Dead Sexy (7 page)

A warm hand rested on my arm as Hick stepped in close to me again. He pressed a cool glass into my hand. Beer? Or something stronger? I opened my eyes and took a sip, smiling when I recognized the same pale ale that I’d been drinking all night. Another sip and Hick took the glass away from me. He put it down on a nearby table and slid into position against me. He wrapped a hand around my waist, cupping my ass with his hand. “Damn, Gemma. You feel good.”

My stomach churned. Was this what falling in love was supposed to feel like?

I’m not exactly an expert on men—I’ve had one steady boyfriend my entire life, and he left me for California and a Biter free existence—but Hick seemed like the total package. Smart, funny. He’d even worn his best jeans for our date. Most importantly, he was alive.

So, why wasn’t I more excited?

I rested my hand on his chest, and his heart beat under my fingertips. His breath was hot against my skin. My body tingled in eager anticipation as his mouth descended on mine. His lips were dry. His mouth was wet. His tongue was thick and unfamiliar in my mouth.

I shuddered and pulled away… suddenly uncertain. I needed another drink. I reached out for the glass on the table and blinked in amazement as I spotted a familiar face in the back of the room.

George D. Fitzgerald.

Death had deepened his wrinkles and given his dark skin an unnatural pallor, but he was still recognizable from the photograph in his parents’ house. Besides, the tattoo on his neck was unmistakable.

I grabbed my bag from the table and pulled out my stun gun. Then I grabbed my phone.

“Gemma.” Hick grabbed my arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The thing that used to be George turned and started walking away. Had he spotted me? Or, was he just too old to enjoy the music?

Either way, I didn’t have time to waste on explanations. I yanked my arm away from Hick and started pushing my way through the crowd, dialing my phone while I moved. Men and women closed around me. Hands tugged at my dress and noise filled my ears. The scent of sour beer surrounded me. The phone rang once, twice. I kept moving. Three times.

“D.S.,” D.S. answered.

“You remember where you dropped me off?” I asked.

“Who is this?” There was a slight pause. “Gemma?”

“I’m in the club next door. I spotted George Fitzgerald the younger. Undead and kicking.”

“Hell,” he swore. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

It would take longer than that for D.S. to get back across town. I hit the ‘end’ button on my phone and dropped it back into my purse. George was making a break for it out the front door.

Had he spotted me? Or, did he just have someplace better to be? I dodged forward, avoiding a woman in a silver mini-dress and a bouncer in a black t-shirt with the bar’s name plastered on the front.

Outside, it had grown dark and the lack of sunlight knocked the temperature down a few degrees. It wasn’t cold, exactly, but that didn’t stop a shiver from going down my spine. What the hell was I doing? Chasing a rogue Biter was serious business. I needed a full set of gear—not just a half charged stun gun—and a pair of pants. Leather. Denim. Anything that would cover my legs and protect me from stray chompers.

The street outside the bar was wide and open. One side was all beautiful wooden buildings constructed more than a hundred years ago and the other side was all car repairs and concrete boxes built when they’d expanded the road back in the seventies. Not the most-scenic spot in town, but the streetlights worked.

In Detroit, that was something to be thankful for.

The road to the left was the restaurant and a long straightaway. Any lumbering Biter would be easy to spot. To the right there were alleys and a few small bars.

I turned right and kept moving, fast, searching the shadows for a tattooed zombie. I was turning down a dark alley when a black car roared up next to me. Not my truck. The thing was large and luxurious—Detroit born and bred—full of all American muscle. If it wasn’t this year’s model then, it was last year’s. Either way, the thing was expensive.

A tinted window rolled down. “Get in.”

Damn straight. I let out a sigh of relief and skidded around the car to get in on the passenger side. “He was here a minute ago. I definitely saw him. In the bar. I just don’t know where he went.”

“Right, we’ll find him.” The crisp button-down shirt was the same, but D.S. had traded out his tailored suit for a pair of jeans. Not designer, but they fitted him well and looked comfortable. The denim was worn through at the knees. He put a foot on the clutch and slipped the car into gear. “How was your date?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?” The car started rolling slowly down the alleyway, searching backwards and forwards. “I warned.”

“He was very nice, actually.” I scrambled through my purse. “I should call him. Let him know that I won’t be back.”

“Why bother?”

My teeth ground together angrily. “This whole jealousy thing is getting old.”

D.S. grinned, his teeth pulling back into a sizzling smile that sent an intense spike of white-hot lust down my spine. “I’m a fan of the classics. Anyway, the man’s an idiot. You deserve better than Hector.”

“It’s not Hector,” I corrected. “It’s Hickory.”

The Biter’s mouth dropped into a surly frown. “I will never understand this era’s obsession with unique names.”

“Says the guy who insists everyone walk around calling him D.S.”

“It’s a title. Not a name. Having you call me D.S., it keeps our relationship professional. That’s important. I’m your employer—your boss—I don’t want there to be any confusion. I don’t want you to think I’d take advantage of the situation.” D.S.’s fingers stroked against my wrist. His touch was cool, steady. Not the hot grasping hands of a mortal man, but not entirely unpleasant. “You’re smart and funny. You’ve got a backbone… I like you.” His gaze flickered to my mouth. “I more than like you.”

Was he going to kiss me? My heart was bee-bopping away inside my chest. “You’re a Biter. A zombie. You can’t like anyone.”

“You’d be surprised.” D.S.’s eyes were dark with lust. His grip on my wrist tightened, but he didn’t make me feel hemmed in or threatened. He just held my hand as a wave of primal desire swept through my body.

Dead, I reminded myself.

Not just sort-of dead.

Really dead.

Off limits dead.

Then a body landed on the hood of the car, and I forgot all about my crazy libido.

The body was big, heavy, and unmistakable. It was definitely George D. Fitzgerald. Or, it had been a couple of minutes earlier. Now, there was a hole in his head the size of my fist. The man was dead. Not “I got bitten by a zombie, but wait three days and I’ll be walking around talking like a moron” dead. But the other more permanent kind of dead.

Blood smeared the windshield and coated the hood of the car. The motor sputtered and cutout. The body lay crumpled.

Shit, Alice Fitzgerald was going to freak. Her son had been attacked, slaughtered, brought back, and now he was finally gone. Trash in the gutter.

I hopped out of the car and looked up at the nearby rooftops, searching the darkness for the perpetrators. No such luck. The alley was still. The only sounds came from cars rolling down the nearby street. It was a Motor City lullaby, familiar and relaxing.

D.S. tried to start the car. Once. Twice. The sedan rumbled, but the motor refused to catch. The corpse had done more damage than I’d thought. The sound of other cars suddenly wasn’t so relaxing after all.

D.S. exited the car, stepping around to get a better vantage point.

“Can you see them?” I asked.

“No.” His face was hard in the darkness. “I can smell them.”

That was a creepy superpower I’d been better off not knowing about. What else could he smell? The meat I’d had for dinner? The drink I’d had at the club? The warm scent of my desire when he’d smiled at me? I shifted uncomfortably, wishing I’d thought to put on some more deodorant before my date.

“Anything I should know?” I asked.

“They’re coming this way.” He grabbed my arm. “Something else. You know what I told you last night. About war… About the only thing matters being the guy in the hole next to you.” There was a slight pause. His head dipped until it was only an inch from mine. His dark eyes gleamed in the night. “You matter.”

His lips brushed against mine, soft at first and then a little bit harder. His mouth brought with it a taste of whiskey and the briefest sensation of flying.

Surprise gripped me. I couldn’t pull away. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stand there in amazement as the zombie kissed me.

That’s when the monsters attacked. Two of them, rolling out of the darkness like twin bowling balls of doom.

They’d been big men when they were alive. They were bigger now that they were dead. Bloat distorted their corpses and masked their features.

I jerked away from D.S. “Where’s your gun?”

No need to answer. Not when it was already in his hands. Still, for a man holding a loaded firearm, D.S. didn’t look particularly happy. “I’ve only got six bullets.”

“And?”

“There are more than six of them.”

Shit. I spun; blinking in surprise as more corpses came lumbering out of the dark.

My hand went to the stun gun I’d been holding since I left the restaurant. Had I recharged it when I went back to the office? Could I get off one shot? Two?

It wouldn’t matter, not when the rest of the dead men were eating my brains.

One of the dead men was hanging a little further back than the others. Dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, he almost looked human. Except any human would have been sweating bullets wearing flannel in Detroit’s summer heat. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and flicked it on.

The world went still.

My gaze focused on the Biter in the back. Was he the leader? His gaze darted back and forth between my face and his smartphone screen. Like he was checking something.

“That. Is. Her,” the Biter said in a staccato voice. “Get. The. Guy. Too. The. Boss. Won’t. Like. It. If. We. Leave. Witnesses.”

Nice. Not just any old gang of zombies then. These flesh eaters were organized.

I did a quick head count. There were eight zombies in the alley—in varying states of decay—but more were pouring in around the corner. The best way to take them out would be using a deadly weapon with a curb weight of four thousand pounds. “Are you sure the car won’t start?”

“Not worth the risk,” D.S. said. “They get us pinned in there, we’re meat.”

Right. I palmed my knife and dropped my bag for ease of movement.

Like my mother always says, you only get one shot at making a first impression. I wanted these thugs to know that I wasn’t just some girl to be discarded; a victim waiting to happen.

I’d fought and clawed my way into a hunting license, and I’d been proving myself ever since.

This was not my day to die.

10.             

The bloated Biters struck first, running straight at D.S. As far as zombies go, they all pretty much stick to one-fighting style: throw yourself at a victim and bite down on anything soft. It’s not exactly elegant, but it works.

Unless the intended victim’s holding a loaded gun.

D.S. shot twice in the dark at moving targets. The first zombie went down. His head exploding like a ripe watermelon. The second guy took a direct shot to the chest. If he’d been human, it would have killed him.

It just made him mad.

Not that I had much time to pay attention. A few seconds later, and the other monsters were throwing themselves in my direction. Squeezed in between the car and a brick wall, the zombies could only come at me one at a time, but that was still one too many.

The first guy struck with supernatural speed and strength. His jaw snapped down like a shark on chum, but I’d already stepped away.

My back slammed against D.S.’s body, and I brought my knife up at the same time the Biter struck again. I’d been aiming for his eye, but I stuck my knife straight into his mouth instead. The sharp blade sliced its way through his soft palate. I must have hit something important because a moment later he gurgled and fell to the ground.

The next zombie was on me before I could think. My body moved automatically. I shifted onto my back foot, turned into him, and kicked him in the gut. The thing stumbled back a few steps. By the time he regained his footing, I had my knife ready.

I slammed the blade into his eye, spun, and jammed the hilt against a broad Biter forehead. My breath was coming faster. My heart was slamming against my chest. The leather wrapped hilt was solid, heavy. I could feel bone splintering underneath my blow.

Three Biters down in as many minutes.

All the years of training—the yoga classes and the self-defense lessons—suddenly seemed worthwhile. While other girls were going on dates and learning how to flirt, I’d been getting my Ph.D. in kicking ass and taking names.

D.S. wasn’t doing so badly himself. He’d taken down his second zombie with a solid blow to the solar plexus and a clear shot to the head. Now, we were fighting back to back. A matched set of Bite Me Bobby action figures up against the ravening hordes.

The plaid wearing zombie pushed his way through the crowd. “Know. Why. I. Am. In. Charge?” He demanded.

“All the high IQ zombies slept in?”

“Not. Quite.” He grinned and balled his hands into fists; real fists with the thumb on the outside. “I. Can. Fight.” There was a slight pause as he shimmied into place, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer getting ready for a big match. “When. I. Was. Alive. I. Used. To. Be. Pretty. Good. At. It.”

Shit. I had the sudden desire to run. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible. Not with zombies coming at us from every direction.

D.S. shot twice, trying to clear a path through the crowd. It was no use. He tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans and raised his fists up into position. “You want me to take the loud mouth?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” I took a deep breath, trying to remember everything I’d learned down at the boxing gym in Mexican Town. Okay, maybe I didn’t need to remember everything… just enough to keep me alive.