over her. She wished she could borrow more, that she could
make Megan’s poise her own.
Vines of white smoke drifted to the back of the van
periodically, and Rebecca coughed, hoping Sparks would eventually get the hint.
Then she realized subtlety was lost on women like Sparks and Megan. They neither
wanted to blend into the crowd nor cared about pleasing other people. She wasn’t
at all surprised when a cigarette was passed to Megan, who promptly lit the
little cancer stick with a flame from her thumb.
Glancing at her own appearance, Rebecca couldn’t help comparing
herself to Megan. She was an absolute wreck. Her once-gorgeous wedding dress was
now a disgusting outfit of shredded satin, its color more a jumble of
multicolored stains than pristine white. Yanking the bodice up for what seemed
like the millionth time, she wondered how her boobs hadn’t managed to pop right
out. She wouldn’t have opted for a strapless gown if she’d known she was going
to be kidnapped from the wedding to fight an army of the undead.
I want to go home .
Her kitten would miss her. Her students would ask for Miss
Massee every day until they realized Miss Massee wasn’t ever coming back. Who
would take care of returning the wedding presents? What would happen to her
things—her clothes, her pictures, her plants? Would her car get towed?
Raising her hand, she ran her fingers through her matted hair.
The gel and heavy hairspray the stylist had used to arrange what had that
morning been an elegant upswept coiffure now served to make her hair a mixture
of knots and tangles that had grown so stiff she doubted she would ever get them
all out. She should simply grab some clippers, make like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane and be done with it.
Artair stared at her from across the van. Casually leaning
back, he bent a leg, laid one of his forearms across his knee and chuckled as
she tried to right her hair.
Rebecca couldn’t help herself from gawking. Her hands slowly
fell to her lap as she admired his muscular legs. He shifted slightly when the
van lurched as if turning a corner a little too quickly, and his plaid slipped
down his thigh. The clichéd question about what a Scot wore beneath his kilt was
quickly answered.
Artair rearranged the material before she could figure out if
he was a brief or boxers kind of guy. She lifted her gaze back to his face. He
had a knowing grin. Feeling the hot flush spread over her face, she dropped her
gaze to her lap, where she worried her hands to keep them occupied.
“We’re almost there, lass. Nae much longer.”
“I’m not a child. I’m not sitting here asking if we’re almost
there yet. Besides,” she added with a shrug, “I don’t even know where there is.”
“Home.” The corners of Artair’s lips twitched as if he wanted
to grin again, but he refrained. “My home. Your new home.”
“Oh, well that clears it up. Thanks
a heap.” She was being rude, but her senses were in overload. Niceties couldn’t
even form in her mind let alone spill out of her mouth. “I already had a home.”
A combination of troubling thoughts and lurching motion made
her stomach pitch, her limbs tremble and her head ache. The rocking of the van
as it continued on the trek. The memory of the rotting corpses and the
overwhelming stench they’d left behind at Condemned. The fear that she would
face a lifetime—probably an extraordinarily short lifetime—of similar
circumstances.
Trying to hide her rapidly increasing distress, she focused on
the floor, hoping a stable focal point would stop the queasiness. That tactic
backfired. Her stomach threatened to rebel at any moment, and she couldn’t
suppress a sickening groan as her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“Sparks!” Artair shouted.
“What?”
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“ Now, Sparks.” He scrambled over to
Rebecca, lifted her by the waist and pulled her toward the door. The van was
still moving, albeit slowly, when he jerked the door open and
make Megan’s poise her own.
Vines of white smoke drifted to the back of the van
periodically, and Rebecca coughed, hoping Sparks would eventually get the hint.
Then she realized subtlety was lost on women like Sparks and Megan. They neither
wanted to blend into the crowd nor cared about pleasing other people. She wasn’t
at all surprised when a cigarette was passed to Megan, who promptly lit the
little cancer stick with a flame from her thumb.
Glancing at her own appearance, Rebecca couldn’t help comparing
herself to Megan. She was an absolute wreck. Her once-gorgeous wedding dress was
now a disgusting outfit of shredded satin, its color more a jumble of
multicolored stains than pristine white. Yanking the bodice up for what seemed
like the millionth time, she wondered how her boobs hadn’t managed to pop right
out. She wouldn’t have opted for a strapless gown if she’d known she was going
to be kidnapped from the wedding to fight an army of the undead.
I want to go home .
Her kitten would miss her. Her students would ask for Miss
Massee every day until they realized Miss Massee wasn’t ever coming back. Who
would take care of returning the wedding presents? What would happen to her
things—her clothes, her pictures, her plants? Would her car get towed?
Raising her hand, she ran her fingers through her matted hair.
The gel and heavy hairspray the stylist had used to arrange what had that
morning been an elegant upswept coiffure now served to make her hair a mixture
of knots and tangles that had grown so stiff she doubted she would ever get them
all out. She should simply grab some clippers, make like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane and be done with it.
Artair stared at her from across the van. Casually leaning
back, he bent a leg, laid one of his forearms across his knee and chuckled as
she tried to right her hair.
Rebecca couldn’t help herself from gawking. Her hands slowly
fell to her lap as she admired his muscular legs. He shifted slightly when the
van lurched as if turning a corner a little too quickly, and his plaid slipped
down his thigh. The clichéd question about what a Scot wore beneath his kilt was
quickly answered.
Artair rearranged the material before she could figure out if
he was a brief or boxers kind of guy. She lifted her gaze back to his face. He
had a knowing grin. Feeling the hot flush spread over her face, she dropped her
gaze to her lap, where she worried her hands to keep them occupied.
“We’re almost there, lass. Nae much longer.”
“I’m not a child. I’m not sitting here asking if we’re almost
there yet. Besides,” she added with a shrug, “I don’t even know where there is.”
“Home.” The corners of Artair’s lips twitched as if he wanted
to grin again, but he refrained. “My home. Your new home.”
“Oh, well that clears it up. Thanks
a heap.” She was being rude, but her senses were in overload. Niceties couldn’t
even form in her mind let alone spill out of her mouth. “I already had a home.”
A combination of troubling thoughts and lurching motion made
her stomach pitch, her limbs tremble and her head ache. The rocking of the van
as it continued on the trek. The memory of the rotting corpses and the
overwhelming stench they’d left behind at Condemned. The fear that she would
face a lifetime—probably an extraordinarily short lifetime—of similar
circumstances.
Trying to hide her rapidly increasing distress, she focused on
the floor, hoping a stable focal point would stop the queasiness. That tactic
backfired. Her stomach threatened to rebel at any moment, and she couldn’t
suppress a sickening groan as her hand flew up to cover her mouth.
“Sparks!” Artair shouted.
“What?”
“Pull over.”
“Why?”
“ Now, Sparks.” He scrambled over to
Rebecca, lifted her by the waist and pulled her toward the door. The van was
still moving, albeit slowly, when he jerked the door open and
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