Page 33 of Road Trip with a Vampire
That surprised me. Not the part where he didn’t know who Beyoncé was—vampires, even those who didn’t suffer from amnesia, tended to be oblivious about pop culture—but rather the certainty with which he knew I’d never danced.
“How did you know that?” I probably shouldn’t have already confirmed that he’d guessed correctly, but I was too curious to remember we were playing a game.
A one-shouldered shrug. “It’s obvious,” he said. He pointed first at my feet, then to the leg separated from his by less than an inch of wooden bench. “Your feet, while not objectively large, are disproportionately long relative to the length of your legs. They’re also comparatively narrow, which wouldn’t necessarily prevent you from being an accomplished yogi butwouldlikely make you somewhat clumsy when you walk. You are likely prone to tripping and such.”
It was by far the longest speech I’d ever heard him give. Too bad the words made me want to disinvite him from this trip.
“You are right. I’ve never been a dancer,” I muttered. “But you don’t have toinsultme.”
His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “I didn’t insult you.”
“You said my feet are weird and my legs are short.”
“I never said your feet were weird,” Peter said, his forehead creasing in confusion. “And your legsareshort. But there’s nothing wrong with them. Nothing at all. In fact, I think your legs are—”
He’d clearly been about to say more, but snapped his mouth shut before he could. He shook his head and cleared his throat. I could sense he wanted to change the subject as much as I did. “Er. Shall we go?”
He hadn’t told me his two truths and a lie, but I was no longer in the mood for games.
“Sounds good to me,” I said. I walked over to my car, a classic old convertible I’d picked up when I left Chicago and came here. I didn’t drive much and couldn’t remember the last time I’d put gas in the tank. Hopefully it had enough to get us off the coast and into Central California, where gas would be cheaper.
I opened the driver’s-side door and slid inside. When we’d discussed logistics, we’d agreed I’d handle driving during the day, and he’d take the night shifts. Different vampires had different levels of tolerance for the sun and daylight generally, and Peter’s was on the lowish end of the spectrum. We’d probably need to drive with the top up most of the way.
As I rummaged in my purse for my car keys, Peter slowly circled my car with an appraising eye. He took in every detail, from the hood to the taillights to the side paneling. “Fascinating,” he murmured, running a finger along the passenger-side door.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Only what I said.” His eyes were still on the car, not me. “Does it require a lot of maintenance?”
I bristled at the insinuation that my car was unsafe. “I know it looks old, but I’ve never had any problems with it.”
“Not worried,” he assured me. “It’s just that I think…I think I know how to fix this kind of car.” He looked at me, recognition dawning. “In fact, IknowI know how to fix this kind of car.”
I was so surprised by this that I forgot I was annoyed with him. “Really?”
Instead of answering me, he opened the passenger-side door and slid into the too-small seat. The last person to ride shotgun had been Becky, who was easily a foot shorter than Peter. He fumbled awkwardly beneath his seat, then manually moved it back enough to accommodate his long legs. In hindsight, I probably should have disclosed how small my car was before inviting him to ride with me—but if he was irritated by this lack of disclosure, he said nothing.
I turned the key in the ignition—and with that, our adventure had officially begun.
“What do you like to listen to?” I asked, fishing one-handed in my purse for my phone. Hopefully Peter wasn’t into podcasts. While I knew on some level that there were podcasts worth listening to, I’d met way too many douchebags who thought having a podcast was a sufficient substitute for having a personality. It was enough for me to swear off them altogether.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have strong feelings about the music I hear now, so I suspect I’ve never cared much about music.”
“If I had a road trip playlist, I’d put that on,” I mused. “But I haven’t been on a road trip since before Spotify existed, so I don’t.” I thought a moment. “Can I put on my cleaning playlist?”
Peter looked puzzled. “Are we about to do some cleaning?”
“Of course not,” I said. “But my cleaning playlist is upbeat. It’ll help keep me focused while I’m driving.”
He shrugged. “Listen to whatever you like. You’re the one driving.”
I pulled up my cleaning playlist.Wannabefrom the Spice Girls started playing immediately. I grinned, thinking back to all the times I’d danced on tables to this song when it had originally come out.
“I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want,” I crooned. The first traffic light we came to turned green, and I pressed the gas pedal with a little more force than was strictly necessary as we sped off through the intersection.
“Thisis what you listen to?” Peter asked, dismayed.
“What’s wrong with the Spice Girls?”
