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 shuddered 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 Sutherland, 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.”
“But that’s so mercenary!”
“On the contrary, the families I did business with desperately needed the money I offered them. I was helping them.”
“You were helping yourself!”
“I was using the tools I was provided with to make my way in the world. I was raised in a fine house with carefully chosen furnishings. And although I didn’t stand to inherit any of it, I was taught their history, their value. I can’t be faulted for using that knowledge.”
“And the fact that you believe that is what is so very troubling.”
Eyebrows raised, I glanced at the case securely wedged against his side in the booth. That certainly changed my guesses about the case’s contents. Crown jewels? Priceless art? Ancient coins?
That would be sort of exciting, to know that I was helping complete some Council project or bringing scary-ass Ophelia, the forever-teenage head of the local Council branch, her personal art collection. Maybe that would make her more lenient when I inevitably ran afoul of the local vampires.
“Why live out in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.
“I’ve never been much of a joiner. And as technology has improved, I’ve felt less and less alone. Thanks to the telephone, color television, the Internet, I’ve been able to keep up with current events, terminology. I’m not left entirely out of the loop.”
“Why haven’t you left your house in so long? Is it because you were traumatized in the crash? Do you have PTSD?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. That was an interesting change in role. “Not exactly.”
The tone of his voice didn’t invite further questions, so in the interest of the progress we’d made so far, I chose to shut up. He glanced down, as if he could see my carefully bandaged hand through the table, despite the fact that I’d kept it folded in my lap and out of his sight. It seemed rude, otherwise, like waving a Twinkie in front of someone on Atkins.
“What’s happened to your hand?” he asked. “Why are you being so careful with it?”
“Nothing,” I said, tucking the injured hand under my jeans-clad leg.
His lips twitched in disapproval as he leaned forward, his voice sultry and persuasive. And I had to clamp my thighs together, because that was just unfair. “Miss Puckett, do you honestly think I can’t sense fresh blood? Even in an environment as foul as this, I can smell it on you. Frankly, its pleasant distraction is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind in this crowded restaurant. Now, be a good girl and show me your hand.”
“Are you trying to hypnotize me?” I asked, my eye narrowed. “Vampires can do that, right? Control people like puppets? Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken in this foul, crowded restaurant?”
For the first time, he gave me a true, sincere smile. It was as if the clouds parted, the room lit up, and I was able to see what Mr. Sutherland looked like when he was human. Well, human and in a really good mood.
“No, I don’t have that particular gift. I am merely concerned about any tendencies you may have to injure yourself while I’m asleep. Will I wake up tomorrow night to find you have knocked yourself unconscious against the steering wheel and veered into a river?”
“That won’t happen,” I grumbled. “Again.”
His jaw dropped.
“I’m kidding!” I exclaimed, laughing as I held up my hand. “I caught my fingertip in the lock of a bathroom stall. It sort of snipped the tiniest bit of the fingertip off.”
“That cannot possibly be true.”
I held the finger up for his inspection. “There’s a reason we carry a suitcase-sized first-aid kit in the backseat. I manage to injure myself in increasingly inventive ways. I’ve been burned by a peanut salesman with bad aim at a Cubs game. I got a jellyfish stuck in my bikini top in Jamaica, which required some interesting ointment placement. Once my fian—a friend was opening a bottle of champagne in the next room, and the cork ricocheted around a corner, off the ceiling, and hit me right in the eye. I had a shiner for a week. My neighbor slipped brochures for a women’s shelter under my door.”
“You’re exaggerating,” he said.
“Would you like me to show you the scars?”
He grinned. “Where exactly are these scars?”
Was I suffering from a French-fry-induced high, or was Mr. Sutherland flirting with me?
I grinned cheekily, trailing my (uninjured) fingertips along the buttons of my blouse, as if I was considering loosening them. His blue eyes tracked the motion of my hand, up and down, up and down. I stopped abruptly, and he shook his head, as if clearing it from some fog.
“On second thought, a lady needs to keep a bit of mystery about her,” I said, lifting my sandwich from the plate and taking a bite.
Mr. Sutherland seemed deflated at my sudden change in course, which was a balm for my ego. He sighed, toying with a packet of Splenda. “Oh, trust me, Miss Puckett, you are an enigma.”
We came so close to having a pleasant evening. Mr. Sutherland even managed to restrain his comments when I ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie, although I’m sure it smelled awful to him. I stopped badgering him with questions and made light conversation about our schedule for the next night. We walked out of the diner, and he actually opened the door for me with a little smile on his face.
“Isn’t that heavy to cart around with you everywhere we go?” I asked, nudging the silver briefcase with my fingers.
He gently spanked my hand away. “What did we say about touching the case?”
“Did we say, ‘If you smack my hand again, I will wedgie you until your underwear comes up over your head’?”
He gave me an arch look.
“I would try,” I muttered.
I’d parked on the far side of the parking lot, beyond the truckers’ area, because I wanted to give us some space if Mr. Sutherland needed to do something vampire-y. Also, the last thing I needed to do was ding some tourist’s car. But as we walked to the car, I could see from a distance that was the least of my concerns. There was something on the hood. Weird, circular shapes with—
“Oh, for the love of Pete!” I cried.
Someone had spray-painted a pair of neon pink breasts on the hood of the car. Big, round, obscenely realistic breasts that were most likely visible from space. I glanced around the parking lot and saw that ours was not the only vehicle to receive a makeover. A Ryder moving truck, a tractor-trailer, and a minivan were all decorated with twin sets of their very own. I noticed that each was parked in a dimly lit area of the lot, giving the vandals the cover of darkness. I scanned the lot for signs of the kids—please, Lord, let this be the work of teenagers and not grown men—but couldn’t see so much as a mist of spray paint. The phantom graffiti artists were long gone.
“Fuck a duck!” I exclaimed.
“Language,” Mr. Sutherland admonished weakly. He was stricken, trying like hell, but failing, to avoid looking at the “art.” “Was it like this before we went into the diner?”
“No, I would have remembered our car having boobs,” I said, staring down at the Batmobile’s generous triple-Z cups. We were transfixed, caught in the thrall of trompe l’oeil cleavage. That was a first for me.
Several awkward, silent moments passed. As I snapped shots of the hood for Iris’s insurance agent—and Mr. Sutherland’s face, for posterity—I considered several options. Calling Iris and telling her she would need to send the National Guard to retrieve Mr. Sutherland. Going back into the diner to inquire whether they served hard liquor. Attempting to paint over the boobs with black nail polish.
Hey, it worked when I scratched my mom’s car in high school.
I realized that Mr. Sutherland had moved on from staring at the car to watching me intently. “Are you waiting for me to know what to do here? Because this was not covered during my orientation.”
“Should we call the police and report this?”
“Do you really want to file another police report? That will just slow us down that much more. We’re running just shy of ‘on time’ as it is.”
“You make a good point.” He nodded. “We’ll just tell Miss Scanlon to add the cost of repainting the car to my bill.”
“Really?” I asked, lifting a brow. “That’s very nice of you.”
“Contingencies, Miss Puckett. They happen,” he said, echoing my words earlier. “Particularly when you’re around. But you shouldn’t be held responsible for the actions of mammary-minded juvenile delinquents.”
I searched his face for some hint of derision or deception. I found none, just unearthly blue eyes and an unsettling amount of sincerity. He really wasn’t angry or annoyed with me. He was incredibly embarrassed, however, and trying very hard not to look me directly in the eye.
Men, vampire or otherwise, were so strange when it came to boobs.
“Perhaps we can paint over the, er, additions with black paint so it’s less noticeable.”
“I thought about it, but adding another layer might make it harder for the professionals to fix. I’ll call Iris in the morning and ask her if we have some sort of vandalism roadside-assistance plan,” I said. “Let’s just get on the road, shall we?”
I reached into the car and popped the hood. As I propped it back over the windshield, Mr. Sutherland frowned. “I don’t think this is the best way to keep other drivers from seeing them, Miss Puckett, unless you plan to cut eyeholes in the hood.”
“Funny.” I snorted. “I just want to make sure our friendly neighborhood car decorators didn’t diddle with my engine.”
“Diddle?”
“I would use the f-word again, but cursing seems to upset you,” I said, peering down at the gleaming inner works of the car.
“Isn’t this just a bit paranoid?”
“It might be, if I hadn’t been stranded outside a mall in Poughkeepsie once, believing my car was completely dead, only to find out that some smartass had taken advantage of a faulty outside hood latch and unscrewed my distributor cap. The tow-truck guy laughed his ass off at me. So now, I just like to make sure everything’s in order.”
Mr. Sutherland peered over my shoulder. “Do you know what you’re looking at?”
I cut my eyes at him. “Would you ask a man that same question?”
“Yes, because I have no clue what I’m looking at.” He looked affronted, which made me laugh, despite the situation. “Why would said smartass do something like that?” he asked as I checked the obvious spots, the spark plugs, the alternator, the battery cables.
“I think I was being set up for a mugging in Poughkeepsie, but the tow truck got there before anything could happen. But in this case, I don’t know—just in case the automotive boobs weren’t demoralizing enough?”
I gently nudged his hands out of the way before snapping the hood shut. Remembering the incident with the car door, he flexed his healed fingers. “Are you demoralized?”
“Are you kidding?” I scoffed. “This is just Tuesday for me.”
“But it’s Thursday.”
“It’s an expression.”
“How do you know about engines?” he asked.
“I helped crew a yacht in the Caribbean one summer in college. I was friends with the ship’s mechanic, and he taught me the basics. It comes in handy when you travel as much as I do.”
“What did you do on the crew?”
“General dogsbody. I ran lines, cleaned cabins, cooked on occasion. The yacht belonged to my very well-off roommate’s dad, so he was pretty easy on us, on the rare occasions he was actually on the boat. It was one of the best summers of my life.”
It was also the precursor to my dropping out of school after just one year. It turned out that returning for school two months into the semester was frowned upon in some academic circles. Who knew?
I cleaned my hands with some Wet Wipes as he climbed into the backseat. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turned toward him. “Look, we’re riding around in a car with tits. I think normal social constraints have gone out the window. Can you just call me by my first name? And sit up front?”
He was silent while he mulled it over.
“You be nice, or I’m going to set the station to Radio Disney and leave it there,” I warned him.
“Fine.” He climbed over the seat, unwilling to get out of the car, I supposed, just in case the gathering crowd had torches and pitchforks handy.
“Could you take off the jacket and relax a little?” I asked, reaching down to silence another of Jason’s calls on my phone.
“Don’t push it,” he said, adding, “Miranda.”
Despite myself—and the enormous jugs on my hood—I smiled as we pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
LAID BARE … AND NOT IN THE FUN WAY