Page 52 of Road Trip with a Vampire
Yours very truly,
J. B. W. C. Corlienne IV
Peter rubbed at his temples. He’d only just started reviewing his email, but already a headache was forming.
One downside to his career: Even when Peter was on a job, he still had to think about what came next. All contracts inevitably ended. If an inquiry came in, he had to consider it, no matter what it was.
Fortunately, Peter no longer had to takeeverything. He’d built up enough of a reputation as a fang for hire that he could be choosy. He refused on principle to take on problems like Mr.Corlienne’s, which could be solved if the parties simplytalkedto each other. Murder was rarely a defensible solution to a simple miscommunication. He refused to dirty his hands over nonsense.
In truth, he tried to avoid taking any job that required murder. Staking vamps allowed him an outlet for his occasional fits of rage, but the satisfaction was fleeting and inevitably gave way to guilt. Peter preferred jobs that used his mechanical reasoning rather than his admittedly impressive skills with a stake. He’d never met a lock he couldn’t pick, had never faced a broken machine he couldn’t repair. He took immense satisfaction in these facts.
It was why he’d taken his current job in the first place, despite his idiot employers. Accepting an exorbitant sum of cash just for cracking one measly safe almost felt criminal.
Peter rubbed a hand over his face and deleted Mr.Corlienne’s email before moving on to the next.
It was another missive from John, asking for an update on his progress in Chicago.
Peter was tired of John’s constant nagging. Especially since he had nothing yet to report.
Emails from his employer were better than video calls, at least. With emails he was spared both the man’s obsequious nature and his eyesore of a red plaid suit.
When I woke up thefollowing morning, Peter was already dressed and packing up his duffel with military-like efficiency.
He didn’t look at me and showed no sign of wanting to talk about what had happened the night before. Which was fine with me. I was operating on almost no sleep and zero caffeine and didn’t have the bandwidth for awkward conversations.
He was waiting for me in the car after I checked us out of our room, not even bothering to glance my way as I slid into the driver’s seat.
“Our next stop is East Junction, Wyoming,” he said abruptly, staring at his journal. “It’s the closest spot in my journal to where we are right now between here and Indiana. Looks like it’s about a nine-hour drive.”
I knew all this already. We’d gone over our itinerary more than once before leaving California and agreed we would stick to the plan after getting to the motel the night before. He was babbling, clearly grasping at straws to avoid talking about last night.
As frustrating as that was, it also somehow made him more human. It certainly made him moremale.
It was probably for the best. What would we even say if wedidtalk about it?Hey, Peter. We kissed last night, and even though I’m not sure it was a great idea, it’s all I can think about this morning?
Regardless—this game he was playing, whatever it was, had me rattled.
“East Junction,” I repeated. “To that bowling alley, right?” If he wasn’t going to address last night, neither would I.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Gary’s Bowl-A-Rama in East Junction, Wyoming, is our next stop.”
“You sure there aren’t places in your journal that are a little closer?” I asked. “Or prettier?” I wasn’t looking forward to this next leg of the trip. I hadn’t been to Wyoming in years. Parts of the state were beautiful. But if memory served, the stretch of highway that took us from eastern Nevada to East Junction was one of the ugliest drives in the country.
“There are,” he admitted. “But they’d take us in the wrong direction.”
“I still can’t believe past-you went to a bowling alley.” In truth, I could no more picture Peter bowling than I could picture him sprouting wings and flying. And then, because I hoped teasing him would snap us out of whatever this awkwardness was, I added, “You must have been way more fun than you are now.”
It seemed to work. A corner of his mouth kicked up into a half smile. “Perhaps I was.” He closed his journal and turned to look at me for the first time that morning. “Maybe we could visit someplace prettier once we’re a bit farther along.” He swallowed. “Together, I mean. If you want.”
A hint of the same raw vulnerability I’d seen last night flashed in his eyes, there and then gone again. I turned my key in the ignition, forcing myself to focus on the sound of the engine, on pulling out of the parking lot, rather than on how he’d just sort of asked me out on a date.
Was that what that had been? Maybe I’d misread it, but my heart was running a full-on stampede in my chest all the same.
I was about to tell him Iwouldlike to visit someplace prettier—together—when there was a loud sound from just behind the car followed by the entire back half of the vehicle goingthud.
I’d only managed to pull the car a few feet out of the parking spot, but I instinctively slammed on the brakes, jostling both of us.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “What was that?”
