Invincible Chronicles of Nick - By Sherrilyn Kenyon Page 0,14
first met him. But Bubba was a summa cum laude graduate from MIT and was without a doubt the smartest man Nick had ever met.
A little … no, a lot crazy, but highly intelligent.
“Hey, Bubba, it’s Nick. My mom started a new job at Sanctuary and wanted me to lie low until she gets off work. Since you’re the reason she got fired, I was wondering if I could work in the shop today?”
“Oh, hell yeah, get your Cajun hide around to the back door pronto.”
“I’m right outside.” Nick scooted around to the rear door that was usually reserved for deliveries.
Bubba already had it open as he eyed him. “How you doing?”
“I’m alive, so no complaints.”
“Wish Mark thought that way. Boy ain’t done nothing but cry like a girl all morning long.”
“I’m not crying. I’m in pain, you heartless Cro-Mag.”
At six-four and with a full black beard and short black hair, Bubba was the epitome of what most people would call a redneck. But the one thing Nick had learned in his short life was that people seldom fit whatever stereotype others wanted to give them. Case in point, while Bubba loved his truck, his mom, and his guns and flannel shirts, he was also a huge horror movie fan and a sucker for foreign girl movies. In fact, Bubba’s favorite show was Oprah, and he watched it faithfully every single day. Woe or, more to the point, death to anyone who came between Bubba and his TV at four. His music of choice was punk or alternative, and he was never caught with a pair of Doc Marten’s boots.
Just like Bubba, Mark Fingerman wasn’t what he seemed either. Yes, he wore a lot of camouflage, but that was to keep the zombies from seeing him.
Don’t ask.
Mark believed in all paranormal creatures. Even the tooth fairy.
Again, don’t ask.
Mark could try the patience of Gandhi.
Only a handful of years older than Nick, Mark was Bubba’s sidekick. With shaggy brown hair and bright eyes, Mark stood in the store with a mop and bucket. Currently, he was choking said mop and kicking the bucket so much, it sloshed water onto the floor.
Nick scowled at them. “What’s going on?”
Mark came forward to hand him the mop he so obviously hated. “Clean up, my friend. Welcome to the party. I’m so glad you could make it.”
Groaning, Nick took the mop. He’d argue, but Bubba might shoot him—as he’d done the last four computers that had irritated him. The guts of the most recent one were still spread out over Bubba’s worktable in back.
“Look.” Mark held up his hands for Nick’s inspection. “They’re all pruny and wet. I’ll never have my soft sweet hands again.”
Nick snorted. “You’re not right, are you?”
“Oh, please. If I were right in the head, do you think I’d be working for Bubba? Especially given what the cheap bastard pays. How hard did you hit your noggin last night?”
Nick dodged Mark’s hand as he tried to touch his hair. “Dude, don’t do that.” He glanced over to Grim, who rolled his eyes.
“I know this clown,” Grim said in an evil tone. “He keeps teasing me with these near death experiences. One day, I’m going to take his butt down even when I’m not supposed to. You can’t keep knocking on my door and then slamming it in my face. It’s just not right.”
“Nick?” Bubba called. “Why don’t you clean the front of the store while Mark and I pick up back here?”
“All right.” As he left the back room and headed to the store area, he realized how much the two of them had already done. All the debris was picked up and most of the shattered glass. They must have been cleaning for hours.
For a full minute, Nick saw the events of last night play through his head. It’d been horrible. But the one good thing had been the fact that they’d accidentally found a way to fix the human zombies and return them to normal.
The other kind …
Those had just been gross and nasty to take out.
Grim wandered around looking at the shelves of computers and laptops, as well as peripherals and accessories that were set in the middle of the floor. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with one of the largest gun selections in the Southeast. Glass cases separated the guns from anyone who might wander in and pick one up.
Bubba’s first rule.
No one handles a gun in my store without direct supervision.