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

“Hit and run. Nice.”

“I’m a warrior poet. What can I say?”

“If you tell me you respect me too much to sleep with me, I think I’ll go ahead and spill your intestines.”

“Please. You’d have to break your famous control for that.”

She curls onto her side to face me—but she doesn’t relinquish my hand. “Famous? Do tell.”

“You’re a legend. Everyone watched you with Tiffany, knew you wanted to lash out at her, but you kept your cool and asked your questions in a calm, serial-killer kind of way, always rolling with the punches.”

“Well, I learned from the best. My father was a different man for different people. His way of ensuring everyone loved him, I guess, and gave him whatever he wanted. No one saw the monster lurking under his smile.” She traces her thumb over my palm. “You’re good at what you do, too. And vicious. You go for the kill shot every time, without hesitation. It’s poetry in motion.”

“Yeah, well, you do this cool wrist thing that turns your swords into a pair of scissors. Your every motion is fluid. I do it, and I look like a three-year-old trying to cut along the lines.”

“You never miss a shot,” she says. “Sometimes I have to readjust my aim.”

“You aren’t afraid of needles. I see one, and I start crying like a baby.”

“I’ve never seen you cry.”

“It’s on the inside.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, your tattoos are awesome.”

I rub the one in the center of my chest. The heart I continually add to as my friends die. “Your tattoos far surpass awesome. I know you did the compass, but what about the others?”

“I did the ones I could reach. River did the rest.”

Dude. “I know who will be giving me my next one. Hint—her name starts with Milla and ends with Marks.”

“No way. The only other person I’ve ever tattooed is River, and only because he can fix everything I mess up.”

“Flaws are human,” I tell her. “I like flaws.”

Her smile returns, slow and bright. “I always liked to draw, and one day River decided he wanted a tattoo. He stole the equipment and had me practice on oranges. When he decided I was good enough, he asked me to cover some of his scars.”

Scars caused by their shit excuse for a dad. “Why Betrayal?”

She hesitates. “It’s a reminder that the cost of betrayal is far too high.”

Yes. Always. “Why the pink ribbon on your foot?”

An air of sadness overtakes her. “As a little girl, Caro and I... We...” Her chin trembles. “I loved to dance.”

Treading carefully, purposely keeping my tone light, I say, “You can talk to me about her. I’ll never use her against you.”

She stiffens, sighs. “I forget you saw her death. But it’s hard, you know. I want to honor her, but even saying her name fills me with guilt and regret. I didn’t protect her.”

“You were a child.”

“I could have told someone what was happening.”

“You were scared.”

“And that fear cost me dearly. When she died, a part of me died with her. The best part. Her part. She made me whole. Now I’m only half a human, if that makes any sense.”

“The guilt and regret belong to your father, sweet pea, not you.”

“Easy to say, harder to accept.”

I tighten my hold on her hand, letting her know I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.

“We wanted to be ballerinas, but we couldn’t afford lessons. And even if we could, we couldn’t have gone because, from the shoulders down, we were always covered in bruises. The pink ribbon reminds me of her, of our dream. To always hope for something better.”

I smooth the hair from her cheek. “No one ever noticed, stepped in and tried to help you?”

“We moved around a lot. Mom homeschooled us until she took off. And we wore long sleeves all year round, even during the hottest part of summer. No one ever asked why.”

I’m a no-good piece of shit. This girl has been to hell and back—multiple times—and I have only ever added to her problems.

“Why a compass?” I run my thumb over her wrist, surprised when her pulse jumps up to greet me. “To find your way?”

“Exactly.”

I trace my fingers over a beautifully detailed dove. “And this?”

“You’re familiar with Scripture, I’m guessing. You wear the Lord’s Prayer.”

“I am, and I do.” Before she died, Cole’s mom took us to church every Sunday. I saw—see—so much of myself in our lessons. Good versus evil. Dark versus light. Hope versus defeat. Forgiveness versus resentment. “The dove represents love, joy, kindness, patience and peace.”

“That’s right. I thought if I couldn’t have those things in real life, I could have them in my skin.” She scoots a little closer. “What about your parents?”

“I don’t know my biological parents. I was adopted as a kid, and my parents loved me, they just weren’t equipped to deal with someone like me. A little wild—”

“A lot wild.”

I grin. “A fighter. Ornery. A sass mouth, my mother used to say. She and Dad were killed by zombies. We knew nothing about Blood Lines, and three undead were able to enter our home. They sensed me, but reached my parents first. I heard screams and raced into the living room. My parents didn’t know why they were in pain, patches of their skin turning black, but I did. I could see the monsters. For the first time, my hands lit up, which is the only reason I survived.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. My aunt and uncle raised me after that, but they were even less equipped to deal with someone like me. An outsider. A weirdo. And wow, look at me, complaining. I was never beaten.”

“Like that matters. You shouldn’t compare your pain to mine. You suffered, plain and simple.”

I trace the shell of her ear. “You make me wish...”

A shiver dances over her. “What?”

I caress her jawline, the line of her neck, the rise of her shoulder, reveling in the softness of her skin. The goose bumps rising in my wake entrance me—and once again I’m hard as a rock.

“What?” she repeats softly. “What do you wish?”

Not going to hit and run, remember? I force my arm to my side and roll away from her. “Nothing. I’m tired. Good night, Milla.”

There’s a slight pause, a crackle of disappointment before she responds. “Good night, Frosty. Sweet dreams.”

Awareness erodes my delicious lethargy, and I blink open my eyes. I’m warm, toasty and relaxed...and I’m in a room I don’t recognize. Before I can work up a good panic, memories flood me. The Z-battle and near defeat. Tiffany. Wrestling with Frosty—being caressed by him, sharing stories with him. Sleeping next to him.

Tingles raze each of my nerve endings. As I scan the layout of our bodies, I realize I’m not next to him anymore. I’m freaking on top of him!

His heart thumps against my temple, and his luscious heat envelops me. One of his arms, firm and sure, drapes my lower back, while the other nestles in my hair. My legs straddle one of his. Hello, Seabiscuit.

I’ve never woken up with a boy. Mace always took off before sunrise, not wanting River to see us together “until we’re ready to share our love with others.” Liar! The rest of my losers took off soon after they’d gotten what they wanted, leaving me confused and just plain sad.

I like this. I like it more than anything ever...which is the very reason I gather the strength to stand and tiptoe to the bathroom.

Sore muscles scream in protest as I brush my teeth and hair and take care of business. When I exit, Frosty is still sleeping, thank God; I’m able to sneak out of the bedroom undetected.

I take a few wrong turns and end up back where I started, bumping into Chance as he quietly shuts Love’s door. Of all the people in all the mansions in all the world...