Driving Mr. Dead Read online

  After a delicious breakfast/dinner of apple cinnamon French toast and hash browns, I wandered into the motel parking lot, carbo-loaded and ready for bed. I had a long day of appeasing the ninety-year-old woman trapped in a vampire’s body ahead of me, and that would require sleep.

  Shuffling across the lot, I plucked nervously at the engagement ring I wore around my neck. I hadn’t wanted to hold on to the ring at first. The moment I’d found out about Jason and Lisa, I’d taken it off and hurled it across the room, vowing never to touch it again. And I wouldn’t have, if the damn thing hadn’t gotten caught in my vacuum cleaner and destroyed it … the vacuum cleaner, I mean. The ring was fine. Damn it.

  I’d seriously considered putting it through a wood chipper and sending him the fragments. But considering that it had survived the innards of my vacuum cleaner unscathed, I foresaw that plan ending in some sort of tragic, accidental Fargo scenario.

  Jason Cordner was my first serious boyfriend. I’d dated casually before, but the boys I chose were either as dull as a box of mud or closet sociopaths. I’d moved back home, licking my wounds from the inevitable collapse of my studio, and my parents thought I needed “good influences.” I was on the verge of making up a boyfriend to get my mom off my back when I met Jason at the annual Puckett Labor Day picnic.

  Jason was a junior partner in a law firm my parents occasionally consulted with. I dropped buffalo wings down the back of his polo shirt. He claimed it was love at first sight. I think he might have gotten barbecue sauce in his eye.

  I liked Jason. He didn’t light my world on fire at first, but he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, a kind person. He made me laugh. He let me in on intimate little details that none of my previous boyfriends had shared, such as home address and marital status. And he made me feel centered, special, as if I was a fascinating work in progress, instead of an enormous fuck-up. We did all of the normal, boring things that normal, boring couples did. Pizza, Half-Moon Hollow High football games, arguing whether to watch a Sandra Bullock movie or Vin Diesel. He introduced me to his best friend, Lisa, who’d lived next door since they were kids.

  The year we were together was the calmest of my life. Jason thought it was “cute” that I loved photography and suggested that I work at the Sears photo studio part-time if the artistic urge struck. My parents saw our relationship as some sort of sign that I was growing up. They stopped questioning me like a naughty teenager every time I left the house. They stopped telling quite so many embarrassing stories about me at family dinners. I think they were afraid that they were going to scare Jason off. They could not have been happier when Jason proposed, Daddy because it meant that I was someone else’s problem now and Mom because it meant that I wouldn’t move away from Half-Moon Hollow and she’d be able to keep an eye on me.

  Because of their assurances that they were “like brother and sister,” I accepted Jason and Lisa’s relationship at face value. I overlooked inside jokes, frequent hugs, and sickeningly sweet nicknames. And then, one afternoon, I was shopping for wedding dresses with Lisa—my maid of honor—and she left her purse in the dressing room with me. Her phone went off while she went to look at a veil, and I recognized Jason’s text ringtone, the clink-clink sound from Law and Order. I ignored it once, and twice, and three times. He texted her four times in the span of about three minutes, and even though I knew it was a bad idea to look at her phone, my curiosity won out. The texts were descriptive and detailed. He was so in love with her, he typed out in painstaking text-speak, but so confused. He loved me, but he felt like a fraud when he was with me. He didn’t want to hurt me, but he didn’t want to lose her. He begged her not to give up on him while he “figured things out.”

  To say that I flipped my shit in the middle of the Bridal Barn was an understatement. Because I also flipped a rack of plus-sized mother-of-the-bride dresses and a display of bridal tiaras and the cash register, all in an effort to get my hands on Lisa.

  I paid for the damages out of a weekly deduction from my Puckett and Puckett paycheck.

  Most of the damages.

  Jason’s betrayal wrecked me in ways I hadn’t imagined possible. I didn’t get out of bed for days … after my dad bailed me out of jail for the public-disturbance charges. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t realize how much I could hurt until the first man I’d opened my heart to considered me second-best. I’d loved him. I’d loved what I thought was a kind heart, a strong soul. He was always so good, so open with me; I didn’t think he’d ever lie to me. I didn’t think he was capable of it. I’d loved the life I thought we were going to lead together. I thought that making a life with someone, accepting all of his quirks and differences, seemed like the ultimate epic adventure. And I’d worked hard to make myself into the woman I thought he deserved. I honestly tried to make the best of my job at the law firm. I let my mother select a work wardrobe for me at the Elegant Professional Boutique, which specialized in pantsuits in a dazzling array of taupe. I stopped dyeing neon streaks into my hair. Eventually, the most exciting part of my day was choosing which flavor of yogurt to take with me for lunch.

  Little by little, I’d given up so much of myself, and the painfully embarrassing thing was that Jason hadn’t even asked me to. I’d done it willingly, because I thought it was what he wanted. It turned out, of course, that what he wanted was Lisa. After all of that, he still didn’t want me. The life I thought we would share didn’t mean anything to him. If it had, he would have been honest with me. He wouldn’t have been able to tell another woman that he loved her.

  Jason was torn—and not in the way I wanted him to be. When he realized that I was going to call off the wedding because of what he insisted was just an emotional affair, he promised me that it was over. The wedding plans had scared him, he insisted, and he’d panicked. That was something I could understand. Mom’s daily quizzes on napkin colors and floral preferences nearly drove me to the brink, and I was supposed to be interested in that stuff. I felt terrible, listening to his voice, that I hadn’t noticed how stressed he was. Maybe if I’d picked up on it, we could have avoided this whole mess.

  I wanted to believe him. I wanted to forgive him. I wasn’t ready to give up what I thought we’d had together or my parents’ tacit approval. But my anger kept getting the better of me. Every once in a while, I would be overwhelmed with the urge to punch Jason in the throat. I couldn’t seem to stop checking his texts whenever he left the room. I wanted to trust him, but after reading the sweet, loving messages he’d sent his supposedly platonic best friend, I felt this weird need to assure myself of his fidelity. I was starting to feel like that crazy girl you saw on episodes of Cheaters, and I hated every moment of it, so I broke it off with him. And even though part of me still loved him, I canceled all of the reservations and wedding plans. The ring relay cycle began. I gave it back. He returned it. I gave it back. He returned it.

  On our scheduled wedding day, when Jason said he had something to ask me, I said I had something to tell him. He went first and proposed all over again. I responded that I would be leaving in two days to take a vampire-transport job from Iris and needed the time to think about whether I’d ever be ready to trust him again. I was determined to make a final decision on the road. When I got back, I told him, I was either going to commit to Jason or give back his ring permanently.

  I was pretty sure he wished that I’d gone first.

  These were heavy thoughts, unwelcome distractions, as I made my way across an empty parking lot, also known as the lonely serial killer’s playground. As I crossed the battered concrete partition that separated the motel lot from the restaurant, I heard the faint plinks of gravel skittering across blacktop behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled up. I was being watched. I could feel eyes sliding over my skin like some icky radar system. I squared my shoulders and listened attentively as I moved.

  I was about thirty paces from the motel office, twice that to my room. I could break out at a run, but that could provoke
the nasty “chase” instinct common in parking-lot predators. And there was a good chance that I could trip and smash my face on a speed bump.

  When I’d worked at Bite, a vampire bar just outside Chicago, the bouncer trained the waitresses on basic self-defense. The owner didn’t want us walking to our cars after closing without some idea of how to take care of ourselves. I actually did pretty well in my sparring matches, despite the fact that Tino the bouncer was roughly the size of a compact car. Tino speculated that my unique ability to find trouble meant that I spent more quality time in panic mode than the average person. Being accustomed to the fight-or-flight response, I was able to channel all of my adrenaline into hurting someone besides myself. After I called Tino a number of colorful names, I thanked him for his helpful insight.

  My ability to defend myself in rough situations—along with a brief but memorable stint as a taxi driver in Cleveland—turned into quite the selling point for my boss, Iris, during the hiring process. I could parallel-park and adjust my radio while flipping a rude gesture at another driver, all the while calculating a 20-percent tip in my head. I demonstrated my skills to Iris when she hired me. She asked me never to do it again.

  I slowed my steps, unwilling to stop completely and look around. I popped my thumbs, shaking the blood into my fingers, still hoping that I could make it to my room without confronting Mr. Parking Lot Creeper. It had been a very long time since my last sparring match with Tino, and I stood a pretty good chance of pulling something. Driving long hours the next day with a wrenched hamstring would suck.

  Seriously, where is half-naked, oil-covered Jason Statham when you need him? I wondered, thinking of The Transporter and how he would handle this situation.

  The crunch of gravel moved closer, maybe five paces behind me.

  Stand and fight it was, then.

  Just as I was about to turn and yell at whoever it was to leave me the hell alone, I heard a shout and the sound of feet dragging across pavement. Two mismatched truckers in full plaid regalia had Mr. Sutherland pinned against a car, wrapping a thick chain around his middle. My client seemed more embarrassed than angry, his fangs in full play as he spoke in that rapid, clipped accent. “Get your hands off of me, you cretins!”

  “We caught you, asshole! You don’t sneak up on ladies like that!” the heavier of the two truckers shouted in a heavy Texas accent, giving Mr. Sutherland a violent shake. His arms, bared by ripped sleeves, were as thick as tree trunks and twice as gnarly. His partner had more of a straw-blown build, dirty-blond hair, and a lazy eye that seemed to follow me as I stormed over to them.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Let him go!”

  “Get back!” the lankier trucker yelled. “Go to your room, honey. Just get out of here. Let us take care of this.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded as he looped the chain around Mr. Sutherland’s arms, pinning them to his waist. His skin sizzled and smoked where the chain came into contact with his wrists. These idiots must have sprayed the chain down with colloidal silver, a common trick among bar brawlers who were unsure of whether their opponents were living or undead. For vampires, touching it resulted in burning, itching, weakened muscles and, eventually, a wish for death. And Mr. Sutherland was sort of emo, anyway.

  I surged forward, making a grab for him, but Lanky caught my arm and dragged me away to a “safe distance.” My hand clamped over my purse strap, and I yanked free, using Lanky’s body momentum to shove him a good arm’s length away.

  “Saw this foreign jackwagon following you from the diner, all stealthy-like,” said Heavy-Set, his bewhiskered jowls aquiver. “We figured he wanted to make you his midnight snack or worse. Girlie, don’t you know better than to wander at night when there are vampires running around? We saved your life!”

  I turned on Mr. Sutherland. “You were following me? Really?”

  Mr. Sutherland huffed indignantly but didn’t comment, what with the silver cutting into his flesh and slowly poisoning him.

  “The way we look at it, you owe us a little reward,” Lanky said, posturing and leering at me.

  “Look, I appreciate the thought … and the inappropriate, ultimately doomed flirting,” I said, approaching them slowly with my hands up.

  Weakened by silver, Mr. Sutherland sagged against the car. Heavy-Set was leaning on him, counting on his bulk and the silver to keep my vampire client in place. But the trucker’s feet were set too close together, and his center of gravity was too low. One hard push, and Mr. Sutherland could get loose.

  Lanky was circling a bit too close to me for my comfort, arms down at his sides, because I was no threat, in his mind.

  I smiled sweetly and added, “And I understand the urge to hurt him. Hell, I’ve only known him for a couple of hours, and I would gladly punch him in the junk for you. The problem with that is that the grumpy, slightly creepy guy you’re wrangling is my responsibility. I’ve got to deliver him halfway across the country in three days. I get paid less if he’s banged up and silver-scarred.”

  “You work for them?” Lanky demanded, thoroughly disgusted. “For vampires?”

  “I know it’s cliché, but the dental plan is amazing,” I deadpanned. “So what I need you to do is step away from the vampire and move along.”

  Heavy-Set shook his head, twisting the chain a bit tighter around Mr. Sutherland and dragging him toward the bed of their truck. “Nope, I can’t let that happen. You need to be protected from yourself, honey. And that means we teach Mr. Dead here that you don’t stalk ladies in parking lots.”

  “Don’t worry, he won’t be able to hurt you,” Lanky assured me. “We’ll take care of him.”

  I sighed. “I’m really sorry about this, but I’m afraid I can’t let that happen.”

  While Lanky was distracted by Mr. Sutherland’s struggles, I brought my arm down, just hard enough to pop him on the side of the neck. Tino would have been very proud. The bony heel of my hand connected with the supersensitive brachial nerve, and Lanky’s legs folded under him as if some cruel puppeteer had cut his strings. He collapsed, boneless, and his head bounced against the pavement with a solid thunk that set my teeth on edge.

  He was going to feel that in the morning.

  I shot a look over my shoulder, to where Mr. Sutherland had shimmied free from the chain and held Heavy-Set by his neck, his feet dangling four inches off the ground. It would appear that Mr. Sutherland had regained his strength rather quickly.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, attacking a vampire in a parking lot? Are you nuts?” I demanded as the redneck coughed and wheezed, clawing at the hands clutching his throat. I gently tapped Mr. Sutherland on the shoulder. He snarled at me, fangs bared. I took a step back, my hands raised. “It’s hard to understand him when he can’t breathe. Damn it, Mr. Sutherland, put him down!”

  I kept waiting for him to release his grip on the wayward do-gooder, but he continued to hold him. “Language, Miss Puckett.”

  “Mr. Sutherland,” I said, clearing my throat, “I think it would be better if we just sent these men on their way. They didn’t mean any harm … to me.”

  “I didn’t see them coming,” Mr. Sutherland seethed.

  That … was an odd response.

  “Well, it’s been a while since you’ve been out of the house, right?” I told him. “Maybe your instincts are just a little off. I’m sure in a day or so, you’ll be back to your hyperaware, completely paranoid self.”

  He growled, squeezing Heavy-Set’s throat until he turned a disturbing shade of puce.

  “If you kill him, it’s going to mean calling the police, filing a bunch of paperwork, and missing your deadline with the Council,” I reminded him.

  With a hiss, Mr. Sutherland dropped Heavy-Set to his feet. Heavy-Set sank to his knees, coughing and sputtering. He saw his friend crumpled on the pavement like a battered rag doll. “Damn it, you killed Mel!”

  I stepped between Heavy-Set and Mr. Sutherland. “Your friend should be fine in a
few minutes. Just make him sit up slowly, and help him get up on his feet. He’s going to be sort of wobbly. And please tell him I’m really sorry about the headache.”

  Heavy-Set struggled to his feet. He pulled at Lanky’s arms, dragging his dead weight to the truck and barely missing shutting the door on his leg as it flopped uselessly out of the cab. They screeched out of the parking lot as if their taillights were on fire.

  I turned to Mr. Sutherland with as much poise as I could muster and demanded, “What the hell? Why were you following me? What are you even doing out of the room?”

  “I wanted to keep an eye on you. I wanted to make sure I could trust you.”

  “So I’m untrustworthy because I deviated from your precious schedule?” I demanded. “What, you thought I was going to meet a co-conspirator at a diner, so we could plan the kidnapping of the most anal-retentive, fastidious vampire since Freud? You have more issues than National Geographic.”

  Yes, Freud was a vampire, which, when you thought about it, made sense. It was the only plausible explanation for his theories’ maintaining academic credence for so long.

  “I can’t see anything coming when I’m with you,” he bit out, his voice frustrated and gravelly. The cords of his neck stood out as he loomed over me. His hands rose as if he was going to grasp my arms.

  I stood, teetering on the edge of a choice. Let him touch me, give in to the strange skittering thrill his voice sent up my spine, or move and maintain my sanity.

  I grunted, backing away. “What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted back.

  “Fine!” I huffed, turning on my heel toward the motel. I’d had enough of this crap for one night. What gave him the right to follow me? Spy on me? Let him call Iris. Let him tell her why I had to save his butt from redneck bystanders. Heck, she might hire me full-time. At the moment, I just wanted to shower and get some sleep before we had to get back on the road.