Page 49 of Road Trip with a Vampire
Becky:Her ex is SUCH AN ASSHOLE
Becky:Like I cannot BELIEVE
Lindsay:We’ll let Early Crew Katie fill you in when you get back (it’s not our story to tell)
Lindsay:Okay now it’s been 8+ hours since my first text
Becky:And 9 hours since my first text
Lindsay:You usually respond to texts at the end of the day so we’re also slightly-to-moderately concerned you’ve maybe been murdered
Lindsay:Please text us when you get these (and we hope you haven’t been murdered)
Lindsay:(Everything at the studio is fine btw)
It was three fifteen in the morning. It was an hour earlier in California, but it was still the middle of the night. Given how worried they were, I probably needed to text my friends back anyway. Hopefully they kept their phones on do not disturb while they were sleeping.
Zelda:Hey
Zelda:I haven’t been murdered
Zelda:It’s just been a long day of driving and I’m only checking messages now
Zelda:I’ll check in again tomorrow night
Zelda:And please let me know if there’s anything going on with the studio/goat yoga event that I need to know about (I know, I know, you have it under control, but I can’t help but worry)
That taken care of, I put my phone on the nightstand and stretched out fully on the mattress. It was more comfortable than I’d expected, given how nasty the room was, with sheets that were soft enough I could almost forget they smelled like wet dog. Or perhaps I was just that tired. Fortunately, texting my friends had gotten me out of the anxious headspace I’d been in. I closed my eyes, on the cusp of falling asleep even with the dim overhead light still on.
Distantly, I heard the shower shut off and then Peter rummaging around in the bathroom.
I opened my eyes a crack when he stepped out of it.
What I saw had me opening them the rest of the way.
Peter. Miles and miles of pale, muscled torso. A skimpy, threadbare motel towel slung dangerously low on his hips. And nothing else.
He looked like he’d been carved from marble. His body certainly belonged in a museum, anyway. He was bigeverywhere, his thick body suggestive of a person who’d earned his muscles through regular strenuous physical activity rather than in the gym.
I watched transfixed as a droplet of water from his wet hair landed on his chest and slid down, down, down. I told myself to look away. I didn’t.
In hindsight, I should have set ground rules for how we would dress when sharing a hotel room. Then again, how could I have known that Peter would think parading around half-naked in front of me was a good idea?
He seemed oblivious to the fact that I was awake and gaping at him as he riffled through his duffle bag. “Ah,thereit is,” he muttered. I watched as he grabbed a shirt from his suitcase and tugged it over his head.
Then he ditched the towel—but not before I had the goodsense to squeeze my eyes shut tight. When I opened them again, he was wearing his jeans from earlier that day.
And staring straight at me.
“Zelda,” he stammered. “I…I thought you were sleeping.”
“I wasn’t,” I admitted.
We locked eyes. The panic I’d felt over having seen so much of his body was reflected back at me in his stare.
He looked away first. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “It’s fine.” It was more than fine. The image of him emerging from that bathroom like a god who was somehow stuck in the world’s shittiest motel room would be emblazoned in my mind forever.
