White Trash Zombie Apocalypse by Diana Rowland

folks here who absolutely reeked of wealth. Quite a few trophy wives and even a scattering of trophy husbands. High powered business-types and a generous handful of politicians roamed the event, including the coroner, Dr. Duplessis, who I shamelessly avoided by ducking behind a thick-necked man who turned out to be a former Saints player. Last thing I needed was to annoy my boss by making him feel he had to stop meeting-and-greeting to be sociable with me.
    Marcus did his best to murmur names of people he recognized, or point out who he thought I’d get a kick out of seeing in the flesh. “Karla Stanford,” he told me with a nod toward the C-level actress—well past her prime but still dressing like a twenty year-old, and not doing it well. “Jerome Leroux,” he said, subtly indicating the silver-haired and quite handsome man who owned the high end Leroux Jewelry. That surprised me. Rumor had it that he’dbeen a recluse since his partner—in more ways than business—had committed suicide last year for no known reason. He sat alone at a table looking so forlorn I wished someone would go sit with him. “Nicole Saber,” Marcus said with a nod toward the CEO of Saberton Corporation and daughter of its founder, Richard Saber. A tall woman with honey-blond hair pulled back in an elegant twist, she wore an elegant black pantsuit that managed to be sensible and sexy at the same. She sipped her wine and idly twisted a stray lock of hair around her index finger over and over as she conversed and laughed with table mates, all the while watching the proceedings with a keen eye. “And that’s her son, Andrew Saber,” Marcus added. He didn’t gesture or point, but I had no trouble picking out who Marcus meant. Andrew Saber was a good-looking man in his late-twenties or so, tall and broad-shouldered, with the same honey-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and regal profile as his mother. He stood near her table, faint smile touching his mouth as he idly scanned the area and pretended interest in the eager conversation of a forgettable man beside him.
    Yeah, we did some people watching, but mostly, we ate.
    “I do so love free food,” Marcus said. He took a bite of an oyster-something and let out a small moan. “And good free food is even better.”
    “Oh my god,” I said with a weak laugh. “I should have paced myself better. There are still three tents to go, and I’m about to explode.”
    “Now you know what I meant about the elastic waistband,” he replied, grinning.
    “Yes, next time I’ll wear my sweat pants with the designer jacket.”
    We made our way through the crowd, then paused to get our bearings. One woman, a leggy brunette in a skin tight sheath of a dress and impossible stiletto heels gaveme a startled look that slid to one of amusement. Her eyes met mine briefly before she pulled her gaze away. She leaned close to murmur something to the woman by her side, and a second later they both tittered, glancing at me again.
    I turned away, face heating, reminded a bit too much of high school and the way the popular girls pointed and laughed at my complete lack of anything that could “fit in.”
    “Marcus,” I murmured. “Is there something on my face? Or a sign stuck to my back?”
    To his credit, he actually gave me a solid look-over. “No. Why?”
    “Heels over there, the woman behind me in the red and black dress and stupid shoes, keeps looking at me and laughing,” I told him, trying very hard not to be as unsettled as I was.
    “Snobby bitches all over this place, babe,” he said with a reassuring smile. “And it doesn’t even matter if you have money or whatever. Someone like that tries to put everyone down they can.” He gave me a squeeze. “You look great. She’s probably jealous. And her feet have to be killing her, which makes her doubly bitchified.”
    I laughed. “I never thought I’d hear ‘doubly bitchified’ coming out of your mouth.”
    Marcus grinned. “It seemed to fit the