Driving Mr. Dead

Page 11

“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t beat yourself up over it,” she told me. “I parked my van outside Jane’s bookshop a while ago, and someone painted ‘VAMPIRE BITCH’ across the hood.”
“Well, that’s hurtful and inaccurate.”
She hummed in agreement. “I had to leave it that way for a week until I could get it fixed. I got some really funny looks at Walmart. Just be more careful about where you park from now on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And stop calling me ma’am.”
I laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So how are things going with the mysterious Mr. Sutherland?”
This was the question I was dreading. I ended up forcing the words out in a rush. “Fine. It was a little rough at the start, but I think we’ve come to an understanding.”
“Has he lightened up at all on the contract rider and all of those rules?” she asked. “I’m sorry to have put that on you, but he wouldn’t sign without it, and Ophelia was insistent that she didn’t trust anyone but Beeline to transport him.”
“No, he definitely likes his own way. But he’s stopped being downright hostile. And at least he’s not asking me to separate his M&M’s by color.”
She groaned. “Your next assignment will be driving fluffy kittens to an amusement park, I promise.”
“And now I’m worried about why vampires would need fluffy kittens.” I shuddered.
“No other problems beyond the spray paint?”
I cleared my throat. This was why I didn’t gamble. I had no poker face, and I tended to hem and haw. Would this be a good time to bring up the other problems? Iris had been downright reasonable about the chicken thing and the boob thing, but would that change when it was compounded with the rednecks, the money issues, and seedy motels? I’d basically put her client through a more perverse, less fun version of a National Lampoon’s Vacation.
“No,” I said before my stupid conscience got a vote. I hated lying to Iris, but I hated the idea of filing and fetching my brother’s coffee more. And that’s where I’d end up if I couldn’t pay off my loan.
“Good. Check in with me tomorrow night, would you?”
I agreed and gave her a heads-up on the amount of gas I’d put on the fleet card so far. She waved off the total as if it was nothing and told me to take care of myself and try to have some fun on the road, to get enough sleep and non-fast food. I stared at the phone in my hand. That was unusual. An employer who put her employees ahead of the bottom line? I could get used to that.
Steeling my nerves, I opened my voicemail and found I had eleven messages from Jason, only five of which Jason was aware he’d left. In between messages in which I heard him order coffee, mutter to himself about a faulty fax machine, and make closing arguments in an attempted murder case, Jason told me how much he wanted me home with him. He said the house didn’t smell the same anymore, no more pies in the oven, no hints of my perfume. He hated sleeping alone. He hated showering without someone trying to talk to him around the curtain.
Jason loved me. The thought of losing me scared him too much, he said. He promised he wouldn’t see Lisa again, even if it meant awkward moments with her or her family, longtime friends of the Cordners. He wanted to start over. He loved me, he insisted, and he wanted to make a life with me, even if he hadn’t worked through his feelings for Lisa. He hadn’t meant to hurt me, he said. Lisa was there to listen to him, as always, and things went too far. It hadn’t meant anything.
That last reference had me pausing. It brought back all of those crazy “reality-show wench” feelings. How far exactly had “things” gone? Had he lied about that, too? I mean, he told me that he and Lisa were “just friends,” like brother and sister. And as far I knew, brothers and sisters did not exchange steamy confessions of love via text message. Had they been sleeping together this whole time? Was it really better if they hadn’t? Why was I sort of OK with Jason thinking he might be in love with another woman, but the thought of him having sex with her made me want to attack him with a farm implement?
“Stop it,” I told myself. “Torturing yourself isn’t going to do you any good.”
I rubbed a hand over my face. I felt better after getting off the phone, even if I had withheld quite a bit of information from Iris, and was once again plagued with visions of Jason and Lisa playing naked Twister. If nothing else, the call made me more determined to keep my job with Iris. I liked working for her. Sure, this assignment had been a twitching nightmare, but she said the next one would be easier. I would find a way to make it up to her, I decided. I would get up early, drive like hell the next two nights, and get Collin to the Hollow well before the deadline, even if it killed me.
I really hoped it didn’t kill me.
The shower was still running when I stepped into the room. Collin’s overnight case was left outside the door. I didn’t have the energy for that, so I slid on some blue plaid boy shorts and a tank top and flopped onto the stiff, crunchy tan bedspread. This outfit was not exactly appropriate work wear, but I hadn’t been expecting nighttime “company.” And I wasn’t about to sleep in jeans.
When the water shut off with a protesting squeak, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I turned on the lumpy bed, realizing that the bathroom door was standing open. Collin stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.
Good Lord.
Pale skin, miles of it, perfect and smooth. A little metal key hung from a slim chain around his neck. He had a swimmer’s body, lean, rangy, with long legs. His feet were slender and highly arched. Water dripped down the muscled contours of his back, toward a butt that—
That settled it. I was jealous of a towel.
I did my best to look away. I didn’t even want to admit that I wanted to look. A little flirtation at dinner was one thing, but I would not let him know that seeing him swathed in a threadbare towel was possibly the best sexual experience I’d had in more than a year. I had to maintain some dignity. He shot a startled glance into the bedroom, as if he hadn’t expected me to be there.
“Apologies,” he said, grabbing his overnight case and snapping the door shut.
My jaw dropped. What the hell? He was a vampire. Vampires did not get distracted. They didn’t just forget that there was a beating human heart pumping the scent of their favorite food into the next room. Had he left the door open on purpose? Was he trying to torture me?
I grabbed my lip balm and paperback out of my bag, knowing full well that I wouldn’t read before I went to sleep. But it was my nightly ritual, and it had to be respected. I was standing by the bed, debating whether it was grosser to sleep on the comforter or to risk bedbug bites by climbing under the sheets, when the door swung open again. Collin emerged, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a plume of steam following him out of the bathroom like something out of a Whitesnake video.
He was wearing another suit, black this time, with a crisp blue shirt. And because I was suddenly very self-conscious about my work-inappropriate sleepwear, I yanked back the covers and slid between the sheets.
Shudder.
“So do you own a pair of jeans?” I asked.
“Why would I wear jeans and T-shirts when the clothing I wear suits me so much better?” he asked.
“Touché,” I muttered.
There was a loud thump from the room above ours and a chorus of drunken laughter. I heard the opening bars of “Gangsta’s Paradise” blare though the floor. Tiny sprinkles of ceiling dust drifted down like carcinogenic snow. As the bass line picked up, the snow flurries graduated to large flakes of paint.
I sighed and pulled the sheet over my face. “Of course.”
I made a little peephole in the threadbare fabric so I could peer out. Collin pulled the bare wooden chair away from the battered desk, wiped it clean with a handkerchief, and settled in with a book. I punched a pillow the thickness of a maxi pad into shape and propped my head against it. I pretended not to notice that he’d propped his feet on the bed, that they were inches away from own. The mattress sagged and shifted underneath me as I flopped back and forth like a fish, trying to find a comfortable position.
“I thought you were tired,” he said blandly as I fidgeted under the covers.
“I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep,” I whined, throwing the covers back and picking up my book. “This bed is like something out of ‘The Princess and the Pea.’”
“Is that a veiled request for a bedtime story?”
I wondered briefly if that meant I could crawl into his lap. Because if so, I was onboard.
“What are you reading?”
“Catch-22,” I said, showing him the cover.
“That’s a rather bleak story.”
“It’s about someone in a no-win situation of his own creation. I can relate.”
“Do you often read such nihilistic works?”
“No, I read a little bit of everything. Mysteries, fantasy, horror, romances—except for bodice rippers.”
“Beg pardon?”
I propped myself on my elbows. “Historical romances. You know, the swashbuckling pirate hero wants his lady so badly that he just rips the bodice of her gown open to access her bosoms.”
He snickered derisively. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I can’t believe I said bosoms, either.”
“No, speaking as someone with experience, you can’t just rip bodices open,” he insisted rather indignantly. “It takes time and patience and, in some cases, a small, deftly maneuvered blade.”
“Really?” I asked, wiggling my eyebrows.
“I was known to mangle a few bodices in my day.”
“I bet you did, you libertine, you.” I chuckled.
“Do you read often?”
“Whenever I can. Most nights, I can’t go to sleep unless I do.”
“It seems out of character. You’re always running, running, running,” he said. “Frankly, I can’t believe you’ve been still this long. I feel I must sit here and witness such a miracle of behavioral suppression.”
“Your plan is to sit there and stare at me until sunup?” I asked. “Not creepy at all.”
“I have a book,” he said, waving the thick linen-bound volume at me.
“It’s not a book on taxidermy, is it? 101 Ways to Display the Corpses of Humans Who Annoy You?”
“Of course not.” He opened it, licking a finger before carefully selecting a page. He added softly, “I left that particular title at home.”
I barked out a laugh, flopping onto my other side to try to evade the weird dent in the middle of the mattress. It felt as if it might drop out from under me at any—
Ker-RAANK!
The metal leg supporting the foot of the bed bent and collapsed, and I slid to the end of the mattress with a thump. Groaning, I climbed up the mattress, only to slide right back down so my feet touched the floor. Accepting that I would have to sleep at a twenty-degree angle, I pulled the blanket over my arms and made the best of it.
“Don’t laugh,” I grunted into the pillow.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
MC HAMMER RUINS AN OTHERWISE PLEASANT EVENING
6
I’d almost dozed off when the dancing started. I didn’t know people still danced to “U Can’t Touch This.” But when they did, it caused a lot of damage. The paint drifted down from the ceiling in a near blizzard. The dusty domed light fixture above my head rattled like a loose pot lid. I watched, mesmerized by its rhythmic jiggle.
Suddenly, Collin shot to his feet.
I blinked blearily at him. “What—”
He dove for me, sliding his arms under me and rolling off the bed. We landed on the floor with an “Oof!” OK, the “Oof!” was mine, after Collin landed on top of me. After the initial breathless shock of the landing, I froze. His nose was a few scant inches from mine. I could practically feel his eyelashes brushing against my cheeks as he gazed down at me, lips slightly parted. I could smell the strange mix of herbs, citrus, and mint on his skin, the cool sweetness of his breath. A rush of blood heated my skin, drawing his fangs out with a little snick as the blush spread to my chest. He seemed to be able to track its progress with his eyes, trailing down to my heart and watching it pulse beneath the skin. I squirmed under the weight of his hips wedged between my thighs.