I take a moment to run my gaze over his damp hair. The moment Dawson freed himself from the litter box mess, he went straight for the shower. I spent forty-five minutes outside the bathroom door going over my script while he double, triple, probably quadruple scrubbed every hint of Muffin pee and Moonshine poo off his skin.
“Can’t believe you did that,” I say through a laugh.
Muffin meows from under the table and pushes her face between my crossed ankles. She tunnels her whole body through, then struts back and forth across my feet, her tail swishing against my calves.
Dawson’s eyes go wide. “Is that Moonshine?”
“No,” I say.
He relaxes a little. “Hopefully he went and buried himself back in the cemetery he clawed out of.”
“He didn’t,” I say. “He’s climbing on his cat toys over there.”
I move my gaze with Dawson’s as he glances over. The mischievous feline is perched on the edge of one of those sofa-sized bean bags. He burns a predatory glare in our direction, his crinkled whiskers poking from his pointed face like lightning bolts.
The wild cat lets out a crackled moan, moves his gaze to a spot in the room, and shifts his weight on the pads of his paws. His back arcs high a moment before he leaps onto the top tier of a carpeted tower like a flying bat. Once there, he whirls in place, snaps his head back, and lets out a warning hiss.
“What the freak is he hissing at?” Dawson asks.
I shrug. “He’s got a good imagination.”
“Either that, or he invited some of his living dead friends to join him,” he says.
I sigh, drop my gaze to the table, and look at my script. The screenplay is a good distraction from what happened in the closet last night. “You still owe me a lesson,” I say, determined to stay on task today. “And to be honest, this isn’t the easiest role. I’m not the cheerleader type.”
“I think you’d make a great one,” Dawson says. “You could take the sarcastic approach. Use the same cheers, just at different times. Like when there’s a fumble.‘Way to go, Dawson, way to go!”He claps twice then throws his hands out to either side and shakes them as if he’s holding pom poms.
I chuckle. “You know me pretty well, don’t you? I mean, the hand movements aren’t really me, but I like how you added your own flair.”
Dawson grins and crunches into a dunked cookie. He pushes the plate of warm goodies toward me, but I shake my head.
“There’s something else I don’t like about my role,” I say. “And I don’t think it’s as easily overcome as the whole cheerleading thing.”
He lowers his chin and levels a look at me. “You know I’ve played an alien from another planet, right?”
I swat his arm. “That’s why I’m asking you. This Libby chick is desperate. It’s like getting this guy is important enough for her to risk her life.” I realize that didn’t come out right, but pinch my lips closed as Dawson responds.
“Love is worth dying for, isn’t it?”
“Isit?” The two words pipe out in a pitch so high it distracts me, but I’m quick to get back on track since Dawson’s comment is too outrageous to ignore. “What good is love if you’re dead?”
“If she refuses the one possible reversal for a zombie bite, she’ll die anyway.Alone, I might add.”
“Maybe she’s happier alone.”
Dawson’s nostrils flare. He scoots away from the table and throws up an exasperated hand. “She’s not.”
“How wouldyouknow?” My heart thuds hot as I glare at him.
Dawson lifts the script off the table, flicks back two of the stapled pages, then slaps it back down on the space between us. He presses a hard finger to an italicized line at the top.“Libby, miserable, desperate, and terrified of being alone, must discover whether or not she can trust Nick in order to survive.”
I shove my chair back and shoot to a stand. “Well, now you know why I don’t relate to her. She can becuriousall day long, but why does herentirelife have to hinge on it?”
Dawson jumps to his feet as well. The quick action sweeps the crisp scent of his soap in my direction. “Because zombies are literally trying to eat her brains, Brinley! Plus, they were bitten, which means she’ll turn into one herself if they don’t rectify it in time.”
I spin and start walking away from him. I decide to head for the fridge since there’s no place else to go. I just want to get away from Dawson and this annoying conversation.
“Why do you have to personalize everything?” Dawson asks. He’s not following me, but his voice raises to make up the difference.
