Page 40 of Zomromcom

Far too early the next morning, Edie and Max showered, donned fresh clothing, and discussed anything other than what awaited them that day.

“Chad thinks a clitoris is related to a rhinoceros,” she said as she checked her knives, sheathed them, and tucked them away. “Or maybe a hippopotamus. Every time he hears that old song, he wants one for Christmas.”

Max snorted. “No, he thinks they’re fictional. Like unicorns, or remunerative work.”

“He thinks a clitoris is a new hybrid car model.” She filled a fluted wineglass with tap water. “And he’s not a fan of models found outside the pages of Sports Illustrated ’s annual Swimsuit Issue.”

“Because a clitoris has a hood, he thinks it’s shy and he shouldn’t bother it.” When she choked on her water, he rubbed her back until she could talk again.

Clearing her throat, she pretended to push a button repeatedly. “The first time a hookup pointed out her clitoris, he kept booping it and waiting for candy to emerge from her vagina.”

That did the trick. The tension darkening Max’s irises and stiffening his frame abruptly disappeared as he began laughing.

“God, Edie.” His chin dipped to his chest, and his shoulders quaked. “You win.”

“What’s that?” She cupped a hand around her ear. “What did you say? I couldn’t quite hear you. Please say it again, much more loudly.”

Raising his head and a cocky brow, he held up six fingers again, like he’d been doing all morning. Only this time she actually believed that annoyingly supercilious smile.

“I faked it,” she told him. “Every time. Mentally, I was compiling a grocery list.”

His grin broadened. “Unless your grocery list makes you squirt, I think not.”

“So crude.” She rubbed her hands over her face so he couldn’t see her snicker. “You’d think someone your age would have more class. That age being…what?”

Silence.

“Was Pangaea still a thing? Or had the continents drifted apart already?”

When she uncovered her face, he was shaking his head at her. Still grinning. And gods, she hated to return their attention to more serious matters, but time was slipping through their fingers. They didn’t have much left, not if they wanted to leave at dawn.

“Speaking of groceries…” Zipping her coveralls up to her neck, she looked over at him regretfully. “I need to get some from my house before we leave. I’ll change out these bloody sneakers for boots there too.”

The boots would serve her better in battle. Besides, she didn’t need to see a reminder of Max’s near-fatal injuries every time she looked down, even if his body no longer had so much as a scratch on it.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, his smile fading to nothing. “I’m still satisfied from yesterday’s feeding. I won’t eat again until tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Her brow crinkled. “You could just drink from me. We wouldn’t have to do…uh, anything else.”

Surely he could be quicker about it than he’d been the previous night. Treat her like a human Go-Gurt rather than his three-course dinner at the world’s sexiest, nakedest restaurant.

“If I took any more, I’d weaken you for today’s exertions, my Edie. I’d rather starve.” When she began to protest, he raised a hand. “But I won’t need to, as I remain full and will have blood packs available to me should that change.”

He’d produced a new, sturdy-looking backpack from somewhere, and it now held a half dozen blood packs squirreled away in various pockets, as well as a couple of openers.

“Fine. Should I…” She thought back to her last blood drive donation as she slung her bag across her body and gathered up her duffel. “Do I need to drink orange juice or have cookies or whatever? To ensure I don’t become faint today?”

“No. I was careful, and you had one of your…” A pained expression drew his features taut. “One of your juice boxes afterward, as well as some”—he shuddered—“ Pizza Jerky . You’ll suffer no ill effects from the feeding.”

She’d been intending to munch on cheese cubes and granola bars and other less objectionable foodstuffs from her home today, but…nah. Not after he’d made that face. Eating her weirdest nonperishable shit in front of him would be way more fun.

His thumbnail scraped over his chin, and he looked contemplative for a moment. “That said, I should start stocking human food in my refrigerator. Fresh human food. Whose ingredients don’t necessitate a chemistry degree to pronounce correctly.”

Well. That was a statement right there.

Slowly, her lips curved as she gazed at him from across the enormous kitchen island.

He anticipated her future presence in his home—and he hadn’t made it sound like a short-term exigency, something that might occur only until the danger fully passed.

He’d made it sound like he wanted her here. Indefinitely.

His back angled away from her, and he moved something small and silvery from the cut-up, blood-soaked remains of his old black leather hoodie into…his new black leather hoodie.

“Wow, Max. You’re a vampiric stereotype.

” She rounded the island, suddenly itchy to leave.

The sooner they took care of the zombie menace once and for all, the sooner she could hang out with him in his lair without a godsdamn clock ticking.

“Do you even own any clothing that’s not either black or the result of an X-rated arts and crafts project? ”

For the rest of her—possibly very short—life, those macramé undies would continue to bring her untold amounts of joy. Whatever visionary had first thought of entrusting testicles to a latticework of knotted fibers? Chef’s kiss to them.

“You wouldn’t recognize high fashion if it reared up and bit you, human.” He sniffed and secured a final zipper, turning to her. “Which I know for a fact, since it did rear up and bite you. Pleasurably so, for all parties involved.”

“High fashion?” Her gaze rose to the starkly modern light fixture overhead. “You were naked, dude.”

“I’m high fashion made flesh, dude .” After donning his backpack, he took her hand and led her toward the open door of his little library. “Its very personification and exemplar, whether I choose to grace clothing with my superlative beauty or remain gloriously nude.”

She patted her free palm over a wide, feigned yawn. “And, as always, high fashion left me entirely unimpressed.”

He dropped her hand and held up six fingers. She pinched his ass and ignored them.

But by the time they wedged themselves into his tiny, luxurious elevator and rose to meet their fates, they were holding hands again. Kissing too. Because Max might not be the embodiment of fashion, but his tongue?

Yeah. What he could do with that was indeed a thing of superlative beauty .

***

Max’s SUV didn’t start.

No zombie encounters had yet occurred, so that was a real plus.

But since yesterday’s abuse had apparently sapped his vehicle’s will to live, and they didn’t have time to troubleshoot whatever the issue might be, they were now stuck driving her compact sedan instead.

Which—to their mutual, if unspoken, consternation—featured neither bulletproof glass nor fancy tires that could handle a horde of climbing, jumping zombies without popping.

Nor—to Max’s solitary, decidedly spoken, and annoyingly loud consternation—did her car boast fine leather seats that turned toasty-warm with the flick of a switch.

“The vents are still blowing cold air,” he complained as they backed out of the driveway.

“At least my windshield doesn’t have duct-taped holes in it. Those weren’t exactly warm either, Max. And bulletproof glass only helps if it isn’t already smashed in various places.”

“My lips will get chapped.” His tone implied that such an occurrence would rival the tragedy of the Hindenburg . Oh, the vampire-manity.

“Gods and goddesses, Max,” she told him, checking her rearview mirror. “You are such a little bitch.”

“Take that back, woman.” In pursuit of more legroom, he adjusted his seat for the third time. “I’m not little anything . Which you can now confirm from firsthand experience.”

She put the car into Drive. “Fine. You’re an enormous bitch.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

His fingers drummed on the console as they trundled through their neighborhood. “I’m getting you new tires with actual tread as soon as this shitstorm is over. Dammit, Edie, you must hydroplane whenever the fucking humidity gets too high. No rain necessary.”

“Are you my goth-vamp sugar daddy now?” she asked interestedly.

“You wish, human.” He paused. “But…maybe. If that title made you accept new tires.”

“Nice try. But no.”

Her bank account could absorb the hit. She simply hadn’t taken the time to deal with the issue, and there hadn’t been anyone else in her life who’d have noticed her bald tires. Noticed and cared enough about them—about her—to raise a fuss. Until now.

Drawing himself upright, he raised a peremptory finger. “To be clear: If I were your sugar daddy, I’d excel at the role. You’d be the envy of…uh…”

She waited at a red traffic light as he searched for the right phrasing.

“You’d be the envy of all recipients of sugar daddy services—”

“Sugar babies, Max,” she supplied. “They’re called sugar babies.”

“You’d be the envy of every sugar baby worldwide.”

“Of course I would.” Her forefinger pushed the appropriate button, and her window opened several freezing-cold inches. When he looked at her incredulously, she explained, “I’m allowing a little extra room for your ego.”

The red light turned green, and she took a left onto the main access road. When she’d accelerated enough to reach the speed limit, she raised the window again, steadied the steering wheel with her elbows, and ripped open her huge bag of neon-orange puffed…things.

Some sort of grain had been part of the manufacturing process. Probably.

“Fucking hells, Edie,” he groaned, and she aimed a satisfied smile at the windshield.