Driving Mr. Dead Page 7

  Collin’s eyes grew wide. His mouth pinched itself together at the corners.

  “Go ahead and laugh.” I sighed.

  A hearty, braying cackle burst from his chest, doubling him over and startling me. My eyes went wide as he howled with laughter, clutching his sides as if he was using muscles that hadn’t worked in years. It might have irritated the hell out of me, except that he looked so damn pretty when he did it. He continued to snicker until slightly pink tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped at them.

  I grumbled. “I left college, let’s say, ‘prematurely.’ It wasn’t a good fit for me, sitting in the same classrooms with the same people, day after day. I liked ‘drifting about the country,’ as you called it. I liked not knowing what I was going to do or who I was going to meet. I liked learning new skills. Every day should be an adventure, in my book, a whole new life to be lived. The karmic payoff to this ‘shiftless nomadic existence that breaks my parents’ hearts’ is that every time I think I find something I’m good at, it blows up in my face.”

  “I am suddenly very, very afraid.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t usually take bystanders down with me.” I added reluctantly, “Except for that one time with Morlock the Magician. Though, to be fair, he did tell me to coat the dove with glitter spray. It’s not my fault he bought a highly flammable discount brand.”

  “That does not make me feel any better, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Highly flammable?”

  “The bird got spooked during the Ring of Fire trick, then flew right at Morlock. Flaming bird, lots of stage makeup and hair spray. It took a whole fire extinguisher, and Morlock still had some third-degree burns.”

  “And how did you escape this inferno?”

  “The bird always liked Morlock better than me,” I said.

  “You know, the more you talk, the less secure I feel.”

  “I can promise not to try to kill you,” I offered.

  “Thank you.”

  Hearing about my past misfortunes amused—but frightened—Collin to no end. It was sort of like telling a small child a ghost story. He wanted to be scared, even though he knew he was better off not knowing about my past. But I loved seeing that easy smile on his face, so I just kept sharing. Three hours and several spectacular firing stories later, we arrived at the Country Inn, the little roadside “boutique hotel” where Collin had booked us rooms.

  “This does not look like the photos on the travel Web site,” he said.

  I looked up the hotel on my phone, finding the site that displayed pictures of the Country Inn … from at least thirty years before. It was no longer “clean, comfortable, and convenient” as advertised. It was convenient because the highway practically ran through the parking lot. That was all the place had going for it. I think the owner called it a boutique hotel because there was a sex-toy shop right next door. The building had that same desperate, beaten look as our motel from the night before. The same rust stains. The same “Truckers Welcome” sign.

  “We could keep going,” I suggested.

  “No, I need a break from the car. And you need your rest. I can tell you’re getting tired. Frankly, with your background, I worry about your reflexes under normal, nonfatigued circumstances.”

  “Nice. Your turn talking tomorrow night, got it? There have to be some embarrassing incidents from your colonial days. A pantaloons malfunction, something.”

  “You’ve been very generous with your history,” he conceded.

  “That’s not an answer,” I retorted. “Are you coming in with me?”

  “After the diner, I think I’ll stay out in the car,” he said.

  I walked into the motel office and did a mental “Run-down Motel Requirement” checklist. Rattling space heater? Check. Dust-covered plastic houseplant? Check. Credit-card acceptance signs showing logos abandoned by the companies in the 1970s? Check.

  The clerk was a middle-aged blond man in a pressed blue polo shirt and wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to end up behind that desk. And I don’t think he had figured it out, either. Maybe this was his second job, the one that paid for the questionable Internet online orders he didn’t want his wife to find out about?

  The clerk was on the phone, apparently on hold, all the while ignoring the drunk swaying in front of the check-in desk.

  “I just need a room, damn it,” the drunk slurred, sweat rolling from the thinning hair on the back of his head, dripping down his neck, and soaking into the cheap pea-green suit he was wearing. He smelled like a brewery. I was sincerely glad that he was facing away and I was out of his line-of-breath. “Got a cute little thing waitin’ outside, and I don’t want to lose her.”

  Nice. This guy had clearly met his soul mate on a nearby street corner. I checked the desk for an “Hourly rates” sign and was relieved that I didn’t see one.

  “Look, man, I’m sorry, the credit-card company has me on hold.”

  “Just run the card again,” the drunk demanded.

  The clerk cradled the receiver on his shoulder and glanced at me. “Yeah, can I help you?”

  “I need two rooms, please,” I said, putting my license and credit card on the counter. I silently prayed that there was enough room on the balance to allow the charge. And that the clerk didn’t steal my identity to buy equipment for his gaming system.

  He gave me an apologetic little shrug, checking my ID and placing my card next to his computer keyboard. “It will be just a minute.”

  “Look, I got a little hottie out in the car, I need a room,” the drunk slurred. His bleary brown eyes settled on me and gave me a moist, crooked smile. “Hey there, cutie. You lookin’ to party? You could join us.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, come on, honey,” the drunk whined, leering at me. “I’d show you a real good time.”

  He lurched toward me, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be his best smile. I leaned in closer and in my most menacing voice whispered, “If you so much as breathe on me again, I will crush you like a bug, little man.”

  The drunk pouted, stumbling back a few steps.

  “I’m sorry, what is the problem?” the clerk asked the person on the other end of the line. He rolled his eyes and picked up a pair of wicked-looking scissors the size of hedge clippers. “All right, I’ll do that.”

  The clerk hung up the phone and sighed.

  “Mr. Reynolds, I have bad news for you. The card company has requested that I destroy your card.” The clerk picked up the card nearest to his hand and snipped it with a decisive snick! He ruthlessly sliced through the card, raining shards of plastic on the desk like red metallic snowflakes.

  “Hey!” the drunk shouted. “What’d you do that for?”

  I tried to look away, eager just to finish my transaction and get out of the office. Because as amusing as it was to see Drunky Drunkerson’s credit card snipped, I just wanted to get some sleep.

  “Oh, wait,” the drunk mumbled. “Never mind.”

  I glanced over and saw an unfamiliar Visa card on the counter. The bits of plastic on the counter, however, were a familiar color.

  “Can I have my card back now?” the drunk asked, just as I demanded, “Where’s my card?”

  “Oh, shit,” the clerk said, looking stricken.

  “You destroyed my card!” I cried.

  “I-I must have switched them.”

  “No!” I yelled as the drunk with the useless, but intact, card ambled away. “No, no, no, no!”

  “Now, look, I’m sorry, but don’t overreact.”

  “Overreact?” I yelled, grabbing the stapler from the ledge of his desk. “This isn’t overreacting! Stapling your collar to the desk, that would be overreacting.”

  “Put down my stapler. I don’t want to have to call the cops.”

  “Call them. It will be justifiable homicide!” I snapped.

  “OK, let’s just calm down. What has you so upset?”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath
through my nose and focused on not murdering someone who was probably a very nice person when he wasn’t destroying my only financial lifeline. “I’m upset because you just murdered my only credit card, my only form of legal tender. It will take me at least a week to get a replacement card. I am on the road for work, stuck five hundred miles from home, without a credit card. And I still need a place to sleep for the night.”

  “Well, I can give you one room,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “One?” I growled.

  He winced, stepping back away from the desk. “Look, honey, I’ve got a boss, just like you. I can hide one room on the night audit, but two? That’s pushing it.”

  I glared at him, but no amount of stink-eye would persuade him. “Fine, fine, just let me have whatever you’ve got.”

  I snatched the flimsy plastic key card from his hand and swept out of the office. The clerk called after me to remember that I had to be out of the room by eleven, as if I was going to linger in the morning.

  I gritted my teeth, clutching the key card until the edges bit into my palm. What the hell was I going to do? I had the fleet card for gas and maybe enough cash to keep me in food until we pulled into the Half-Moon Hollow town limits. We had enough blood to keep Collin fed for three nights. But that was it—that was the full extent of our resources, which scared the hell out of me. We wouldn’t be able to withstand any more “incidents” without help from Iris.

  And if I called Iris for help, she’d probably hop on a plane to complete the drive with Collin herself. I’d be fired. I’d be lucky if I got a ride home. Actually, I’d be lucky if she didn’t tie me to the hood of the Batmobile like a deer for the drive home.

  I needed more time. I hadn’t thought about Jason or the wedding or my future in Half-Moon Hollow all damn day. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. My brain had needed the time off from the constant whir of Jason-related worries over the past few months. But I was no closer to making a decision than when I’d departed the Hollow. I wasn’t ready to go back home yet. I needed to complete this job on time, not just because I needed the time away but also to prove to myself that I wasn’t a complete idiot.

  “Is everything all right?” Collin asked as I approached the Batmobile. “You look rather distressed.”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling thinly as I popped open the rear hatch. “It’s just … the hotel only had one room available.”

  “Really?” he asked, scanning the parking lot, which was mostly empty.

  “A lot of the rooms are being fumigated,” I told him, knowing that mentioning potential infestations was a calculated risk, given his penchant for cleanliness.

  “Are you trying to take advantage of me?”

  “I know, it sounds bad,” I admitted. “It’s our only option at this point.”

  “Well, I don’t have to sleep,” he said. “I’ll make use of the bathing facilities and read while you sleep.”

  “Oh, sure, that won’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

  “I would feel better if you weren’t left unattended, anyway,” he admitted as he carefully lifted the silver case from the backseat. “Who knows what sort of trouble you would drum up out of boredom?”

  “You’re still not going to tell me what’s in that case, are you?”

  He frowned, an expression of honest regret, and said, “I would, but I can’t. I promised Ophelia I would keep it confidential. And because this trip is an effort to repay her for forgiving a small … indiscretion I committed years ago, I can’t afford to fail her.”

  “Fine, but if I find out you’re hauling Marcellus Wallace’s soul around in that thing, I’m going to be pissed,” I griped as we carried our overnight bags into the room.

  He didn’t laugh at my Pulp Fiction reference. But he was kind enough to ignore the graffiti on the walls and the questionable carpet stains. The room was truly depressing, with faded greenish carpet, water-stained wallpaper, and a bedspread the color of medical waste.

  “Surely this isn’t the best room they had to offer,” he said.

  I snorted, waving my arm at the splendor before us. “Oh, no, this is the honeymoon suite.”

  Overhead, we heard the din of male voices, talking over one another, laughing in that way only the truly inebriated can master. It sounded as if there were twenty of them, shoved into the room above ours.

  “This is not going to be a restful evening, is it?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  While Collin was in the shower, I made a call to Iris. She did not have any suggestions for how to address our car’s recent “blossoming,” but her teenage sister, Gigi, found a lot of humor in the situation.

  “Have you thought about spray-painting a bikini top over them?” Gigi asked.

  “You are so not helping,” I grumbled. “Stupid speakerphone.”

  “Gigi, stop teasing her,” Iris chided, yawning. “Miranda, honey, don’t do anything to it. I know it’s probably embarrassing to drive around with them, but trying paint remover or adding another layer of paint will just make the situation worse. And don’t try to duct-tape cardboard over it. The tape residue will just cause more problems. When you get back to town, we’ll take care of it. Until then, just stick to the back roads … and avoid church buses … and school buses basically, all forms of mass transit.”

  “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.