Undead and Unforgiven(35)

“Great!” Go, go, go! Don’t give him time to—

“This fucking movie.”

I swallowed another groan. Deflect, avoid, or embrace?

Hell with it. See what I did there? “Why do you watch it every time it’s on if you hate it so much? And don’t say it’s hate-watching, because that’s a different thing.”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed, “tell the gay man about hate-watching.” But his retort was amiable enough. He’d gotten up off his bed, stripped off his T-shirt, rummaged in his closet, and pulled on a clean scrub shirt, leaving the jeans and loafers. He raked his fingers through his short black hair, squinted at a mirror, then shrugged as if to say: Good enough. And it was. Marc was a remarkably handsome zombie.

“It’s such bullshit. Snow White and the Huntsman demands we jettison belief in the first five minutes. Hair black as night, skin white as snow, lips red as blood . . . hah! It’s Kristen Stewart! Should have been hair brown as a dead branch, skin pale as someone who never goes outside, lips thin as paper.”

“She’s pretty enough. I don’t think anyone could have competed with Charlize Theron.” What was wrong with my life when I was moved to stick up for Kristen Stewart, of all things? Fame and wealth beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, but she never smiled and didn’t seem to own a brush. But all that aside, the poor thing never had a chance. Because Charlize Theron! “Also, I might have been rooting for Ravenna,” I admitted. It was true. Charlize forever, Kristen Grumpypants never.

“Everyone rooted for Ravenna,” Marc assured me in an “also, fire is hot and water is wet” tone. I realized my mistake almost at once and prayed that was the end of it, but Marc had latched on to one of his favorite grievances. “Though it’s creepy to watch it now, all those annoying close-ups on Kristen Stewart.”

“She was the star,” I mumbled. Why? Why? Why even open his door? Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I knock him unconscious and then run?

“And smooching the director, Rupert Sanders! Who was married, thank you very much, to the eternally fine Liberty fucking Ross!”

“I don’t think that’s her middle na—”

“Thank Christ they didn’t let him direct the sequel!”

“Marc, it was years ago. Time to let it—”

“Who picks Kristen Stewart’s flat butt and lack of tits and utter inability to smile over Liberty fucking Ross?”

Rupert Sanders, apparently.

“If I had someone like that, I’d never throw them over for a sullen teenager.”

And there it was.

“No, of course not,” I said, tugging at his hand until we were heading out the door and down the back stairs to the kitchen. “You’d be the best husband ever. Whoever you picked would be so lucky.”

He barked a laugh. “Yes, and they’re lining up, aren’t they? C’mon, Betsy. It was hard enough to get a date when I was a live, cute doctor. Now? Christ. Fuck getting a date, I’d settle for getting laid. No pun intended.”

“Oh. You can . . . uh . . . you . . .” I made a vague gesture in the general direction of his crotch. Sinclair could get hard, of course, which made no sense. It was one of the things Marc found so interesting about our “condition.” Vampires shouldn’t be a thing. There was just no way. And yet we lived (kinda) and laughed and banged and drank. And could do so indefinitely, provided we got regular “live” blood and nobody cut off our heads. It was pretty ridiculous, really.

“Everything still works,” was the dry reply. “Believe me, I know.”

“Well.” At his expectant look, I gave him an apologetic shrug. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“You’re a well-meaning moron, Betsy.” He pulled me into a hug and I got a noseful of his shampoo (Head & Shoulders . . . wait, zombies got dandruff? Or was it just familiar?) and soap (St. Ives apricot scrub . . . wait, zombies had clogged pores?). “I love you and I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”

“Well, thanks.” Yes, he definitely needed to get laid. I’d already known he loved me, but getting maudlin and handsy while obsessively washing with apricot scrub and bitching about Kristen Stewart wasn’t like him at all. “Back atcha.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Uh-oh. That never prefaced something good. This was a guy who had no problem greeting me with, “Those flip-flops make you look fat.”

“Suuuure . . .” Drawn out because I was trying to think what would be so awkward that Marc of all people hesitated to bring it up.