Louise is having a bad day: studying for exams, play rehearsals under a director she can’t stand, and ill-fitting shoes. Surely there’s a limit to what a girl has to put up with!
But her day improves when she meets the pretty new stagehand, Angie. An instant attraction leads to a sexy sojourn in Louise’s dressing room, and the rest of her day seems almost tolerable . . . until the director barges in on their interlude and collapses–before reviving to attack Louise. Angie fights him off, and the girls flee to the safety of the quad. Soon they learn that their fallen assailant is only the first wave of a terrifying outbreak.
Their best hope to stay alive is to stay together. As they explore each other’s bodies and learn the deepest secrets of their hearts, Louise and Angie discover that each has found something in the other’s arms they never knew they wanted.
But they have to survive first.
There oughta be a law: dead means dead . . . .
I did the damn rehearsal in ill-fitting shoes and “nice girl” clothes that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in the real world, hoping all the while the director’s headache was actually the first symptom of a horrible venereal disease. I couldn’t wait to get back to my dressing room and kick these shoes off.
After an all-night cram session getting ready for midterms, Iwas not in the mood to look relentlessly happy as Janet in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I had a headache of my own, and I’d smoked a pack and half of cigarettes during my obsessive studying. So my sinuses were throbbing and my eyeballs were pounding when David finally clapped his hands that last time.
“Cut. Let’s knock off for the day, folks. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
I turned my wrist over to glance at my watch and got the only pleasant surprise I’d had all day.
Practice had wrapped up early. Das Direktor Der Fuhrer Das Schweinhund Scheisskopf wasn’t feeling well, he was whining to anyone who’d listen about how much his head hurt. Even though I privately thought he was a crybaby, I was glad to call it a day. I walked offstage with a groan at the stupid shoes he’d decided I just had to wear. It wasn’t even a dress rehearsal, but David said, “Louise, I want you to really feel the character. Really get into the character’s shoes.”
I wasn’t surprised David needed to stop practice. He was notorious for spending the night before midterms drinking and screwing any girl who’d open her legs. He’d often bragged about how he could talk down the asking prices of the hookers who worked the area around campus, claiming that achievement as proof of his prowess with women. I took it as proof he was only slightly less desperate than the hookers.
As I shuffled offstage, I muttered every vile name I could think of to call him, then set my mind on threading through the backstage minefield to my dressing room, my chair, and my own clothes.
On the way, a girl buttonholed me. “I’m Angie. I just transferred here.”
I gulped. While I didn’t want to be rude, having my feet in vices didn’t make me particularly friendly. All the same, I turned my head and gave her a long once-over.
I’d noticed her backstage earlier. She was cute. Not like “Aww, look at the puppy” cute, but “Girl, I will fuck you till your eyes pop out” cute.
She was exactly my type, wearing form-fitting, artfully torn blue jeans, a plaid shirt three sizes too big, and square-toed black boots with three-inch heels. If the easy sway of her tits under the red tartan print was any indication, she hadn’t bothered with a bra. She had pale skin with a sprinkling of freckles across the top of her chest and a heart-shaped face topped off with a pixieish cap of blonde hair. She’d dyed the tips a vibrant purple, which complemented her cornflower-blue eyes.
“I hate to be rude, but if you wanna talk, you’ve gotta walk.” Without another word, I started off toward the dressing room.
She paused for a moment and then hurried after me, her boots rapping against the hard wood of the backstage floorboards. “So you’re Louise, right?”
I grumbled something that might have sounded affirmative, maybe.
“I’m the new stagehand.”
“That’s cool.” In my own ears, I sounded like a perfect bitch, and I moaned inwardly. If a girl was as rude to me as I must have seemed to Angie, I wouldn’t give her a second glance before telling her to go to hell.
I stopped and held up a hand. Angie halted beside me, giving a quizzical look. I reached down and ripped off my left shoe, fighting back an orgasmic groan at the feeling of freedom. The right shoe quickly followed, and I straightened with both of them dangling from my hand. Wiggling my toes, I gave a deep sigh of relief.
“I’m sorry, Angie. These shoes were killing my feet. I didn’t mean to come off bitchy. I’m mad at Das Herr Direktor, not you.”
“Oh . . . no! You didn’t. I mean, well, you did, but I didn’t think you meant anything by it.” She waffled, her skin turning bright pink from the opening of her shirt all the way up to the roots of her hair. “I’m sorry. I’ll see you later—“
She turned away.
I grabbed her shoulder. “No, Angie, please don’t leave. I’m sorry, okay?”
What happens next? Find out in Dead Means Dead, now available from Noble Romance Publishing!