Lovely Witches Club

Chapter 3: Zombie Bimbo Witch

What was that honking? Like a Canadian goose heading South for the winter. I staggered out of the shadows and into the light, limping, blood dripping from my cheek and into my cleavage, the short skirt of my torn dress barely covering my modesty. I'd torn the left knee of my fishnets at some point, though I doubted anyone would care. Probably on the bag of random body parts slung over my right shoulder.

What a night.

I swiped at the puffy blue that was my heavily teased hair, staggering over a beer bottle someone discarded in the hall of my apartment building, the heel of my right shoe going one way while my toes went another. A quick pause at the bottom of the stairs drew a groan from my lips, new daylight blinding as it flooded down toward me and hit me like a blow. All the while the goose honked his unhappy call at me and I wondered what the hell happened to get me to this place in my life.

It wasn't until I made it to the last step, my apartment door creaking open while my key actually worked in the lock for once and let me inside, that the incessant noise triggered a moment of familiarity that my tired brain was likely ignoring for a reason. But considering the fact it would not shut up and had continued to ring-excuse me, honk-more or less, for the last few minutes, I knew if I didn't answer some new t*****e would make its way to me, likely in the form of the caller pounding on my door.

Phone it was. Because Larry was the last person I wanted around right now. If I had to look him in that hipster bearded face before about a gallon of coffee made it into my system with at least twelve hours of sleep as a chaser, it was likely I'd be hitting him with the bag of body parts or my broken heel or just outright murdering him. And I really, really just wanted to inhale java and sleep and not be involved in a chargeable offense.

My thumb swiped and I sighed as the honking cut off. "What now, Larry?"

I should have known better than to allow him to speak. My so-called boss didn't even give me the chance to sag against the wall next to the door before he launched himself into a frothing lather.

"That shoot was WICKED." Larry's speaking voice always reminded me a bit of a squealing pig and I struggled to keep the analogy out of my head, failing miserably, picturing the tall, round bellied blond dude with a porker nose and a wriggling corkscrew tail as he rushed on. "WICKED. Gave me a HUGE idea, Reese. MASSIVE. Wait for it." I grunted, all he needed apparently, if he even required any encouragement. I was working for this lunatic why again? Oh, right. So I could make movies. Sucker. "SLAUGHTERHOUSE SCENE."

"A what?" I admit I sounded whiny even to me. Like, you're freaking kidding me and need your head examined, I'm going to bed and won't be available for the rest of the year kind of whiny.

"I know, amazing right?" He clearly didn't have the subtleties of other people's emotions worked out yet. Larry didn't have a whole lot of anything worked out, actually. Why he kept getting money to make movies that sucked I had no idea. And why I continued to work for him...

Right. I got to make movies. Double down on the sucker thing.

"We're going to rough out the draft in about a half hour." He sounded like he was walking, huffing along, slurping a coffee probably. My mouth watered at the thought, the sight of my tiny, empty kitchen making me swear under my breath. Because I only now remembered I'd failed to get cream, sugar, coffee, all the necessities of survival in my need to drag my zombified bimbo self home for sleep.

Damn it.

I lurched into the small space, the rough, mismatched painted panels of my cupboards thudding as I looked inside the barren landscape that was my food supply. A can of Zoodles, three old packages of vegetable bullion and a half crushed box of couscous from when I thought I might try cooking healthy for once. Because couscous.

"Wait, you said a half hour?" I scowled down at my phone like Larry could see me, staring at his stupid smiling face on the screen that I'd snapped because he insisted before pressing it to my ear again. And jerked at the stupid blue wig slowly crushing my brain, tossing it into the sink while he rushed on.

"Totally," he said. "We're set to film this afternoon. Got a SWEET location on the waterfront.

SWEET."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak or think, black closing in around my vision as I sagged against the counter. I was so freaking exhausted, I was sure I caught sight of a pair of stupid, sparkly pink wings flying in my kitchen window, landing on the counter and burrowing under a pile of letters. Because I was that utterly at a loss for reality.

"It's the weekend." Weak, MacDonald. Sad effort at standing up for yourself. Seriously, you expect anyone to crumble under that kind of patheticness?

"Exactly," Larry said like I didn't just try to turn and run on him. "Thus the sweet location." He paused and I winced. "You're not bailing on me, are you?"

God, I hated that tone of voice. That judging, snarky, biting tone that cut me so deep I might as well have been bleeding for real instead of dripping corn syrup and food coloring all over my chest from the gaping fake cut in my face. Usually, his turn of voice would make me shudder and capitulate and be grateful I had a job in film. That I was following my dream, wasn't I? And that working with people like Larry, well, that was experience building and par for the course and all the clichés they tell you about when you're in the industry.

And a sucker.

But this time for some reason, this time I felt my heart lurch, my chest tighten. It had nothing to do with the hardening mess of fake blood, either. Or the two bras and cinching corset I wore under my zombie dress. Nope. Wait, was Reese MacDonald finding her backbone at 8AM in the morning on a Saturday with no coffee and a bag of plastic body parts on her counter, a ghastly blue wig in the sink of her kitchen?

"Jesus, Larry." I sighed, but not to relent, anger finally built up enough I guess I just couldn't take it anymore. And though I knew it might end in disaster-that I'd no longer be working in film-I snapped. "I'm supposed to be your production manager. Not your chauffer, grip, craft service provider, camera assist, zombie bimbo... whatever pulling all-nighters just so you can drag me out again to write and film a freaking slaughterhouse scene for your latest stupid a*s movie that will offend everyone who doesn't live in their mother's basement!"

Silence. Utter silence for so long I heard myself panting for breath and wondered if he'd hung up or not.

"Reese, baby." When Larry spoke, he actually sounded normalish. Humanlike. And wow, he didn't fire me yet. Shocker. In fact, he sounded like he'd finally stopped walking and was listening. Larry. Listening. What? "It's just for the time being. While we build up our reel."

I was so sick of hearing film jargon. "Dude, seriously. I was supposed to be doing something good by now." Never mind how insulting that must have sounded. But if I had to do every freaking job in another slasher zombie post-apocalyptic e*****a flick, I was going to bludgeon him to death with his stupid a*s script.

I sank onto the wobbly stool at the peninsula, the tiny little outcropping of counter covered in official looking envelopes I chose to ignore. I pushed aside the bag of dripping bits and pieces of fake humanity, a large, brown envelope with a pair of wings on the surface and no return address catching my attention. Where did that come from? My hands reached for it, phone tucked between my bleeding cheek and shoulder as I ripped it open.

"This stuff is GOLD, Reese," Larry said, all wheedling and cajoling and other things that made my stomach turn. Wait, was he being nice and really not firing me? Had I been a doormat all this time for nothing? "You'll see. They'll be beating down our doors to work with us when we're done with this flick." He paused. "Pay those dues, kid."

"Right," I said, papers sliding out of the envelope and falling to the counter. Along with a small, velvet bag and one of those old timey, lame photos in sepia of a woman in a turn of the century dress.

Wait a second. She looked a lot like-

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