Page 36 of Road Trip with a Vampire
“When did you get here?” I asked. “I didn’t even hear you.”
He shrugged. “A few moments ago. And of course you didn’t hear me.” He smirked. “Tricks of the trade.”
Smug bastard. I cleared my throat. “Everything go okay with the…” I nodded meaningfully towards the restrooms.
“The man felt little and remembers even less,” Peter said.
As if on cue, the man in question walked out of the restrooms and strode directly to his truck. He pressed a button on his keys, and his truck beeped as its doors unlocked.
He didn’t spare even a glance in our direction before getting into his truck and driving off.
The man had a few inches on Peter and probably thirty or forty pounds. If Peter were human, he’d likely have been no match for him in a fight. But vampires had a strength that belied their size.
What had Peter done to lure him close enough to bite him?
I told myself I didn’t want to know.
“I don’t like the flavor of people at rest stops,” Peter mused. “He tasted like beef jerky.”
I made a face. “You aren’t serious.”
A smile touched the corners of his lips. “No. I’m not.”
I snorted, amused at his dry humor. His smile grew at my reaction, and his eyes—the brown of his irises somehow richer now that he’d fed—twinkled with pleasure. He really did have lovely eyes. They were the sort of eyes I could get lost in if I let myself. It was the first time I’d seen him smile fully, I realized. Not one of his reluctant half smiles that seemed pulled from him against his will but an actual grin that lit up his face.
Beautiful. The thought flitted across my mind as he stepped closer.This man is beautiful.
He was also aroused, if what was going on at the front of his jeans was any guide.
I tore my gaze from him and made a point of studying my shoes.
Feedingfrom the sourcehad this effect on vampires. This was one reason why many vampires balked at blood bank dinners. I’d been a fool to forget it.
A caravan of cars chose that moment to pull into the parking lot, taking up several of the spots beside my car. This felt like our cue to get moving.
“Shall we?” Peter asked, clearly having the same thought I did.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“We still have a few more hours of driving before we get to the Chicken Emporium,” Peter said. “I can drive this next leg.”
“Your shift doesn’t start until sundown,” I said. “Are you that eager to pick the music?”
“You’ve been driving for hours,” he said, the corners of his lips twitching upwards as he fought another smile. “I’m being a good traveling companion. It has nothing to do with your music being awful.”
“I’ll turn you into a Chappell Roan fan if it’s the last thing I do,” I vowed. But I was smiling, too.
Peter sat in the driver’sseat, clutching the steering wheel in both hands as if worried it might vanish if he let go. His wide eyes were everywhere, shifting rapidly between the windshield wiper controls, the turn signal—anything and everything but the parking lot we still needed to pull out of.
“You all right?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, jaw tight. He began fiddling with the dials on my ancient radio with his right hand before giving up and returning both hands to the steering wheel.
My stomach lurched. “Do you think you’ve ever done this before?”
A long pause. “I think so,” he said, not sounding convinced. He scratched at his chin, then resumed his double-handed death grip on the steering wheel. “Sitting in a driver’s seat and holding a steering wheel feels familiar.”
I nearly pointed out that he could just as easily have driven bumper cars at some point, but now wasn’t the time. Peter had already missed a half dozen opportunities to merge onto the road during this conversation. His anxiety as he stared wide-eyed at the stream of traffic ahead was palpable.
