Free Undead and Unforgiven by MaryJanice Davidson

anybody . . . I mean, Tammy
died
.” Bounce. “All because I wasn’t paying attention, y’know?” I didn’t, but nodded anyway. “They thought it was on purpose and I couldn’t— Someone went to prison for it. I could’ve said something. I didn’t. I was,” she summed up, shaking her head so the bouncing turned to swaying, “chickenshit.”
    â€œAnd not surprised to find yourself in Hell.”
    â€œSuicides go to Hell,” was the flat response. As if catching her mood, the ponytail went still. “So no. I wasn’t surprised.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œCan I ask you something?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you know that?”
    â€œI could’ve gotten the info. I wanted to hear what you have to say.”
    â€œOh.” She paused. Swallowed. Then, in a small voice, and with a smaller smile: “Thanks.”
    â€œSure.” Aww. She was sweet, for an accidental murderous arsonist who watched an innocent man go to prison while never saying a word for fear of incriminating herself. And it wasn’t her fault she died on a terrible hair day. Oh. Wait. It was. Well, no one was perfect.
    â€œHey, Betsy!” Ah, here came Marc the sodom— God, I
wish
I could get that out of my head. Damn you to Hell, Marya Bill Washington! Again! “Been looking for you.” He was trotting past the tables of the damned, the only one in the place who was smiling. “Okay, how cool was Mary Ball?”
    â€œChums now, huh?”
    â€œShe’s got sooo much dirt on people here!” He was so gleeful, he was practically rubbing his hands together. But not bored—and that was the main thing. “You wouldn’t believe— I’ll tell you later. Hey.” To Jennifer, who blinked back. “She introduced me to a whole . . .”
    My phone buzzed against my hip and I pulled it free, nodded at Marc to continue, saw I had a text from Sinclair.
    I miss you.
    I want you.
    Come.
    â€œ. . . cut both their heads off and they
still
found him not guilty! Hey. Are you all right?”
    â€œFine.” I gulped. My sluggish, undead blood was doing its best to travel south and that one word was all I could manage. “Nnk.”
    â€œWhat was that?”
    Oh, that would be me, swallowing an invisible lump conjured by instant horniness.
    Marc brightened. “Oooh, did Sinclair send you another sexy texty? He’s such a suave son of a bitch.” This in a tone of fond admiration.
    â€œFirst, never call it that again on pain of me kicking you in the shins until you cry. And yes. Hey!” I batted his hand away, but not before he got a quick peek at my phone. “Boundaries!”
    â€œNobody does that imperious-alpha-male thing better,” Marc said, shaking his head. “Gotta give it to him, you lucky skank.”
    â€œThat’s just it!” I cried. Marc had hit on one of my favorite things about the essence of Sinclair. “He’s not even trying to be sexy!
He’s just sexy!
It just happens! Don’t call me skank.”
    â€œI can’t believe you allow texts but not text terminology,” Marc grumbled. “Do you know how much of my time I waste spelling out ‘laughing out loud’?”
    â€œDo I care?” Texting back:
On my way!
I’d held out against texting as long as I could; it was laziness personified by way of technology, except in a bad way. But dammit, it was just so convenient. Especially here. But I still hated emojis and text gibberish (LOL, JK, STFU, ISHO, ES, EB, INSTBH, 2 etc.) and I forbade them.
    â€œAt least reconsider your hashtag decree—”
    â€œThere will never be hashtags or Twitter in Hell!” I shrieked. I heard a muffled
crack!
and realized I’d tightened my grip on my phone a bit too hard. Dammit! Fourth one this month. Tina kept a box of brand-new phones at the mansion, and thank