Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) by Mark Henry Page B

the floor. It seems that things have
changed between the three of us and I don’t know about you, Gil. But I’m pretty
sure we’re reacting to Wendy’s stress over her new role as Johnny Knuckles.”
    Wendy sneered. “I don’t get it.”
    I waved my hand in her general vicinity. “This
whole Scarface routine you’ve got going on has really buried the fun-loving
blonde corpse we knew and loved. You’re getting bitchy. That’s my role.”
    Gil chimed in. “That’s true, girl. You’ve
got to embrace the fun parts of your job. After all, you’re like the vampire
pharmacist. People love you.”
    “Wrong!” Wendy said, spinning back to
stare Gil down. “They love what I have. They love the cloud. I’m incidental.
And clearly being targeted by someone who wants to squash my empire.”
    “So, it’s an empire, now?” I reached over
and snatched up a martini, savoring the juniper heavy gin, the perfectly
spritzed vermouth. “This cocktail is aces, by the way.”
    She nodded. “Hell yeah. It’s a
motherfucking empire.”
    “Word,” Abuelita chimed in from the back.
    Gil stabbed a blood juice box with a
straw, slurped. “What if this is about something else entirely?” he asked,
licking his lips.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The bitch that stole your shipment,
didn’t rush it away to some secret Seattle location to start undermining your
business and stealing your clientele. She took that shit on a cruise, like her
elderly mother. If it’s going to end up in San Francisco or L.A. then vamps
would still be looking to you for more cloud. You’re still in charge. You’re
still needed. At least in Seattle.”
    Wendy thought about it, absently tearing
open the Twix bar—a habit with potentially explosive
consequences—and sniffing the chocolaty goodness. “I suppose you’re
right. But I still need my shit.”
    “Of course, you do.” I patted her thigh. “Let’s
just try to have fun. Chill out and know that we’re going to end up taking that
bitch down in the long run.”
    Her plump lips stretched into a thin
smile and for a second I caught a glimpse of the old Wendy, trapped inside her
new “all business” exterior. She brought the chocolate to her mouth and didn’t
so much bite it as inhale it directly into her pie-hole.
    I gave Gil a wink. He volleyed one back.
    Little did he know, his shit was on deck
next.
    The Pacific Coast Highway, 101, begins at
a juncture with Interstate 5 and cuts a winding swath through farmland and
forest alike. Not heavily trafficked from the look of it—the only thing I
noticed on the drive besides the fact that Wendy’s chola had a wheezy snore
when she slept—was Las Felicitas’ healthy billboard budget. Nearly every
mile marker featured some reason to live there—Spacious Homes! Waterfront
Living! —And none of the reasons we were going—Wholesale Slaughter of the Innocents! Delicious Sweetbreads!
But as we passed Aberdeen and traveled south, I started to develop a little
hope that my event would be well attended. Sand Flea Days was in full swing
according to the banners, a festival that I’d one, never heard of, and two,
would never attend unless someone either paid me or had a gun to my head, but
seemed to be an honest to goodness draw. P.S. What do you even wear to an event
that celebrates a bug you can hardly see but which scars your extremities with hideous
red welts? Certainly not Versace.     
    “Seriously, did they make those with
magic markers?” I threw my hand out toward the flapping tarp hanging over the
corner of the latest Las Felicitas signage.
    “Ooh,” Wendy cooed. “That one said Miss
Sand Flea Pageant!”
    “No,” I said, chuckling. “That’s not
possible, is it?”
    “Oh it is.” Gil stabbed himself between
the seats, cell phone at the ready and started reading. “Join us for a celebration
of all things beachy. That’s what it says, it says beachy. As we kick off Sand
Flea Days with the crowning of Miss Sand Flea.” He