Here are things that suck worse: _____________________.
Okay, fine. There are a few things that suck worse. Like the time I was an all-you-can-eat dinner buffet for zombies. The time I battled the worst Z-poisoning in the history of ever. And my personal favorite, the time Anima Industries locked me away, electrocuted me, starved me and studied me like a freaking zoo animal.
Considering all I’d been through, my love life should have been a sparkling diamond in a sea of coal. Or a sea of “Cole.” Har har. We had tried to get together, like, plan-everything-down-to-the-last-second tried, but each of our sneak-overs had encountered one teensy-weensy problem.
Her name: Nana.
Seriously, my grandmother had morphed into the Make-Out Police, and okay, okay, I didn’t really have to rack my brain to figure out why. One night Cole had saved me from a very painful death, and we’d decided to celebrate. Alone. He’d stolen into my bedroom, and we’d done what we always did. (I refuse to provide the down-and-dirty deets. But it was. Down and dirty. Anyway.) She’d heard us—the horror!—and had busted in.
We’d still had (most of) our clothes on, but yowza, the position she’d caught us in...
Ever since, Nana has been attached to my side. In fact, the only time she detaches is when I’m hanging with my girls, or when I’m prowling the streets, hunting zombies.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Nana to pieces. And so does Cole. When the three of us get together, we actually have fun. But I want more. I need more. I’m addicted to Cole’s hands...and his mouth...and oh, Ali-want, his nipple ring. Withdrawals stink!
“What are you waiting for, love buns?” Kat banged her hand on the table. “Did I not make it clear that you don’t get a vote in this? That the tribe has spoken? You know what you gotta do, so, do it.”
A waiter stepped up to our table before Mackenzie could respond. He set a mousse shooter in front of each of us.
“Um.” Reeve frowned. “We didn’t order these.”
“Compliments of the hounds in the corner.” A wink, and the waiter was off.
In unison, my friends and I gazed at our chocolate-addiction enablers. Hot and Chartreuse lifted their own mousse shooters in a toast. Knuckle Scars just stared.
Reminded me of Cole.
Kat stood and called, “My friend MacLovin’ will come over and thank you in person just as soon as her heartbeat settles. You totally rocked her—”
Mackenzie tugged on her arm, both returning her to her seat and silencing her. “Do you have to be so humiliating?”
As the toasters high-fived, Kat slapped Mackenzie on the shoulder. “What are you complaining about? We came here to find you a date, and now, thanks to me, it’s practically mission accomplished. I’ve set the stage, so all you have to do is walk over there and pick your favorite boy toy. You’re welcome.”
Mackenzie leaned over and bashed her forehead against the table.
“Why are you acting like such a baby?” Kat gave her another slap. “You’re, like, some kind of super ninja warrior who spends her nights catching butterflies and—”
“Good glory,” I said. “Stop calling it that.”
“Seriously.” Mackenzie stopped bashing and looked up. “You make us sound like—” she shuddered “—girls.”
Though Kat and Reeve were civilians, not slayers, they knew about the dark, secret world in operation around them. And Kat, well, she now liked to refer to slaying zombies as catching butterflies. She was sweet like that.
“I’m fine with calling it catching butterflies,” Trina said.
Kat smirked.
Mackenzie gaped at Trina.
“What?” Trina shrugged. “I’m confident in my masculinity.”
I snorted. Trina might look like she could lift a bus, but her heart was as soft as marshmallows.
“You should talk to the boys and get it over with, Mac.” Reeve ran her finger over the rim of her shooter and licked away the chocolate. “Kat looks ready to drag you over there.”
“True story,” Kat said with a nod. “Just seconds away.”
“If she does,” Reeve continued, “the last five minutes will become your happy place.”
“Fine.” A scowling Mackenzie pushed to her feet. “But I’m not going to try to charm them.”
“As if you could,” Kat said, and Mackenzie’s scowl darkened.
“You’ve got this in the bag.” I truly believed that. Mac wouldn’t have to use charm. Not with a face like hers.
All of my friends had model-perfect faces. And yet, each was so different.
Kat, with her straight dark hair and hazel eyes, was girl-next-door lovely. Reeve, with her brown waves and doe eyes, was traffic-stopping stunning. Mackenzie, with her black curls and emerald eyes, was child-of-an-angel exquisite. And Trina, with her short spikes and black-rimmed eyes, was punk-rocker cool. I was the oddball, with pale hair and eyes so blue they were freaky.
As Mackenzie trudged closer to the boys, a shadow fell over our table.