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.