Driving Mr. Dead (11 page)

His hands slid under my butt, and he ground down. I hummed pleasantly around his tongue and felt a responding purr building in his chest. He was so cool to the touch. I expected him to be cold, hard, but this was such a soothing contrast to the heat of my own body. I flexed under him, just for the pleasure of feeling his skin slide against mine. He groaned and held me still with a quick grip of my hips.

His mouth broke away from mine. “You really are the most interesting girl, did you realize?”

I nodded. “I defy you to find anyone more interesting than me.”

He grinned again and traced my uninjured fingers over his cheeks to his lips. He pressed the tip of one between his teeth and gently bit down, drawing a bit of blood. It seeped into his mouth, and I could feel every bump of his sandpaper tongue against the pad of my digit. With each draw against the wound, a strange pulsing energy edged up from between my thighs. I moaned, throwing my head back and grinding my hips up against him. The pulsing became a rolling riptide, dragging me over the edge—

Too much, too much, too much!
my brain screamed at me.

What was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? Although we were on a break, so to speak, I was still technically involved with Jason. And if I got mad at him for cheating on me “emotionally” with Lisa, I couldn’t in good conscience get all grindy with Collin.

Hell, what I was doing was worse. Jason seemed to have genuine feelings for Lisa. All I had for Collin were neuron-frying lust and the tender, green beginnings of mutual respect. Maybe this was some sort of Stockholm syndrome? I was stuck in increasingly bizarre situations with Collin, so I bonded to him emotionally? Maybe it was my brain’s way of preventing a total psychological break.

Then again, considering that it was Collin who kissed me, maybe he was having the break. What was he thinking? The man who sneered at my “limitations” twenty-four hours ago couldn’t be the same guy who pinned me to the floor and kissed the hell out of me. Why was he doing this? Did he really like me, or did my employment stories make him feel sorry for me? Was this a pity kiss?

“I think I’ll take that shower now,” I whispered, easing my fingers away from his mouth.

He frowned, looking me over. “Do you have glass in your hair?”

“No, but we’ve had contact with the carpet.” I gave an exaggerated shiver.

He smiled again and helped me to my feet. I scampered across the stained, glittering rug and locked myself in the cramped little bathroom. It still smelled like the herbal shampoo he used. It seemed so strange, after spending the last day at such a distance, to share a relatively intimate space. It was downright domestic, his Fang-Brite Mouthwash on the counter next to my toothbrush. My little bottles of toiletries in the shower next to his. I shook off these
pointless musings and doused my head.

The cooling shower helped me focus my thoughts. Kissing Collin, as wonderful as it had been, was a huge mistake. Nothing good could come of it. Leaving off the complications to my already conscience-boggling relationship with Jason and the potential professional ass whipping I would take if Iris found out, it wasn’t as if Mr. Sixteen-Page Contract Rider would want anything but a one-night stand with me. And that would most likely be for the sake of bragging rights with his fellow uptight ancients: “You wouldn’t believe the walk on the wild side I took with this spazzy little human who couldn’t walk across a parking lot unscathed.”

I shampooed aggressively, which is always a mistake. I ended up with dried-out hair and an empty bottle of shampoo. I combed through my wet tangle of hair, carefully moisturizing and applying a raspberry-scented lotion.

I would put a stop to this, even if it meant a return to cranky, stern Mr. Sutherland. I would be sensible, for once in my life. I would be professional, discreet. I would stop letting the client suck on my fingers.

I slipped back into the shorts and tank, combing through my wet hair and brushing my teeth far more vigorously than I usually did. Curious, I lifted the top of the Fang-Brite Mouthwash, suddenly very self-conscious about the state of my breath. I sniffed. It smelled just like any market-brand mouthwash. I took a little swig … and immediately coughed it right into the sink.

It was like minty-fresh battery acid! I cupped my hand under the faucet, spooning it into my mouth and rinsing thoroughly. I checked the mirror to make sure my teeth hadn’t melted away. They were present … and a little whiter. Clearly, vampire teeth were made of
stronger stuff than mine.

Note to self: Vampire products are for vampires only.

I straightened the towels, knowing that leaving them askew would drive Collin nuts, and decluttered the bathroom before emerging. He was standing right outside the door, making me yelp in surprise and nearly slip on the wet tile. His hand shot out and caught me before I landed on my butt.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. I glanced down at the worn brown leather journal in his hand.
My
worn brown leather journal. He was looking through my photos again. “What is it with you and that journal? Has it occurred to you that you should
ask
before you go rifling through someone’s stuff?”

“It’s intriguing,” he said, holding the book open to a page showing a picture of the sunrise over the Atlantic City Boardwalk. I remembered waiting for that shot, holding my breath until the exact moment the sun rose over the water and set it on fire with flickers of gold and red. “Did you take all of the photos yourself?”

“Yes.”

“That explains the whirring and clicking I heard at the diner. Did you take my picture when my eyes were closed?”

I smirked a little and notched my chin up a bit. “Maybe.”

“You’re very good, a keen eye for dramatic composition. I haven’t seen the sunrise in more than a century, but I feel as if I’m there. I can feel the sun on my face … without the sensation of my flesh bursting into flame.”

“That’s a plus,” I agreed. I pushed past him, taking my journal with me, only to find that he had cleared out the glass-littered bedspread, propped up the bent bed leg, and put the room to rights. “Thanks for fixing the bed.”

“I called the front desk. The clerk was more than willing to let me vacuum up the mess myself. Unfortunately, the party upstairs seems to be a stag night for the manager’s cousin. So the noise levels won’t be lowering anytime soon. Also, the clerk mentioned something about beggars can’t be choosers? Do you know what that means?”

“No.” I shook my head, shrugging. “The noise is OK, actually. It reminds me of when I lived in Detroit, above this noodle shop and karaoke bar. Awesome mai fun. Baaaad impersonations of Britney Spears.”

I slid into the bed and tried not to think about the relative cleanliness of the sheets. Collin settled into his chair and propped his feet on the bed.

“How did you know about the light fixture?”

He pursed his lips as he turned the page of his book. “It’s not important.”

“Right,” I muttered. Unreasonably irritated by this response, I rolled away from him and pulled the blankets up to my chin. “Good night, Collin.”

I closed my eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion drag me into soft, dark near-unconsciousness.

“I see glimpses.”

My eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. I propped myself up on my elbows, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I see glimpses of the future. That’s what I meant earlier by ‘it worked.’ It’s been days since it’s worked properly. I finally got a quick impression, and it was you, getting pelted with broken glass from the broken fixture. I believe it was because you were finally still, not able to make plans or decisions.”

“One, that’s kind of a dickish thing to say. And two, thank you for saving me from a face full of broken glass.”

“You’re very welcome. I quite like your face. I would like it to remain intact.”

Lord help me, I actually blushed and struggled for something to say. All I could come up with was, “So you’re psychic?”

“Only vaguely, but over time, I’ve seen the signs of events and can interpret a larger picture. After a while, all of the possible scenarios seem repetitive.”

“And that’s how you knew to throw the coffee out the window earlier?”

He grinned. “No, you were eyeing that cup and my face in a way that could only mean injury for me.”

I sat up, facing him. “Is that why you try so hard to control your environment?”

“Every choice, every change in plans, every shift in direction is a chance for different outcomes. I see them all. If I allow too many of those variables, the effect is disorienting and overwhelming.”

“That’s why you try so hard to avoid contact with people? To avoid being overwhelmed?” I guessed. “And what does that have to do with your anti-fast-food-wrapper obsession?”

“Well, frankly, I find the idea of leaving week-old food wrappers in your car to be pointless and disgusting,” he told me. “But there are other issues. The more cluttered an environment, the more likely it is that an accident will occur. If there are too many potential outcomes in a situation, it can become disorienting for me.”

“But if you can see an accident coming, how did you end up in a plane crash?”

“I didn’t see it coming,” he said. “I’d flown a handful of times
without problems. I didn’t see anything going awry when we boarded. And then, an hour into the flight, the pilot was offered a piece of candy. It was an impulsive gesture from a copilot who normally didn’t like to share. The candy had nuts in it, which caused a violent allergic reaction in the pilot—”

“And that crashed the plane?”

“He pitched forward against the controls, sent the plane into a tailspin it couldn’t recover from,” he said, closing his eyes as if to ward off the memory. “There are so many potential outcomes. I can’t keep up with them all. I had to retreat to somewhere where I could control more of the variables. The relief from the short-term chaos is wonderful.”

“But every day is the same, isn’t it? And you have so many of them,” I said, my heart breaking just a little at the very idea. “So I guess when you seem disaffected and bored, you really are disaffected and bored. You’ve been there, done that, and even when a few surprises come your way, they’re spoiled for you. That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard. And I was once the Dancing Hen at Clucky’s Lucky Chicken Shack.”

“The light-fixture scenario was the first full-fledged vision I’ve had in your presence, which was why I was so smug about it.” He moved onto the bed and took my hand in his. “With you, I never know how things are going to turn out. You are a constantly shifting variable. It seems there are too many possibilities to see. In essence, you’ve shorted out my gift.”

“I’m sorry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t be. It’s made the last two days rather frustrating but incredibly entertaining.”

“Well, I’m happy to be of service.”

He leaned in close to kiss my neck. I stayed perfectly still, battling my urge to respond as his lips trailed along my skin. “Good night.”

“Do you really think I’m going to be able to sleep now?” I laughed as he settled in beside me, careful not to touch bare skin to the bedspread. “I just found out that my road-trip buddy can see the future. It’s a bit of an eye opener. I have a question or two.”

“Such as?”

“Where do you come from? How did you become a vampire? How did you discover you could see ‘glimpses’?”

“That’s more than two questions.”

“Humor me.”

“Shall I start at the beginning?” he asked. I nodded. “I’m from Derbyshire. My father was a baronet who took himself very seriously. I was the second son, the spare to the heir, as they say. Almost nothing was expected of me. My job was to remain respectable and wait in the wings in case some ridiculous riding accident claimed my brother, with whom I was not very close.”

“So joining the army was a rebellion against a lack of expectation?”

“Well, Father eventually got over the shock of any son of his engaging in manual labor.”

“Pause for the implied horrified gasp.”

“Obviously,” he said, winking at me in a way that had my insides going all squishy. “After Father got over the shock, he told anyone who would listen that it was only right that I fulfill my familial obligation to the crown. If the aristocracy didn’t step forward to stamp out the upstart colonial agitators, who would?”

“I hate to be the one to point this out, but the upstart colonial agitators whipped your collective British ass.”

“I think you very much enjoy pointing that out,” he muttered.
“Anyway, I was sent off with his blessing and with all the pomp and circumstance he considered appropriate. I was a happy soldier. I enjoyed following orders. As the war lagged on, we heard rumors of battalions being picked off from the far reaches of the battlefields, of bodies disappearing from the aftermath while the surgeons searched for survivors. By the time Cornwallis finally grasped that he’d lost, we’d attracted avid vampire epicures, who enjoyed feeding on the wounded in the confusion of battle. When they realized that the war was winding down and their favorite cuisine was leaving the country, they snatched us from the camps in increasing numbers. Myself included.

“I would spare you the details, but let’s just say that my turning was bloody, horrific, the sort of story we tell spoiled, modern vampires who complain about their own rebirth. And I had trouble adjusting to my new life. After so many years of war, you would think that a few more lives wouldn’t matter. But I found that I couldn’t kill again, particularly when I could see the results of their deaths while I fed. Children left without parents. Wives left unprotected and broken. I had to train myself to feed sparingly, carefully. But my gift was very valuable in other ways. It helped me avoid detection by humans, to find the best prey. That became more challenging as the population and its mobility increased. Still, I was able to see more of the world, make a living at a trade, neither of which I had ever thought was possible. It’s been a good life. Difficult sometimes, but a good life.” He looked up at me with a crooked, sheepish grin. “I haven’t told anyone about myself in a long time. Vampires don’t trust their history to humans, as a rule.”