m a little too territorial to share.”

“Do you have a special friend?” Someone she sleeps with on a regular basis.

Her chin goes up another inch, her cheeks reddening. “That information is personal, and as we agreed, the two of us won’t travel that road. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She saunters to the couch, claims the remote and flips on the TV, pretending I don’t exist.

Damn it. Now I’m more curious about her than ever and slightly annoyed. Is she sleeping with someone on a regular basis? And why the hell do I care so much about the answer?

* * *

I take the bed once again, forcing Camilla to take the couch. Ungentlemanly, I know, but I have a point to prove to us both. She’s nothing to me. Nothing except a means to an end, just like I told her.