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“At least he hadn’t been in the water long,” I said. “I remember one time we picked up a body that’d been in the bayou for over a week. His skin kept slipping off as we pulled him in.”
Justine listened in morbid fascination as I related the disgusting details. I’d come to enjoy her friendship way more than expected. Maybe because I’d never really had a female best friend before? I mean, I was friends with Naomi, and I could totally hang out with her, but somehow it wasn’t on the same level. Justine was fun yet able to be serious and understanding. Plus, she gave every indication of enjoying my friendship just as much. I had a feeling part of it was because I didn’t suck up to her, even though she was kind of famous. She could be straight-up honest with me and vent about Hollywood and the jerks she had to deal with. And while Justine didn’t know I was a zombie, I could still share my triumphs and woes on a purely human level.
“How did your audition go?” I asked once I finished describing bloated corpses.
“Oh, they totally hated me, and I’ll never work as an actor again.” She cracked up at my stricken expression. “I’m kidding. That’s what I always say. It feels like a jinx to say I thought it went well.”
“You are so weird.”
“Ha! I’m not the one who works with dead bodies.” She cocked her head. “So, are you going to be a pathologist?”
“Me?!” I scoffed. “No way. I can barely handle my two measly community college classes. And I’m probably going to drop English anyway.”
“What? Why?”
I shifted, grimaced. I’d shared a lot with Justine, but had skimmed over a few things. She knew I was an addict, but didn’t know my mom went to jail for child abuse. She knew I’d dropped out of high school, but didn’t know I had a learning disability. I’d kept stuff to myself because a stupid little seed of uncertainty refused to leave. Justine was cool and hot and smart. What if she decided I wasn’t worth the trouble?
That’s stupid, I told myself and stomped that little seed to dust. “Okay, well, you see, I’m dyslexic, so it takes me forever to read the assignments, and I just . . .” I stopped and gulped as her eyes went wide. “What’s wrong?”
“This is crazy,” she breathed. “I just registered for the fall semester at UCLA to finish my degree.” She leaned close to the camera. “In English education!”
“Wait. You’re going to college? But you’re an actor. You starred in a movie!”
“The acting is how I’m paying for college,” Justine said. “Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore acting, but I can’t count on it lasting forever as a career. You never know what life will throw at you, so I want to get my degree under my belt.” She drew a deep breath. “Look, the only experience I have with dyslexia is a special needs course I took two years ago, but I could probably help with everything else. Give you a little leg up at least. I mean, if you want. I don’t want to pressure you.” Her mouth quirked. “Too much.”
“That would be great,” I said then winced. “But it’s not just the dyslexia stuff. I’m supposed to write a narrative essay about a birthday party I had when I was a kid. But I’ve never had a birthday party. My mom . . . well, let’s just say my childhood sucked. I dunno. I guess I could make something up.”
Her dark brows pulled together in a frown. “Why would you make something up?”
“I don’t think the prof really wants to read about the time my mom busted my lip and burned all my toys in the back yard because I was singing ‘Happy Birthday’ too loud.”
Instead of looking shocked or pitying, Justine gave her head a firm shake. “Your prof wants you to write about what happened to you. If you make it up, he’ll know it’s bullshit, because there won’t be any real emotion in it. Besides, he knows damn well he’s going to get a bunch of essays about bad shit. The only birthdays anyone remembers are the ones where stuff went wrong.”
I let out a sigh. “Yeah, it’s always easier to remember the bad shit.”
“That’s how our brains are wired. Damn stupid design, but I guess it was good for survival at one point.” She lifted her chin. “Anyway, I’ve written a godawful number of essays in my life. I know all the tricks. I’ll help you.”
“Thanks,” I said fervently. And even if she couldn’t help me, I still had a couple of weeks to drop the class.
The conversation shifted to lighter subjects, like celebrity butts and boob jobs. Yet after we finally disconnected, my thoughts returned to her question about being a pathologist. Jeez, after chatting damn near every day for the past two and a half weeks, I’d’ve thought she knew me better than that.
I closed the laptop and checked the time. I’d lost out on half an hour of sleep, but it had been totally worth it. After finding my toothbrush and de-gunking my teeth, I changed into a night shirt, set my alarm for 4 a.m., and snuggled between sheets that smelled of lavender.
I startled awake at a hard rap on the door. “What?”
“You’re needed in the conference room.” That was Brian Archer—longtime head of Tribe security, but now second to Pierce. “We’re planning this alligator expedition.”
I fumbled for my phone. Wow. I’d managed to sleep for a whole twenty minutes. “Okay. Be there in five.”
“Make it three,” Brian said, then his footsteps retreated down the corridor.
I shot the door my middle finger then scrambled out of bed.
• • •
I changed back into my work clothes and speed-walked to the conference room, only to find it empty. Weird. I was sure Brian had said conference room. Maybe I’d misheard him and I was supposed to go to the media room? I turned to leave and ran right into the broad chest of the man himself.
“I didn’t expect you to be so fast,” Brian said as he steadied me. “I was joking about the three minutes.”
