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“Well, goddamn,” I heard a too-familiar voice say. “Look who’s trying to brush some of the loser off her.”
Gritting my teeth, I glanced up to see Clive standing by my booth. Clive was my ex-boyfriend Randy’s “best bud.” Randy was a total package piece of shit, i.e., a cheating, drugged out asshole who’d convinced me that buying a stolen car from another of his “best buds” was a great idea. But Clive was on a whole ’nother level. He and I were about the same height, but he was probably double my weight, and it wasn’t fat, either. It was all muscle—and far too much muscle for his size. Clive was also the friendly neighborhood dealer when it came to pills and steroids. And yes, much to my regret, I used to get most of my pills from him, even knowing how much of a skeevy jackass he was. Then, after the zombieism took care of that addiction, he and Randy had tried to get me to steal the pills the coroner’s office confiscated so that he could turn around and sell them. Considering that my answer had been “fuck off,” I probably wasn’t his favorite person right now.
A quick glance around confirmed that Randy wasn’t with him, which was a damn good thing because Clive was more than enough asshole for me to be willing to tolerate right now.
“Hi, Clive. Now go away.” I bent my head back to my book, then cursed as he snatched it off the table and started paging through it.
“Oh yeah,” he said with a sneer. “I forgot that you’re a dropout.” He dropped the book back on the table, narrowly missing my plate. “Oh wait, no, I read about you in the paper this morning. Talked a lot about you—you being an ignorant felon and all. You lost a body, right?” He laughed. “How the fuck do you lose a body?”
I knew people were staring, but I suddenly realized what was happening. He was baiting me, most likely because I’d dumped his best buddy, and also because I’d refused to steal drugs from the coroner’s office for him to sell.
Thankfully the manager chose that moment to walk up to my table. A burly man who’d supposedly worked as a pro wrestler for a while, he clearly wasn’t cowed one bit by Clive’s steroid driven bulk. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said to me in a soft rumble while his eyes never left Clive. “This gentleman bothering you?”
I exhaled in relief. “Yeah. Actually he is.”
A thin smile creased the manager’s mouth. “Sir, I think it’s time for you to get the fuck out of this establishment and never come back.”
Clive’s sneer deepened, but his eyes flicked over the manager’s bulk as he clearly came to the realization that this was a battle he’d be hard pressed to come out of unbloodied. “This place fucking sucks anyway.” He snorted, then turned to me. “We’re not finished. You fucking owe me.”
“Get over yourself, Clive,” I said. “I don’t owe you shit.”
He probably would have said something else but the manager took a step toward him. Clive turned and stalked out, and as soon as the door closed behind him I was surprised by a scattering of applause from the rest of the diners.
The manager grinned and gave a slight bow, then turned to me, expression more serious. “That guy’s trouble,” he said in a quiet and surprisingly gentle voice. “I’ll walk you out to your car when you finish eating.” It wasn’t a request.
“Thanks,” I said fervently. I might be a badass zombie, but having an ex-wrestler bodyguard, even for a few minutes, was even better.
He smiled and gave me a rough pat on the shoulder before walking off. I dug into my pie and discovered that I didn’t really need comforting anymore at all.
My dad was asleep in the recliner when I got back home. Head tipped back and snoring softly, cigarette ash dotted the front of his shirt and a butt smoldered in the ashtray on the end table. I sighed and stubbed it out. I thought about getting a blanket and covering him up, but I knew that his back would be killing him if he slept all night in the chair.
“Dad.” I gave his shoulder a mild shake. “Hey, Dad, you should go on to bed.”
He blinked his eyes open, focused on me with an uncertain frown. “Angelkins…what you doin’ here?”
“I live here, last I checked.”
He snorted with a touch of derision, and I couldn’t blame him. Last week I’d spent four nights over at Marcus’s place, and the only reason it hadn’t been seven was because he worked the other three nights, and I didn’t feel right staying there by myself.
“C’mon,” I said. “You should go on to bed or your back will hurt you in the morning.” I took his hand and started to help him out, but he pulled it away.
“I’m not an old man,” he said with a scowl. “I don’t need help getting out of a damn chair.”
“Fine, whatever. I just don’t want you to hurt ’cause you’ll be a cranky asshole in the morning.”
He levered himself up out of the chair. “Bullshit. I’m a cranky asshole all the time. Don’t make no difference if I hurt.”
“You won’t hear me arguing,” I shot back.
He snorted, then gave a grimace as he stretched his back out. “Fuck this getting old shit. Don’t ever do it.”
An odd wave of sadness swept through me. There was a very good chance I wouldn’t grow old—at least not the way he was. As far as I knew, I would never have to deal with the usual shit like arthritis and wrinkles. Look at Kang. He’d been in his seventies and looked like he was in his early twenties. “You’re not old, Dad. You’re just beat up. You got a couple of decades to annoy me still.”
“Yeah, I gotta do what I’m good at, right?” He shuffled toward the kitchen. “Don’t suppose you brought home any food?”
I winced. I hadn’t even thought about stopping by the store. “No. But I can order a pizza if you want.”
He waved a hand. “Nah. Take too long. I think we got some mac and cheese.”
