Driving Mr. Dead Page 5

  I drove hypercarefully through the northeast corner of Oregon to Idaho, driving two miles under the limit and steering as if I was performing neurosurgery. But the drive was a productive one. I learned the words to three Nickelback songs, which meant that I could eventually make fun of three more Nickelback songs. I caught up on The Help, an audio book I’d been saving for a special occasion. My cell phone rang frequently, and I ignored it.

  I drove without thinking, without planning. I just enjoyed the scenery and the music and the blissful solitude. I ate gummy worms and trail mix. I went through several of the playlists on the iPod I’d plugged into the stereo system. I loved creating a mood-setting list for every occasion, everything from the “You’ve Been Up for Far Too Long List,” which included a lot of peppy ’80s music, to the “Work the Pole List,” which I’d rather not go into.

  I may or may not have made several stops along the way to take pictures of the mountains and a broken-down drive-in movie theater in the middle of nowhere. Yes, it was a calculated risk, but I had to enjoy something about this trip. I could feel my joints loosening when I held the camera. The pictures weren’t particularly good, certainly not good enough to include in my photo journal. I preferred to take shots with some people in them, but for now, it was a good workout, so to speak.

  Other than spilling coffee down the front of my blouse, a minor injury sustained while locking a bathroom stall, and a brief run-in with an RV driver who didn’t seem to recognize “no passing” zones, the day went off without a hitch.

  Just after sunset, as we left Idaho, I heard bumping around in the cubby. I pulled over on the lonely stretch of I-90 with my emergency flashers blinking and pulled out the warmed packet of blood that Mr. Sutherland had requested.

  The evening was pleasant and mild. The blacktop radiated heat against my legs as I made my way around the car. There was no road noise, just the chirp of crickets and the wind over drying grass. I opened the back hatch of the car, just as the cubby door swung up.

  Mr. Sutherland sat up as if he was on a hinge, in one smooth upward motion. His three-piece suit—dark charcoal gray with a faint pinstripe—was perfectly pressed. The only thing mussed about him was his hair, arranged in that flawlessly tousled, “recently laid” arrangement. The suit made me think of that Gary Oldman Dracula movie, which made me think of Keanu Reeves’s English accent, which made me giggle.

  Hungry vampires were irritable vampires, so I choked it back, making an indelicate snorting noise, as I thrust the blood packet toward him. He took it, eyebrow raised at my display, and drained it immediately.

  “Another?” I asked.

  He shook his head, watching me carefully. “You don’t have to spoon-feed me. I’m not a newborn.”

  “Good morning to you, too, sir,” I retorted with a little curtsey.

  He gracefully slid out of the vehicle, straightening his cuffs, and stood over me. He scanned me from head to toe, that same frustrated expression clouding his eyes. His mouth bowed south. “You do realize that you’re supposed to drink the coffee, not bathe in it, yes?”

  I glanced down. How did he know I’d dumped half a cup of coffee into my cleavage? I’d changed my stained blouse hours before on one of my scheduled bathroom stops. I sniffed my shirt and only detected the slightest scent of coffee, which was coming from … my bra. He was smelling my bra. Well, that was gross.

  “Caffeine tightens the pores,” I retorted, rounding the car. “Are you planning to ride shotgun, or—” I watched as Mr. Sutherland slid into the backseat. “OK, then.”

  He opened his atlas and checked our progress against the map. He frowned. Without looking up, he asked, “Did you submit the police report this morning?”

  “Yes. That was a creepily accurate forgery of my handwriting, by the way.”

  He ignored the compliment-slash-jibe. “Did you contact Miss Scanlon and let her know about our difficulties? Did she make arrangements for our travel expenses?”

  I cleared my throat and nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

  I glanced down at my phone, noting that while we were standing outside, I’d received another call from my mother. I grumbled, shoving it into my purse, and then turned the keys in the ignition.

  “Miss Puckett.”

  I looked up into the rearview mirror to see blue eyes glaring at me. I moved to put the car into gear, and the frown deepened.

  His velvety voice was more insistent—and slightly pissed at being ignored. “Miss Puckett.”

  I shoved the gearshift back into park. When I turned to face him, I was smiling so sweetly I feared my cheeks would crack. “Yes?”

  He had his arm stretched across the backseat in a casual, “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bond” supervillain pose. The top of his light blue shirt was unbuttoned, revealing the perfectly symmetrical hollow of his throat. A sudden, compulsive urge to lick that narrow expanse of skin, framed by slender cords of muscle, overwhelmed my brain, and I had to grip the steering wheel to keep myself in the front seat.

  Did they make Adam’s apple porn? Was that a thing? Would I be scarred for life if I Googled it? And if I couldn’t find any pictures, could I take my own? My camera was in the bottom of my bag—

  And then I realized that I was staring at Mr. Sutherland’s throat cleavage … and he was clearly aware of this. I could tell by the curious lift of his eyebrow. My cheeks flamed, a rush of blood beneath my skin that shocked as much as it shamed. How could a stare—well, let’s be honest, it was a glare—be enough to make my panties spontaneously combust?

  I cleared my throat, breaking contact with the blue orbs of sexy evil. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t be starting the car right now?”

  He let his eyes narrow at the offending piece of paper on my dashboard.

  I snatched it up. “What, this?”

  His lip curled back into a grimace. “Yes, Miss Puckett. What is that?”

  “That would be a hamburger wrapper.”

  “Yes,” he purred. “And what do we know about hamburger wrappers?”

  “Their contents are meaty and delicious?”

  His lips twitched, as if he wanted to laugh but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Litter, Miss Puckett. The car is to be free of litter.”

  “Right, sorry,” I said, stuffing the offending paper into a paper sack. “Vampires have an aversion to human food, right? It smells spoiled to you?”

  “No, I dislike the idea of riding around with your lunch leftovers for the rest of the evening.” He sniffed. I started the car and pulled onto the shoulder. He nodded slightly. “But yes, vampires lack the enzymes to digest solids, so our bodies instinctively reject human food. The smell is unappetizing. And if we ate so much as a slice of bread, violent vomiting would follow.”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate, given our next stop.”

  I CAN SEE YOUR HEADLIGHTS

  4

  Pete’s Diner was bright and cheerfully decorated in insistently nostalgic aquas and pinks. I sat at the booth, considering my menu options, while Mr. Sutherland glowered at our general surroundings. A less mature part of myself wanted to order something really pungent, such as olive loaf and onion rings. But I chose considerately, turkey on whole wheat and an iced tea.

  Mr. Sutherland looked as out of place as I did when I visited my parents’ law firm. He ordered a coffee so he wouldn’t seem conspicuous and sat ramrod-straight against the cozy booth seat. He was staring me down, measuring me, recording little details, and he meticulously polished his silverware with his napkin. I did my best not to fidget or make origami out of the straw wrappers.

  “I know that we haven’t had an ideal travel experience so far,” I admitted in an effort to break the silence. “Honestly, I’m not trying to annoy you. At this point, all I can promise is that I’m not intentionally trying to do the things that make you angry … anymore.”

  “I am overwhelmed in the face of your generosity.” From the kitchen, I heard the hiss of onions hitting the grill. Mr. Sutherland shuddere
d as the sharp smell rippled through the air, adding another layer to the symphony of scents already hanging over the diner.

  “You’re the one who scheduled my meal breaks,” I reminded him without my usual sarcasm. “It’s not my fault you did it by location instead of time.”

  “Yes, but I thought we would be farther along the road by now. I assumed that you would eat dinner before I woke,” he said, eyeing a passing tray full of chili specials as if the secret ingredient was ebola virus.

  “Well, we would be running on time if I hadn’t had to stop at the police station this morning. Contingencies, Mr. Sutherland. They happen.”

  “Hmmph.” He stirred the coffee, for lack of something to do with his hands, and muttered something like “With you, they do.”

  Mr. Sutherland had been beyond twitchy from the moment we walked into the diner. He was uncomfortable and not just in the “I’m around a large group of humans for the first time in decades” sort of way. The presence of each additional person seemed to cause him pain.

  “You didn’t have to come in here with me,” I said, trying to keep my tone kind. “You could have waited outside, stretched your legs a bit. It can’t be comfortable being cooped up in that cubby.”

  He closed his eyes as a family of five passed by, their rambunctious teens hip-checking and elbowing one another for prime booth space. While his eyes were closed, I whipped out my camera and pulled off a few quick shots of the family being generally rowdy and obnoxious to one another. In the frame, they looked loving, happy, comfortable together. It made my heart ache a little.

  And since Mr. Sutherland’s eyes were still closed, his lashes resting on his high cheekbones, I took a few shots of him, too.

  I had my reasons.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’ll be fine in a few minutes. It’s just an adjustment. Besides, the last time we separated, we were set upon by rednecks.”

  “Are you afraid for my safety or yours?” I asked, smirking at him.

  “I’m not sure. I do hope Miss Scanlon wasn’t too upset about the trouble last night,” he said, watching me carefully. “I would hate for the incident to reflect poorly on your performance record.”

  “Of course, she wasn’t,” I lied smoothly, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my no-good, deceitful mouth. “She understands that the unexpected can happen. I have some cash, and I’m going to use a company credit card for our expenses.”

  “Oh, thank heavens,” he deadpanned as my turkey sandwich and spicy fries were delivered to the table. “I would hate for you to go without a feast like that.”

  “Have you ever had spicy peanut-oil fries?”

  “They were a bit outside of my time frame.”

  I dragged one of the beautiful golden fries through a pool of ketchup with a flourish and popped it into my mouth. “Well, don’t knock them until you’ve tried them.”

  He eyed my plate. “I have mentioned the vomiting issue, yes?”

  “Yes, which is an awfully nice image while I’m eating, so thank you,” I muttered, chewing carefully to avoid talking with my mouth full. “So tell me about yourself. When exactly is your ‘time frame’?”

  “Have you known many vampires, Miss Puckett?” he asked, leaning forward a bit.

  “No.”

  “Then I will excuse you, because you clearly don’t know how rude it is to ask a vampire how old he is.”

  “You brought it up. I’m just trying to make conversation,” I said, shrugging. “Is it OK if I guess?”

  He gave me a withering glare.

  “Do you have any fun?” I asked, tilting my head and frowning at him. “Ever?”

  “I’m sorry, but am I to understand that I’m serving as your entertainment?” He sniffed, those blue eyes narrowing at me.

  “Not at the moment,” I said, grinning. “Come on, humor me. You’ve still got the hint of a British accent, so I’m guessing you were born there. You have very formal manners. Your clothes are well made and old-fashioned. So … either you’re used to wealth or you’re trying to make up for something you were missing in life. I haven’t seen your car, so I don’t know if that’s an insecurity that’s universally applied,” I admitted. “Your house is orderly, nearly compulsively so. You have a bit of contempt for, well, everyone around you. I’m guessing … Revolutionary War. You fought for the British, which explains so much about your personality. You’re still a little bitter about it.”

  His jaw dropped, and for a beautiful moment, he actually looked discomposed. “You couldn’t possibly have guessed that. Did Miss Scanlon give you a dossier on me?”

  I let him hang. I enjoyed this moment of him seeing me as mysterious and knowledgeable, something more than just the person who drove him crazy with fast-food litter. But then I caved.

  I giggled. “You have your military insignia displayed on your mantel. That, combined with the accent and the cleanliness, let me make an educated guess.”

  “I have to say, I am impressed.”

  “I’m a people watcher.” I shrugged. “It’s just situational awareness, which is the one area in which I scored in the top percentiles in those personality tests. My high-school career-aptitude results recommended that I go into personal security or rodeo clowning, which my brother had a field day with, by the way. I got floppy red shoes as a graduation gift.”

  “Please demonstrate.”

  “I didn’t bring the shoes with me.” I twisted my face into a fake frown.

  Mr. Sutherland huffed, exasperated. “Your parlor trick, Miss Puckett. Please demonstrate your technique.”

  I chuckled, biting into my sandwich. This used to be my dad’s favorite game. When we were waiting at a restaurant or running errands, he’d pick somebody and ask me to tell him their story. Where they were from, what they were doing at the grocery store, who they had to go home to. The stories entertained Daddy, but watching people helped me pick up the right cues, the little things that made for great photos. It was a game that helped me wriggle out of some of the disastrous scenarios I found myself in, long after Daddy lost interest in playing.

  I scanned the dining room and jerked my chin toward a man sitting at the counter. “Fine. You see the guy over there? He’s on his way home to his wife after a week of doing incredibly irresponsible stuff with his buddies. Fishing, boating, something like that. He knows she’s going to be mad at him about something, and he’s not entirely sure he wants to drive the rest of the way home.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “He’s twisting his wedding ring around his finger as he bobs his knee at a hundred miles an hour. We’re in the heart of fly-fishing country. He’s sunburned something awful, except right around the eyes, probably from fishing or boating with sunglasses on. A woman would remind her husband to put on sunscreen, whereas a bunch of other guys wouldn’t care. And he’s been looking at his cell phone as if he thinks it’s going to bite him. He’s waiting for her to call and ask where he is and why the hell he isn’t home yet.”

  “You’re just guessing,” he said, smirking derisively.

  “It’s all just guessing. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  As if on cue, the cell phone rang, and the man started stuttering apologies and “Now, honey’s.” I beamed at Mr. Sutherland and popped another fry into my mouth.

  “You’re really very good at that,” he said, equally confused and awed.

  “Try not to sound so amazed,” I chided. “I do have some skill sets.”

  “Yes, cage fighting and impeccable deductive reasoning.”

  “I’ve never been in a cage. Where are you getting a cage?” I laughed.

  He smirked at me, and I could just make out a hint of a dimple in his cheek. “It’s far more interesting in my head if there’s a cage.”

  “That’s a psychological clue that I’m not willing to explore.” I took a bite of my sandwich and took a moment to appreciate the ambrosial combination of turkey, melted cheese, and bacon. “So, Collin Suther
land, Revolutionary War soldier,” I said, lowering my voice so the patrons at the other tables didn’t hear. “You’re a vampire. Why are you afraid to fly?”

  “Did no one ever teach you how to make polite conversation?” he grumbled, stirring the coffee he was using as a “blending-in” prop.

  “You would be so bored with me right now if someone had.”

  “Have you ever read the statistics regarding accidents in air travel?” he asked.

  “Yes, they’re lower than the rates of accidents while driving. And you’re pretty much indestructible, as long as you fly at night.”

  He frowned. “Well, once one has survived one plane crash, tempting fate again seems ill advised.”

  “You’ve survived a plane crash?”

  “In the 1940s, when air travel for passengers was very new,” he said. “Kicking your way out of a crumpled fuselage rather ruins the thrill of vacationing.”

  “And you never tried flying again?”

  “I haven’t left the area immediately surrounding my house since 1948.”

  I spluttered, “H-how? Wh-why?”

  “Delivery services. An understanding undead business manager who was willing to handle many of life’s little details for me. Friends who were willing to bring human donors to the house. And there’s a ready supply of wildlife in the area if I wanted to vary my diet.”

  “But how do you make a living?”

  “Until my withdrawal from society, I made my living in the antiques business.”

  “You had a store?”

  “It was a speculative venture,” he said, his tone hedging.

  “The fact that you don’t seem to want to explain that cryptic remark is going to make me ask you lots more questions,” I promised him.

  He sighed and explained, “Say I was sitting in a tavern, and I just happened to sense that a fellow’s brother was about to gamble the family fortune away or that a man’s favorite daughter was about to elope with the help, causing a disastrous scandal. If I just happened to befriend that fellow and be there for him when his tragedy struck, offering my discreet monetary help in return for a few family knickknacks, who would be the wiser? Of course, I offered a reduced price for those knickknacks, and the families were so grateful for aid in their times of distress that they didn’t question my offer.”