Read Online White Trash Zombie Apocalypse by Diana Rowland - Free Book Online
Authors: Diana Rowland
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that Heels had owned it wasn’t exactly a glowing recommendation in my eyes.
Who the hell do I think I am, pretending to fit in with important, influential people?
Yet even as I thought it, Nick’s face came to mind as though he’d heard the negative self-talk and was prepared to give me a heap of shit for thinking so little of myself.
Get over it
,
Nick,
I thought with a stifled snort of amusement.
You’re not the one playing Goodwill Girl meets Congresswoman
.
Oblivious to my inner angst, Pietro steered me to a table where a slim, dark haired woman sat, thirtyish or so, and looking perfectly at ease in a sleek navy-blue skirt suit. Under the table, I noted the bulk of an air cast on her right leg and a cane leaning against her chair.
Not a zombie then
, I realized. Not with unhealed injuries. Unless she was faking it too? Whatever the deal was, I had no doubt there was a connection between her possibly-fake injuries and Pietro’s definitely-fake one.
“Jane,” Pietro said with a warmth in his voice that surprised me. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Angel Crawford. Angel, Dr. Jane Pennington.”
My confidence increased as I managed to do the handshake and “pleased to meet you” thing without embarrassing myself.
“And please call me Jane,” she insisted with a smile. A moment later, Marcus found us and was duly introduced as well. We all got seated, and I tried not to focus on how very out of my depth I was. Good grief, first name basis with a frickin’ congresswoman? Me? What alternate universe had I slipped into?
“And now, with a full table, I can have a few minutes peace,” Jane said with a chuckle.
The drumming of rain on the tent eased to a soft hiss of drizzle. Marcus laid his arm across the back of mychair in a gesture that felt juuuuust right, not too possessive and not too distant. For the next few minutes the conversation shifted to topics that ranged from neutral to mildly amusing—nothing that required a great deal of thought or effort.
A sharp increase in the buzz of the crowd drew our attention to the outside walkway.
“What on earth?” Jane murmured. She straightened and peered in the direction of the increasing murmurs and laughter.
I followed her gaze and drew in a sharp breath. Ten or so zombies shambled down the sidewalk between the tents, giving low moans of “
Braaaiiins”
and reaching toward people at tables. I shot a quick look at Pietro, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. If anything he looked indulgently pleased.
Duh, they’re the movie zombies!
I realized with a wash of relief. What a perfect place to do some promo and fish for more investors. Everybody who was anybody was here. Money. Lots of money.
“Oh my god, Pietro,” Jane breathed. “They look amazing!”
“New makeup people,” he commented, eyes on the lurching actors.
“You’re an investor, Uncle Pietro?” Marcus asked.
His uncle nodded. “One of several. Having the movie here is a nice boost to the local economy. In fact the other investors are here tonight as well. J. M. Farouche, Francis Renauld, and Nicole and Andrew Saber.” He gave a nod toward the fake zombies. “I have no doubt this performance is partly to reassure us that our money is being well-spent.” Pietro’s mouth twitched in amusement.
As the hideous group made its way past, a zombie woman with half a face groaned “
Braaaiiins”
and lifted a shredded hand toward us. Another zombie with abloody face and protruding guts lurched toward Nicole Saber, who took a half-step back, an expression of genuine interest on her face. She peered closely at the extra as if assessing the realism and quality of her investment, then dismissed him with a laugh and wave of her hand. Beside her, Andrew Saber took a sip of his drink and looked on with utter disinterest.
Marcus grinned, leaned close to me. “Weird as hell, right?” he murmured.
I bit back a laugh. “Yes!”
Marcus turned to Pietro. “How many extras
Who the hell do I think I am, pretending to fit in with important, influential people?
Yet even as I thought it, Nick’s face came to mind as though he’d heard the negative self-talk and was prepared to give me a heap of shit for thinking so little of myself.
Get over it
,
Nick,
I thought with a stifled snort of amusement.
You’re not the one playing Goodwill Girl meets Congresswoman
.
Oblivious to my inner angst, Pietro steered me to a table where a slim, dark haired woman sat, thirtyish or so, and looking perfectly at ease in a sleek navy-blue skirt suit. Under the table, I noted the bulk of an air cast on her right leg and a cane leaning against her chair.
Not a zombie then
, I realized. Not with unhealed injuries. Unless she was faking it too? Whatever the deal was, I had no doubt there was a connection between her possibly-fake injuries and Pietro’s definitely-fake one.
“Jane,” Pietro said with a warmth in his voice that surprised me. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Angel Crawford. Angel, Dr. Jane Pennington.”
My confidence increased as I managed to do the handshake and “pleased to meet you” thing without embarrassing myself.
“And please call me Jane,” she insisted with a smile. A moment later, Marcus found us and was duly introduced as well. We all got seated, and I tried not to focus on how very out of my depth I was. Good grief, first name basis with a frickin’ congresswoman? Me? What alternate universe had I slipped into?
“And now, with a full table, I can have a few minutes peace,” Jane said with a chuckle.
The drumming of rain on the tent eased to a soft hiss of drizzle. Marcus laid his arm across the back of mychair in a gesture that felt juuuuust right, not too possessive and not too distant. For the next few minutes the conversation shifted to topics that ranged from neutral to mildly amusing—nothing that required a great deal of thought or effort.
A sharp increase in the buzz of the crowd drew our attention to the outside walkway.
“What on earth?” Jane murmured. She straightened and peered in the direction of the increasing murmurs and laughter.
I followed her gaze and drew in a sharp breath. Ten or so zombies shambled down the sidewalk between the tents, giving low moans of “
Braaaiiins”
and reaching toward people at tables. I shot a quick look at Pietro, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. If anything he looked indulgently pleased.
Duh, they’re the movie zombies!
I realized with a wash of relief. What a perfect place to do some promo and fish for more investors. Everybody who was anybody was here. Money. Lots of money.
“Oh my god, Pietro,” Jane breathed. “They look amazing!”
“New makeup people,” he commented, eyes on the lurching actors.
“You’re an investor, Uncle Pietro?” Marcus asked.
His uncle nodded. “One of several. Having the movie here is a nice boost to the local economy. In fact the other investors are here tonight as well. J. M. Farouche, Francis Renauld, and Nicole and Andrew Saber.” He gave a nod toward the fake zombies. “I have no doubt this performance is partly to reassure us that our money is being well-spent.” Pietro’s mouth twitched in amusement.
As the hideous group made its way past, a zombie woman with half a face groaned “
Braaaiiins”
and lifted a shredded hand toward us. Another zombie with abloody face and protruding guts lurched toward Nicole Saber, who took a half-step back, an expression of genuine interest on her face. She peered closely at the extra as if assessing the realism and quality of her investment, then dismissed him with a laugh and wave of her hand. Beside her, Andrew Saber took a sip of his drink and looked on with utter disinterest.
Marcus grinned, leaned close to me. “Weird as hell, right?” he murmured.
I bit back a laugh. “Yes!”
Marcus turned to Pietro. “How many extras
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