Текст книги "A Mad Zombie Party"

Автор книги: Gena Showalter

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“I’m sorry. I had no right to go there.”

“Don’t worry.” There’s no emotion in her tone, no emotion on her features, either, but she’s rubbing her thumb against the Betrayal tattoo. “I deserve nothing less.”

Anyone else, I would have corrected. No one deserves to be dumped on like this. Her, I just can’t.

We reach the apartment, and she trudges in behind me. I look around and try to see the place through her eyes. Gritty, dingy. As far from a palatial bachelor pad as possible. I’ve hung no pictures. My furniture consists of a couch, a TV and a bed.

She picks up the bag she dropped off during her B & E. “I’m taking a shower.” Without waiting for permission, she shuts herself inside the bathroom and turns on the water.

I pad into a kitchen small enough to fit inside a Barbie playhouse. And yes, I have, in fact, played with one. Kat used to babysit her cousins, and I used to help, allowing the little princesses to “fix” my hair and paint my nails. But I can’t afford to think about the past right now. I’ll have another meltdown.

I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and drain half the contents, the liquid cool against my parched throat.

Thud.

I recognize the sound and know Camilla just dropped the soap...in the shower...where she’s naked and wet.

I hiss in a breath. I did not just go there. But...

I did go there and now I can’t get the picture of her naked and wet out of my head.

Today’s blind date clearly screwed me up. Not to mention losing Kat—again. Doesn’t help that I’m a young, red-blooded male with more testosterone than most, and Camilla is hotter than hell. There’s simply no getting around that fact.

Damn it. She represents everything wrong with my life. Worse, she’s a wild card. Is she for real? Or is she looking for the perfect opportunity to betray my group? To punish us for telling her brother she’d sided with Anima?

If I’m being honest, I don’t actually think that’s the case. She fought hard-core last night, slaying zombies—and tires—without a single moment of hesitation.

My lips twitch at the corners. No one has ever attacked my truck with such adorable menace.

I should not find her adorable.

By the time she emerges, I’ve tamed my wayward thoughts. But a cloud of steam accompanies her, smelling of roses, pecans and my soap, and...hell. My blood heats. In anger, I tell myself. Only anger. Because I don’t like my things on her body. Even my scent. Especially my scent.

Her mass of hair is wet, the ends dripping onto her already-damp tank top, rendering the material transparent. She’s wearing short shorts, her legs a mile long, with black and white roses tattooed down one side but not the other. Her feet are bare, her toenails painted princess pink, a complete surprise. I would have guessed black. On her left foot is a tattoo of—is that a dandelion? Yeah. As the seeds float away, they morph into birds. On her other foot is a tattoo of a pink ribbon crisscrossing all the way to her ankle and culminating in a bow. It’s the only etching with color and I wonder why—also wonder why my blood boils.

Kat has no tattoos. I never thought I’d like them on a girl, but Camilla, she wears them well. Very well.

“This is five seconds past awkward,” she mutters.

Caught sizing up the enemy. I should be flayed alive. “There’s not much in the fridge but feel free to take what you want.” I shut myself in the bathroom and stay in the shower until the hot water is gone and I’m being pelted by shards of ice, my mind finally back in the right place. Admiring Camilla isn’t allowed.

My motions are jerky as I dress in a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. When I step into the hall, the scent of bacon and eggs greets me, and my mouth waters. Camilla is sitting at the kitchen table, a plate of food in front of her and a plate of food in front of the only other chair. Finally, she’s eating. And despite my deplorable treatment of her, she continues to respond to me with little gestures of kindness.

I’m more baffled by her every minute of every day.

My stomach rumbles for the first time in months, and I join her at the table to dig in. After a few bites of the best (and only) bacon pancakes I’ve ever had, I mutter, “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you cook for your brother’s crew?” Is that how she developed such obvious culinary skill?

She doesn’t comment on my uncharacteristic display of curiosity and says, “No. My mom was a chef, and me and my—” A muscle clenches in her jaw. “I used to shadow her in the kitchen.”

She and...who? “Was a chef?”

“Still could be. She took off a little over nine years ago. I haven’t heard from her since.”

Making Camilla far too young to be abandoned by a loved one. But then, was there ever a right age for that kind of betrayal? “I’m sorry.”

My odd display of sympathy earns a small smile of gratitude. “What about your parents?” she asks, and a moment later, she sinks deep into her chair, realizing she’s asked a personal question I will most likely refuse to answer. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

I should take the out, but I say, “Both of my parents died when I was six. I’ve lived with an aunt and uncle until recently.” They were decent people, but they had a family of their own and it hadn’t included me, the troubled boy whose parents adopted him at the age of three.

“Your parents...did they love you?”

“Yes, but they didn’t know how to deal with a kid who saw monsters they couldn’t.”

Meeting Cole was a bona fide miracle. For the first time in my life, I’d actually felt as though I wasn’t alone.

“Losing both of your parents had to suck,” she says, “which makes this next part terrible for me to say, but... I kind of wish my dad left with my mom. He wasn’t a nice man, and the system would have been a better place for my siblings and me.”

Siblings. Plural. And just how not nice are we talking? Mentally, physically or even sexually abusive? I press my lips together to keep from asking. We’re getting way personal here. Too personal for two people who only agreed to fight zombies together, each for their own reasons.

I stand, my chair skidding behind me. As I wash my dishes, I say, “If we’re going to live together—”

“If? We are.”

“—we need to set some ground rules.”

“Agreed.” She hands me her plate and fork and arches a brow. “I cooked, you clean.”

I could refuse, just to be contrary, but I take the dishes and get to scrubbing. I want her to cook again.

“Let me guess,” she says. “Rule one. I do what you say when you say.”

“Yeah. That sounds good. Let’s go with that.” I dry my hands and face her. There’s only an arm’s length of distance between us. It’s not enough. Up close I can see the different shades of brown in her eyes, from pale amber to rich sable, and I want to kick my own ass for noticing. I take a step back.

“Rule two,” I say. “You will be honest with me at all times about everything. You get caught in a lie and you’re out, no questions asked.”

“In that case, I’d love to share my honest opinion about you. You have moments of great asshattery, and one day I’ll probably disembowel you just for grins and giggles.”

“That’s fair.”

She nudges me out of the way to fill a glass with water. “I can live with those rules.”

“Good, but I wasn’t done. Rule three,” I say. “No more personal conversations.”

Her gaze darts away from me, but not before I catch a glint of hurt. “No problem,” she says. “We will forever remain strangers.”

I frown, not liking that I’ve hurt her again and not liking that I don’t like it. “Rule four. If I want to be alone, you will leave me alone.”

Her lips purse as if she’s just sucked on a lemon. “That kind of defeats the purpose of my presence.”

“And yet it’s still a rule.”

“One I will not obey,” she says.

Girls. Can’t live with them—the end. I mean, seriously. There are two ways to argue with them, saying yes and saying no, and neither way works.

While dating Kat, I probably learned more about girls than anyone else on the planet, and yet I still know absolutely nothing about them.

I take the water glass from Camilla and set it aside. Don’t want the liquid tossed at my pretty mug as I imprison her against the counter. We were too close before and we are way too close now, but I need her to hear me and understand how serious I am.

Her eyes go wide, but not with fear. I don’t know what she’s projecting at me, not sure I want to know. Her breaths come fast and shallow.

“Maybe you were able to steamroll your brother’s crew. Maybe the guys were intimidated by you or by River, or maybe even both of you, but I’m made of tougher stuff. You step on my toes, and I’ll step on yours right back. A girl who willingly gets into the ring with me never receives special treatment. I’ll dish to her what I dish to guys.”

Up goes her chin. Light shines over her features, paying the bronze of her skin absolute tribute. She’s only a bit taller than Kat, but the added inch puts her closer to my face than I’m used to. The smell of roses and pecans is stronger now, the heat of her intense. I like it. I like it too much.

My body is obviously attracted to hers, not caring anything for my thoughts or feelings.

My body is a traitor. And so is Kat. She wanted me to date other girls. To want—crave—other girls. Happy now, kitten?

“Do you understand?” I demand.

“Yes. But Frosty?” Camilla pauses, frowns as if she’s just hit a brick wall. “Wait. What’s your first name?”

I straighten and latch onto the subject change as if it’s a life raft. In a way, it is. “That’s delving into personal territory, don’t you think?”

“A first name is personal to you? Hardly. I know the first name of my former mailman and believe me, there’s nothing personal about our relationship. He’s, like, three hundred years old.”

“Don’t care. I’m not telling you my name.”

“Why not? Is it embarrassing? I bet it’s embarrassing.”

“Give me an example of what you consider embarrassing.”

“Dick. Or Dijon.”

“I only wish my name was Dijon.”

“Because you like to be the condiment in a flesh sandwich?” She smirks up at me. “I remember your ‘friend.’” She air quotes the word. “She would have done anything you asked, even a three-way.”

“I’m not interested in a three-way. Never have been.” Despite my recent behavior, I actually prefer to be in love with my partner. Don’t get me wrong. I adore the act of touching and kissing and being together, but I want it to mean something, because I’m vulnerable in those moments—hours—with all my defenses down, and I like to know my girl is right there with me, giving as much as she takes. “What about you?”

“I’m a little too territorial to share.”

“Do you have a special friend?” Someone she sleeps with on a regular basis.

Her chin goes up another inch, her cheeks reddening. “That information is personal, and as we agreed, the two of us won’t travel that road. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She saunters to the couch, claims the remote and flips on the TV, pretending I don’t exist.

Damn it. Now I’m more curious about her than ever and slightly annoyed. Is she sleeping with someone on a regular basis? And why the hell do I care so much about the answer?

* * *

I take the bed once again, forcing Camilla to take the couch. Ungentlemanly, I know, but I have a point to prove to us both. She’s nothing to me. Nothing except a means to an end, just like I told her.

As usual, I toss and turn all night. I may have gotten my appetite back, but sleep still eludes me. And that’s probably a good thing. I’d only dream about Kat’s death, a horror show I’ve seen so many times the smallest details are forever embedded in my memory.

When the sun rises, I make my way into the living room and see Camilla asleep on the couch. She’s sitting up, and she’s sweating, her body shaking as if she’s having a seizure. I rush to her side, but by the time I reach her, she’s sagging to the side, a streak of soot left in her wake.

Soot?

She tosses and turns, and it’s obvious she’s trapped in a nightmare. I know better than to wake her. I study the tangle of her white-black hair, the rose-tint in her skin, the fragility of her features. She’s beauty and she’s the beast, rolled into one. There are cuts on her bottom lip, where she chewed just a little too hard. The strap of her tank top has fallen down her shoulder, baring bronzed, mouth-watering skin. She’s already kicked off the blanket, revealing the length of her legs. I frown when I notice jagged, raised flesh underneath several of her tattoos. Scars, and lots of them.

The thing is, when scars show on the outside, scars are usually hidden on the inside.

More questions plague me. More questions to stuff inside a mental box.

When she goes still and sighs, a signal she’s calming, the dream waning, I leap into action. “Time to wake up.” I nudge her knee with my own and her eyelids pop open.

Though she hasn’t yet focused, she kicks me in the stomach before hopping to her feet. “Frosty?” Her gaze sweeps over me, from my shirtless chest to my low-slung sweats and bare feet.

“Who else?”

Her frown is deep and intense. “If that’s how you wake a girl, no wonder you’ve had no repeat customers lately. Don’t ever jolt me like that again.”

My hands curl into fists. “I haven’t had any repeat customers because you killed the only customer I wanted.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I didn’t kill—”

I storm to the bedroom, gather clean clothes, then lock myself in the bathroom, where I take another shower to cool down. By the time I step out of the stall, there’s a handwritten note perched on my pile of clothes.

Sorry I mule-kicked you.

Camilla snuck in? She would’ve had to pick the lock and move so quietly my trained senses wouldn’t notice.

Well, well. I don’t want to be impressed. No, I really don’t.

I’m calm as I dress in a plain T-shirt, ripped jeans, combat boots and a few weapons hidden for good measure. I never leave home without a semi-arsenal, at the very least.

I step into the living room to find Camilla dressed in a lacy pink shirt and supershort skirt—short enough to make a guy pray for hundred-mile-per-hour winds. She won’t meet my gaze, and I soon learn she won’t leave my side, either.

As one week bleeds into two...three...I grow used to my shadow. We even develop a routine. After a silent breakfast, I do any schoolwork currently due, usually finishing up in one to four hours, and she plans Z-battle strategies in a notebook. We then have lunch together—again, neither of us saying a word—and work out. I try not to watch Camilla as she runs the treadmill, parts of her I shouldn’t admire bouncing.

We have dinner every night—yet another silent meal. She cooks, I do dishes. Afterward we hunt zombies. So far, there have been no new sightings. Not on our end, and not on Cole’s. He and I text each other every night with a progress report. Actually, he texts me all the damn time. All my friends do. What I find on my phone this morning?

Gavin: Giving up the brunettes 4 a tattooed blonde? Sucker! I like a girl who goes 4 the home run rather than the throat.

Bronx: River showed up w/a cage full of Zs so the recruits could get real-world fighting experience. Have U ever seen a kid shit his pants, bro? Once upon a time, I could have said no. Someone bleach my corneas. Please.

Ali: Zombie pickup line! U LOOK SO GOOD I WANT 2 HAVE U OVER 4 DINNER. Hahahaha get it???

I’ve finally started texting back.

To Gavin: U used 2 B a player—now UR not. Get over it. Also, U suck—& I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

To Bronx: Kids these days R pussies. Wouldn’t know a right cross from a left cross. Teach them—& send me vid

To Ali: What about: I love a girl w/BRAAAINS

Not everything is on track, though. Camilla has had a nightmare every night, her moans drawing me out of bed. I’ve witnessed the ends of her fingers catching fire. A flame here, a flame there, though they never burn more than a few seconds—but even that’s too long. Explains the soot, at least.

What I can’t reason out? Why the flames are the color of blood.

I dose her with antidote every morning, and a few times Reeve has come over to collect blood samples for testing. But whatever the cause of the odd-colored flames, Camilla is always in top form during the day. The perfect bodyguard.

Once, we were ambling down a sidewalk and a car backfired. She jumped in front of me, thinking someone was shooting at me. And every time I enter a building, she insists on going in first, just in case someone is lying in wait.

She takes her role seriously and...hell, it’s starting to bother me. Despite everything, I don’t want her taking a bullet meant for me, even if she won’t be harmed. Hell, she’d probably like it better if she was harmed. The way she rubs that Betrayal tattoo, yeah, I know guilt is her constant companion.

“Frosty? Are you even listening to me?” Kat snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Your words are poetry,” I say out of habit. “Of course I’m listening.”

She visits me once a day, as promised, but only for an hour. Today, I chose to spend our time in the kitchen rather than my bedroom. Don’t ask me why.

Because the counter has been doused in Blood Lines, she’s able to sit in front of me, legs crossed, as I eat a perfectly mediocre sandwich. Camilla is in the living room, watching TV and enjoying a bowl of what she calls SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs. Somehow she was able to turn a canned mess into a gourmet meal with sautéed peppers and a mix of spices.

“Frosty,” Kat says on a sigh.

“I’m one hundred percent invested in this conversation.” I want a bite of those SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs so bad I’m willing to risk a forking to get it.

“You’re killing me here,” Kat mutters.

I glare at her.

She smirks.

Every day, I’ve tried to charm her, to make her fall in love with me again. Today, though, my heart just isn’t in it. She’s resisted me at every turn, kept me in the friend zone, and my shredded heart just can’t take anymore.

I love you, kitten.

I love you, too. Hey, ask Ali about such and such girl. She’s pretty.

I’m tired, so tired. And hell, did Camilla just take the last bite of those SpaghettiOs-oh-ohs?

“You feeling okay?” Kat waves her hand to encompass my entire body. “Or are you coming down with something?”

Used to be, she would have given me a sizzling kiss and said something like, “If you’re going to die of plague, I’m going to die of plague.” She’d had a spark, a zest for life. Now? She’s all business all the time.

“I’m fine,” I say and glance—again—at Camilla.

She looks away hastily. Has she been watching me? The way I’ve so often found myself watching her...

“Usually I have to tell a guy to look away from my boobs,” Kat says, “not another girl.”

I grit my teeth. “You want me to fall for another girl, remember? You insist on it. You can’t get pissed when I oblige.”

“Not her,” she says quietly. “Anyone but her.”

I don’t want Camilla, not like that—damn it, I don’t.

A beep sounds from my phone, saving me from a reply. Kat attempts to lift the device, but her hand ghosts through it and she growls with frustration, banging a fist against the counter, rattling my plate.

I read the text to her. “Cole says knock, knock.”

“That’s it?”

I nod and set the phone aside.

“Well. Aren’t you going to respond to him?”

“Later.” My phone beeps again. “Knock, knock,” I read.

“Frosty,” Kat says on another sigh.

Fine. I type, Who’s there?

Cole: Me. I’m @ UR door. Open up.

Knock, knock.

The noise actually comes from my front door. My gaze lands on Camilla, and she stands, her body tense.

“I know you’re in there,” Cole calls through the wood. “I’m not leaving.”

Kat smiles at me with a mix of affection and sadness. “He’s got a proposition for you. You’ll want to say no, but I expect you to suck it up and say yes.” A second later, she’s gone.

Thank God for distractions. I wasn’t sure how much more Slayer and Ghost: A Love Story I could take. And okay. All right. Part of my irritation stems from my fascination. Frosty used to transform from caterpillar to butterfly every time Kat visited. His features would freaking glow. He would laugh and joke. Today, however, not even Kat is able to cheer him up. He’s as sullen and snappy with her as he is with me. Why?

Has he finally given up on her?

Do I want him to?

Well, I’m not gonna think about it right now. We have a visitor. Hopefully he’ll stay awhile, and I won’t have to spend the evening worrying about the coming nightmare. And it will come. I have one every night now, no exceptions.

I palm a dagger¸ just in case Cole’s here under duress, and move in front of Frosty to open the door.

Nope. No one has a gun to Cole’s head. My weapon goes back into its sheath.

The beautiful Cole is not alone, however. Ali and Gavin flank him, both giants compared to me.

Cole and Ali nod at me. Gavin wiggles his brows.

“I can answer my own door, thanks.” Frosty comes up beside me.

“You can, but you won’t.”

He glares at me before focusing on his friends. “What’s up?”

“My blood pressure if you don’t let me in.” Ali pushes her way past us.

Cole follows suit. “Love, Justin, Jaclyn and River are on patrol with some of our new recruits.”

Love. Mackenzie Love, Cole’s ex. And Justin Silverstone. About a year ago, Justin betrayed Cole’s team and aided Anima, believing their “we make the world a better place” propaganda. When the company abducted and tortured his sister, Jaclyn, all in an effort to force him to do more, to do worse to the friends he once fought alongside, he flipped sides once again. And yes, he had to go to great lengths to earn back their trust, but in the end, he succeeded.

I can’t hope for the same. Once bonded, always bonded with this group, and I’ve never had the luxury.

“So...River’s in town,” I say. He’s out there. He’s hunting zombies, teaching newbies, living his life without me. “He’s okay?”

Ali’s features soften. “Yeah. He’s fine.”

Recruiting is something my group has always done, but this is a first for Cole. Trust issues, I guess. But now that Anima has been defeated, he must be willing to try new things, to help kids who have no idea they’re slayers; they just know they’re different.

“No zombies have emerged in weeks and no one has seen a rabbit cloud in the sky,” Cole says.

I’d heard Ali’s sister, Emma, somehow shapes a cloud to look like a rabbit whenever she sees zombies stirring in their nests. A warning. Kinda like riding into town on a pony, shouting, “The undead are coming! The undead are coming!” But I don’t rely on that cloud like these guys. Emma can see a lot, I’m sure, but she can’t see everything. I think Frosty agrees with me, otherwise he’d have stayed home the past few rabbit-cloudless weeks.

“We’re on call, just in case,” Cole adds, “so there won’t be any drinking. But. Yeah. I said but. We’re going to Hearts and hanging out like we used to. You’re coming.”

“A night off? No.” Frosty shakes his head.

“Why? You got a hot date with a zombie?” Ali scans him from head to toe. “Seriously. I’m not just using the best pickup line ever when I say you look good enough to eat.”

Cole cracks his knuckles. “I hope you’re happy, Ali-gator. Now I have to kill my best friend.”

“Don’t be hatin’.” Frosty brushes an invisible piece of lint from his shoulder. “She can’t help her crush on me. No one can.”

If only a snort would be appropriate. Problem is, he does look good enough to eat in a black T-shirt and roughed-up denims and girls can’t help their crush on him.

“My answer is still no,” Frosty adds.

“Don’t listen to him. We’d love to join you for a night out.” I need to escape this apartment, like, yesterday. And whether Frosty knows it or not, he could use some time away, too. Hanging out with a dead ex-girlfriend can’t be all that great for his mental heath.

He latches on to my wrist. This is the first time he’s ever purposely, willingly touched me, and the contact is electric, startling me. Suddenly, my skin burns and tingles. I don’t understand such a physical reaction, but maybe he feels it, too; he lets me go as if I’m leaking toxic waste.

“We’re hunting, as usual,” he says.

“Wrong. You heard your friends. We’ll be told if any zombies are found.” I push him into the hall, and the others follow him out. I shut and lock the door. “I can’t take any more of your man-pouting. Kat’s dead, but guess what? You’re not. Why don’t you at least pretend to be alive.”

Ali actually gasps. As if she isn’t always that blunt. Gavin gives me the stink eye, like I’ve just skinned his favorite cat. They can suck it. I’ve spent the last three weeks with Frosty, living in his lair, watching his every move. Subtlety always flies right over his head.

“I don’t need to pretend,” he grits. “I know I’m alive.”

“Great. Now prove it.”

“Oh, I’ll prove it all right.” He stomps down the hall.

Like him, I’m already dressed for the occasion in an ice-blue cami, skinny jeans and knee-high boots to better hide my knives. Part of my “always be prepared for anything” plan.

The group crams into Cole’s Jeep. Gavin takes the backseat with Ali and me, putting Frosty in front with Cole. That doesn’t stop my charge from glaring at me over his shoulder numerous times, blaming me for his current whereabouts.

“Bad moods are contagious. Lighten up.” Ali leans forward to pat the top of his head.

“Make me,” he mumbles like a child. He stares out the window, at the pine trees, giant boulders and hills illuminated by streetlamps. “FYI, if a stranger says the wrong thing to me, I’ll be arrested for assault. Anyone have bail money?”

“Sorry, bro, but I only have enough for myself.” Gavin pats the wallet in his pocket. “Have a feeling I’m gonna need it.”

While he’s talking, I stealthily palm the wallet—without his knowledge—remove the cash and return the empty container to its place.

“I’ll bail you out,” I tell Frosty.

The car goes silent. Crickets might as well chirp. What’d I say this time?

“Thanks,” he finally mutters.

“Well, I’ll leave you both behind bars to rot—and learn a valuable lesson,” Ali says.

Cole squeezes her thigh. “I’m sure I’ll be sitting right beside them.”

“Hopefully learning the same valuable lesson.” Ali nudges my shoulder. “Have you been sticking to Frosty’s side?”

“Yes, Mom. I have.”

“What about those bathroom breaks you wanted?”

Frosty twists in the seat, his gaze sparkling. “Did she tell you to follow me into the men’s crapper, as if someone will dare attack me while I’m doing my business?”

He’s looking at me with humor. Not hatred. Not disgust. And he’s never looked more gorgeous. What kind of miracle is this? “Yeah. But don’t worry. I’ve settled for listening at the door.”

“How kind of you.”

He turns away, but it doesn’t matter. For the rest of the drive, I feel like I’m floating on clouds.

We park in back of the club, and though the lot is jam-packed with cars of all shapes, sizes and colors, Cole has no problem finding a place. One of the spots in front is empty, safeguarded by a sign that reads “Reserved for Holland.”

I’m trembling with excitement as I emerge. No matter what, I’m having fun tonight. The decision has been made.

The moon looks like an upside-down smile. There are no clouds but countless stars sparkling like diamonds on a bed of black velvet. The air smells of exhaust, cologne and sweat, and even though it’s unpleasant, it beats the odor of rot.

As I trail behind Frosty, I guard his six, my gaze constantly scanning for trouble. To the right, a couple is making out hardcore against a Porsche. To the left, a girl is shoving her drunken friend into the backseat of a beige sedan.

Two beefy security guards block the front doors, but they allow us to enter despite boos and hisses rising from the mile-long line. We’re even allowed upstairs in the VIP lounge, where the music isn’t so loud and we have an unobstructed view of the dance floor.

A hostess—young and pretty with dark hair and gorgeous skin the color of burnished copper—rushes over. “Welcome back, Mr. Holland.”

Cole is all business. “Is my usual table available?”

“No, sir. We didn’t know you were coming and—”

“Make it available,” he says.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She rushes off and returns a few minutes later to lead us to an empty booth in the far right corner, hidden from the rest of the club by black-as-night drapes.

Ali slides in, Cole right behind her. Gavin goes in at the opposite side, leaving Frosty and me standing there like idiots. I’m about to take the seat next to Gavin when another girl races over to give Frosty a hug and kiss on the cheek and if that’s not enough, she clings to his arm.

“Logan! It’s been weeks. I’ve missed you so much.”

Logan—oh, yeah, his he-slut hall-of-shame name.

Frosty sits beside Cole, forcing the girl to release him. He pulls at his collar, clearly uncomfortable and probably flipping through mental files and coming up blank. The poor girl doesn’t get the hint and asks him a thousand questions about his life. As if she has every right to know.

Gavin tries not to laugh. Cole doesn’t notice, he’s too busy cuddling Ali.

Frosty’s gaze meets mine and I swear he’s begging for help.

I finally claim a seat—the one right next to him. There’s not really room for me, but whatever. I drape my arm around his shoulders and he leans into me. “My sweet Frosty has forgotten his manners, hasn’t he? I’m Milla and you’re...?”

“Patricia.” The girl pales. “You’re his girlfriend?”

“Well, you tell me. I’ve been living with this delicious slice of beefcake for three magical weeks, spending every waking moment with him.” I shake a hand at the ceiling. “I try my hardest to keep my hands to myself, but...my little pookie bear needs me. Isn’t that right, lollipop?”

“That’s right, sugar tush.”

Sugar tush? Well, I’ve been called worse.

The girl stammers out an apology and at last leaves.

“Thanks,” Frosty mutters.

I release him and say, “Bang and bail protection is just one of the many services I offer.”

Our waiter arrives to take our drink orders. He’s a good-looking guy with a leanly muscled frame. His hair is purple and there are three silver piercings in his brow.

If I’m not mistaken, he gives me an extrasweet smile when I request two shots of Grey Goose. Forget Cole’s no drinking rule. This is my one night off; I’m blowing my budget—well, Gavin’s budget—and partying like a rock star.