How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back

Chapter 19

“I look like a kid playing dress-up,” I said, regarding with uncertainty my reflection in the long mirror in our suite. I couldn’t deny that Naomi had great taste and knew fashion. Growing up a Saber would do that, and as irked as I’d been earlier about her warped view of money and income, I had to admit it was damn convenient that she had plenty of money stashed away, and that dropping a godawful amount on dress, shoes, and accessories was barely a blink of an eye for her.

But actually wearing a dress that cost what I made in a month felt weird as all hell.

“No, you don’t,” she replied absently as she gave me an appraising look. “It’ll look better once I get your hair and makeup done.” She frowned. “Put the shoes on,” she ordered.

Sighing, I obeyed. The entire day had been a lot like this. After her We find you a dress announcement, Naomi had hauled me up and down the length of Manhattan to try on what seemed like every dress and shoe in the city. It had been fun for the first couple of stores, but after the seventh or eighth it all became a blur of silk and taxis and snooty clerks. Not to mention, Naomi refused to let me dawdle and gawk at anything, except for one brief stop to watch a group of teen boys doing some insanely cool gymnastic dance moves—and the only reason she let me stop for that was because I plopped my butt on the ground like a three-year-old having a tantrum and told her if she wanted me to move she’d have to carry me.

Meanwhile, Philip and Kyle were off doing recon. At least that’s the story they gave Naomi. I envied them, especially since I had a dark suspicion part of their “recon” involved a sports bar.

That said, Naomi had redeemed herself with the last stop before we returned to the hotel: a sleek and fancy salon where smiling women trimmed and buffed and polished my fingers and toes, and a slender man with spiky black hair and a thick and fake French accent adjusted the color of my hair to pale blond instead of over-bleached and trimmed it into something other than a scraggly mess. At one point I thought the outing would end in bloody violence as Naomi fended off Mr. Fake French’s attempts to style my hair, insisting she’d do it herself later. Fortunately the man seemed to realize it wasn’t a battle he could possibly win.

However, it was the dress Naomi finally decided on that redeemed her the most. “You have to look as if you belong there,” she’d stated, and with this dress I totally would. Dark blue with three-quarter sleeves to cover my rot patch, it had a V-neckline and fitted bodice that skimmed down my hips to flare out into a floor-length skirt—wide enough to walk in easily without being so much fabric it would get in my way. But my favorite and the most awesomest feature of the dress were the billion sheer fabric petals and tiny sparkly beads sewn all over the skirt.

With the shoes on—pretty and glittery peep-toe pumps—I stepped in front of the dressing room mirror and examined my reflection again. The heels on the shoes weren’t skyscraper-high like some of the ridiculous things I’d seen women shove their feet into, but even a modest three inches was more than I was used to.

“I’m sorry,” Naomi said when I whined about the height, and it sounded as if she really meant it. “Any lower and the dress will drag on the floor, and there isn’t time to get the hem altered. Now, take all that off, put the bathrobe on, and sit.”

“Don’t mind me,” I said as I carefully hung the dress up. “I’m a little nervous.” A lot nervous. Talk about being out of my depth. This was a five-thousand dollar a plate event. A year ago I lived in a house with a driveway paved in crushed beer cans.

She moved behind me after I sat, gave my reflection a smile and started doing stuff with my hair. “I get it. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to make you look utterly awesome while blending in.”

“But how am I supposed to get inside in the first place?” I asked, watching her as she smeared gunk into my hair and proceeded to twist and comb and pin and do all sorts of weird shit.

“Kyle and I will take care of that,” she said with such absolute confidence in her voice that I didn’t dare question further. She smiled to herself as she shifted in front of me and continued to Do Stuff to my hair. Finally she stepped back to let me see the result.

“How the hell did you do that?” I blurted. It was amazing. Somehow she’d worked my hair into awesome little finger waves, giving it a terrific twenties vibe but totally elegant. I started to lift my hand up to my hair then yelped as she smacked my fingers.

“Don’t touch it,” she ordered. “I haven’t sprayed it yet. Close your eyes.” Once I did, she proceeded to lay down what I thought would surely be a few inches of shellac, and was pleasantly surprised to find my hair not at all crunchy. “Keep your eyes closed,” she said once she finished spraying. “I’m going to do your makeup. And stop squinching your eyes!”

Sighing, I did my best to relax my face while she glooped and smeared and painted and who the hell else knew what. But once, again, when she allowed me to see my reflection, I could only stare in astonishment.

“I look . . .”

“You look amazing,” Philip put in, smiling from the doorway.

I blushed. “Well, I was going to say I don’t look anything like myself, which is a good thing. But yeah, I look amazing too.” I smiled at Naomi. “Thanks, babe.”

Naomi preened as she put away the makeup and hair stuff. “I had to do enough socialite bullshit growing up that I developed a few skills besides asskickery.” She unzipped the garment bag that hung behind the door. “And now for the rest.”

It only took a few minutes to get me into the dress, but it was almost half an hour before I could walk comfortably and confidently in the dress-and-heels combo without looking as if I was, indeed, a kid playing dress up. At long last, Naomi seemed satisfied with my appearance, demeanor, and my overall attitude. She handed me a little purse that contained my phone and the usual crap women carried in little purses like this.

“The car is waiting downstairs,” she told me. “It’ll take you right to the Norrington Plaza Hotel, but you need to stop outside as if you’re waiting for someone. We’ll be less than a block away and will bring you an invitation to get inside.”

I clutched the purse and allowed myself to be bundled into the sleek black sedan. Once there I remembered to let the driver open the door and help me out, then couldn’t help but gawk a bit. The hotel dominated the corner, marble and glass, and dizzyingly tall when I craned my neck to look up. On the main street, beautifully dressed people exited vehicles and flowed toward the doors, or paused in clumps of three or four to talk and laugh. I casually wandered toward the small sidestreet that ran beside the hotel and did my “looking for my date” act. A Road Closed barricade stood at the entrance to the sidestreet, and a battered sawhorse and orange plastic fencing marked a night-quiet worksite about a half a block down. A chilly breeze funneled down the street, and I pulled my beaded angora wrap close, glad Naomi had pressed it into my hands at the last minute.

“Look bored and a little annoyed,” Naomi said from a few feet away, startling me. I hadn’t even noticed her there. She was tapping away at her phone and looking like a hipster chick with plenty of disdain for the gowned crowd.

Bored and annoyed. I could do that. Easy enough to turn my nervous jitters into annoyed foot-tapping.

“I’m up,” Naomi murmured, then stuck earbuds into her ears, turned, and walked toward the arriving guests. I tried hard not to be obvious about watching her, but I couldn’t resist. If I hadn’t been paying fairly close attention I’d have never seen it. Naomi, with her eyes on her phone, bumped into a tall blond woman in a skintight dress. Surprise and apologies, and as Naomi backed away she bumped into a man, then turned and stumbled into the woman again. More apologies, followed by Naomi continuing on her way down the street headed away from me.

The whole incident took barely five seconds. The man she’d bumped into continued my way in an unhurried pace. Kyle, I abruptly realized. When he reached me he slipped a stiff postcard-sized piece of embossed paper into my hand.

“Hurry and get inside before Miss Chastity Turner discovers she has a menu for Chinese takeout in her purse,” he murmured and continued walking as if he hadn’t paused at all.

I quickly headed to the entrance then followed other guests across the lobby and to a set of double doors. Once there, I gave the security guard who checked my invitation a smile that I hoped didn’t look too manic, passed through the metal detector, then slipped into the crowd even as I heard a woman’s strident voice behind me, insisting that she was Chastity Turner, and she shouldn’t even have to show an invitation because didn’t the guard know who she was?

Couldn’t be all that special since I had no idea who she was.

Hundreds of people milled and chatted in a gold-wallpapered room about the size of a basketball court while servers in starched white shirts and black ties passed through the crowd with trays of weird-looking bite-sized things and tall, skinny glasses of champagne. I took some champagne and pretended to sip as I mingled and searched. Soft classical music flowed over the crowd and through the hum of polite conversation. Huge posters covered with images of missing children lined the wall near the entrance to the main ballroom, and a sign with “Child Find League” in gold letters hung over the door. It wouldn’t be long until the guests abandoned the reception area and headed into the ballroom to eat and listen to boring speeches, and once that happened any chance I had to pull Jane aside and get her out of there would be gone.

I kept a smile on my face and my mouth shut as I clutched my champagne glass and wound my way through the crowd. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself by saying or doing the totally wrong thing, and I had no doubt my accent would stick out like a sore thumb.

Finally, I spied her listening to a stick-thin man with untidy grey hair, an interested look on her face as he intently explained something that must have mattered a great deal to him, judging by his intense and excited expression. She looked fantastic as usual, in an elegant sleeveless black gown with a subtle drape of fabric on the right hip. Fighting the urge to bull right on over and drag her out by brute force, I instead did my best oh-so-casual saunter to get behind her conversation partner and into her line of sight. Once there, I gave a small wave to get her attention. She flicked a glance my way, smiled politely and then returned her attention to the man. Crap. She didn’t recognize me now that I looked like a respectable human being.

I edged forward a bit more, then gave a bright smile. “Dr. Pennington!” I chirped, focusing hard on not sounding as if I’d just left the farm. “It’s so good to see you again!”

This time her head snapped around. Her eyes widened in shocked recognition, but she recovered quickly and looked back to the thin man “Would you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, she disengaged from him then took my arm to steer me away. “My goodness, I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Yeah, well, I kind of had no choice,” I replied. Shifting my body to block the view of anyone looking our way, I pulled my phone from my purse and brought up the picture of the invitation with her name on it. “Don’t ask me how I got this, please, but there’s a lot of shit going on, and I’m really worried about you.”

Her forehead creased as she looked down at the picture. “But why would any of it put me in danger? Angel, why on earth are you in New York? And have you been in a fight? It looks as if your jaw is bruised.”

My hand flew to my face. No no no. Shit! It wasn’t a bruise. I clearly felt the weird and spongy texture of pre-rot. On my face. I pushed down my horror as much as possible. “No, I slipped on some stairs, that’s all,” I said, then bulled ahead to get her attention off my jaw. “Have you tried to get in touch with Pietro in the past couple of days?”

“Yes,” she said, apparently accepting my lie, at least for the moment. “His assistant told me he was tied up with an unexpected business trip to Italy.”

I shook my head. “No, he’s in trouble, and this,” I tapped the image on my phone, “makes me think you might be as well.”

Alarm flashed through her eyes, but she quickly masked it. “What kind of trouble? Where is he?”

“It’s really hard to explain,” I said, all too aware how weak that sounded, “but it’s why I’m in New York.” I took a deep breath and set my mouth in a stubborn line. “Look, I’m not going to budge from your side until I make sure you get out of here safely with your own security guy.”

She tried to hide her worry, but it showed in the creasing of her forehead. “Victor is right over there,” she said with a slight nod to her left. I glanced over to see a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit looming silently not far away, his eyes hard upon me. “I need to meet with the Sabers, and then I can leave,” she continued. “I can excuse myself with a migraine.”

I shot a hand out to grip her arm. “No, don’t meet with the Sabers!” Victor took a step forward, and I quickly released her. “Or if you do, don’t go anywhere private with them.”

Jane blinked at me, then frowned. “Angel, I’m going to trust you on this,” she said slowly. “That you’re in New York at all tells me there’s something serious afoot. I’ll have Victor with me while I see them here, in this room, and then I will leave.” She fixed me with a hard look. “And then you will tell me exactly what is going on and what happened to Pietro.”

“Yeah, sure thing!” I said, totally lying. Hell, right now I’d promise my soul to the devil if it would get her out of this place safely.

I wasn’t sure if she believed me, but at least she didn’t protest. She gestured Victor over. “I’ll see you outside then?” she asked me.

“All I want is to be sure you’re safe,” I said, not directly answering the question.

Jane simply nodded. “I’ll be out in five minutes.” She gave Victor a smile as he reached her side, murmured to him that she had a headache and would be leaving soon. It was clear he understood it was fiction, but he simply nodded, pulled out a phone, and called for the driver to bring the car around.

I slouched in relief as Jane moved off, and let my gaze drift around to the rest of the event. People were beginning to filter into the ballroom where I could see tables laid out with expensive-looking china and crystal, and decorated with gorgeous centerpieces of white flowers. Jane moved through the crowd with ease to where a tall and stylish blue-eyed woman with honey-blond hair stood with a younger broad-shouldered man. He had the same blue eyes and honey-blond hair as his mother. Nicole and Andrew Saber, both talking to a man with his back to me. Nicole wore an off-the-shoulder, dark red gown with a beaded top and a flowing silky skirt. Andrew wore a tux that sure as hell wasn’t a rental.

Edging slightly closer, I heard Jane greet Nicole warmly, then watched as Jane gave a slight wince and put a hand to her temple, apologized for a headache and her need to leave soon. Damn, but she was smooth. My admiration for her grew.

Jane shifted her attention to the other man with them, and the surprise in her expression gave me only a whisper of warning before he turned and swept his gaze my way.

Brian. I froze, and my gut gave a horrible lurch. Brian, standing here dressed in a goddamn tuxedo, talking to the Sabers as if they were old friends.

His eyes rested on me briefly, narrowed, and then he continued his casual look-around as if he hadn’t seen me, while my pulse raced like an Olympic sprinter. Was he going to sell me out to the Sabers? Or did he simply figure this was too public a place to take me down? Either way, I knew the risk for Jane had abruptly shot up.

“Congresswoman Pennington,” I heard him say. “It’s a pleasure to see you, as always.”

“Mr. Archer,” Jane replied. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Is Pietro here as well?”

“No, ma’am, he’s not,” Brian said. “I’m up here on my own.”

Nicole looked from Brian to Jane. “Pietro Ivanov?” She tilted her head, smiled. “Oh, yes, I remember seeing something about you two dating. What a shame he couldn’t be here. The chef they brought in for this event is outstanding.”

Jane looked as if she wanted to press Brian for details about what was going on, but she simply gave Nicole a bland smile. “Yes, we’ve been dating for a while. Don’t you remember? We ran into you at the Gourmet Gala in Louisiana.” Then she lifted a hand and made a dismissive gesture. “But I can understand if it slipped your mind. I’m sure you have far more pressing worries than remembering the details of a random congresswoman’s social life.” Jane’s smile remained fixed and her eyes hard on the other woman. The “worries” was no doubt a reference to Saberton’s money troubles. It was clear Jane didn’t care for Nicole Saber one stinking bit.

Nicole’s hand tightened on her champagne glass. “Yes, the Gala. How could I have forgotten something so unforgettable.” She jerked her attention to where her son stood silently watching the exchange. “Andrew, finish with Mr. Archer while I have a word with the congresswoman.”

Jane’s bodyguard stood a few feet behind her. I quickly moved to him, angling as best I could to be on the side away from Brian and the Sabers. “You need to get her out of here,” I told him in a low, urgent voice. “Please, trust me.”

Victor glanced at me and frowned, but to my relief he didn’t question or protest before moving to Jane’s side and touching her arm.

“The car is out front, ma’am,” he said. “You should probably leave before your headache grows worse.”

She met Victor’s eyes, then looked past him to me. I gave her my best Gah! Shit! You need to get the hell out of here ’cause there’s danger! look—but in a calm and socially acceptable way, of course.

“Thank you,” she murmured to Victor. “Yes, I should be going.” She returned her attention to Nicole. “I’m so sorry, but I’m simply not feeling well at all.”

Nicole darted a look toward Andrew and Brian, and gave Jane a smileless smile. “Certainly,” she said stiffly, clearly not at all happy to let Jane go but unable to physically stop her. “You take care of yourself. Perhaps we can do lunch tomorrow?”

“Perhaps,” Jane echoed. “Have your people call mine. Have a good evening.” And with that she turned away to allow Victor to guide her to the exit while I quietly died of relief.

Jane paused by me, leaning close and lowering her voice. “I expect you to explain all of this as soon as we’re outside.”

“Yeah, you got it,” I said with a firm nod, though my attention remained on Brian. He was watching me again, but at the moment I’d take that as a good thing since it meant he wasn’t going after Jane. I tore my gaze away from Brian long enough to check and see that yes, Jane was at the double doors and leaving, then allowed myself a brief sigh of relief. Now I simply had to get myself out of this mess.