Driving Mr. Dead (Half Moon Hollow 1.5)

“What are you doing?” I yelped, pulling to the side of the road quickly. “I thought you didn’t want the door open unless the car was stopped!”

He climbed out of the cubby and into the passenger seat while I popped a packet of donor blood into the warmer. And somehow, despite recently sleeping and the fact that he’d just done seat gymnastics, his clothes were less wrinkled than mine.

“Hello, Miranda,” he purred, and the rumbling, rolling timber of his accent had me shivering. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“You know how I slept. You were watching,” I muttered. “And if you comment further, you will not get this nummy treat.” I made a sarcastic wave toward the warmer.

“I would hate to miss that. So where will our adventures lead us this evening?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Perhaps you can pick a fight with a motorcycle gang.”

I gasped in mock incredulity. “Collin, are you having fun?”

“I simply enjoy trying to predict what you’ll do next. Force of habit.”

I assured Collin that I’d eaten before he rose, so we should just keep driving. He drank his warmed blood on the road. I had no idea how I was going to handle the hotel issue. Collin would be furious when he realized that I’d been lying to him. We would probably have to sleep in the car. And the farther I drove, the lamer the lie would seem.

“Are you all right?” he asked for the fifth time that night. “You seem very tense.”

“I just want to make as much progress as we can tonight, so tomorrow night isn’t such a haul.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop for a soda or a bathroom break?” he said. “You haven’t rested since I rose.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

But I wasn’t fine. I was freaking exhausted. I blinked at the road, my eyelids and limbs heavy. I was so tired that holding my head up seemed to take a monumental effort. If I was alone, I would turn up the radio to obnoxious girl pop and sing along. I’d open the windows and drink enough caffeine to fire up a legion of skater kids. I didn’t think Collin would appreciate any of that, so I soldiered on.

I was quiet, mulling over the Jason issue and how I would approach him when I got back home. I dreaded seeing him. No matter what I said, I would be disappointing someone. If I ended it, Jason would be upset … in theory. If I got back together with him, I would be disappointing Lisa. And if I didn’t make a decision, I would be surprising no one. The odd thing was, I dreaded the prospect of dropping Collin off at Ophelia’s and saying good-bye so much more than having “the talk” with Jason.

The car was warm. The music was quiet and classical, heavy on lyrical piano. The pattern of yellow stripes marking the lanes created a mental rhythm, lulling me into a state of relaxation. My eyes grew heavy. I saw Collin in breeches and a waistcoat, shirt undone at the collar. He was standing in a field, emerald grass rolling like an ocean. The sun shone down on his skin, beautiful, ruddy, smooth skin glowing with health. He was walking toward me, his eyes twinkling with a special smile that meant that he was happy I’d returned at last. His arms wrapped around me, pressing me so close that my nose nestled against the hollow of his throat. He smelled like rosewood and fresh-mown hay. His hands slipped up my arms, shaking my shoulders. He pulled away, staring down at me with alarm.>Wait, no. That was my phone.

Henry Rollins was singing, his ode to liars echoing in the cabin of the car. Jason was calling me again. It was time for me to talk to him. I hadn’t spoken to him in almost a week. It wasn’t mature or fair to shut him out like this. I hadn’t asked for complete radio silence while I was on the road, just some space. I could spare a few minutes to let him know that I was safe.

And yes, maybe that was “I committed frottage with a vampire” guilt talking.

I sighed and pressed the speakerphone function, remembering Collin’s rule about talking on the phone while driving. But even as I reached for the phone, I found myself praying that it was just another ass-dial.

“Hello?”

“Hey, you!” Jason exclaimed, as if he were speaking to me from across a war zone and not the Heartland. “Oh, Miranda, honey, it’s so good to hear your voice. I know you said you needed space, but not hearing from you has been driving me nuts.”

“I’m fine, Jason, really. I just need time to think.” And you and your ass calling me a half-dozen times a day isn’t helping my frame of mind, I added silently.

“I’m trying to give it to you, really. But it’s hard. I miss you,” he said. “I miss talking to you every day. No one makes me laugh like you do. No one’s made inappropriate jokes about professional baseball or network newscasters around me in weeks. I’ve been bored out of my skull.”

This probably was the point when I was supposed to say I missed him, too. But I found that the sound of his voice just sucked all of the wind out of my sails. Why couldn’t he listen to me when I said I needed space? Why couldn’t he back off? What was with this constant calling? He didn’t phone me this much when we were together.

Under normal circumstances, I would prattle through the day’s events, ask him questions about wedding plans, try to trick him into revealing what he planned for our date that evening. But today I was just sitting there, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted so I could get off the phone. He was the one who wanted to talk to me so bad, so why couldn’t he come up with conversation?

In Half-Moon Hollow, Jason cleared his throat. “Are you having fun?”

My lips quirked into a smile. I was, actually. Even with all of the disasters that befell us, I was having a pretty good time. But if I told Jason that, he would pout. I wasn’t supposed to be having fun. I was supposed to be using this time for a sensible relationship inventory.

Also, the idea of his having to come up with a whole conversation on his own was sort of amusing, so I kept it short and sweet. “No.”

Awkward silence, empty enough to form its own black hole and swallow both of us. I wondered whether I could crinkle paper near the receiver and pretend I was driving through a tunnel … in Nebraska. Did they have tunnels in Nebraska?

“I know you said you can’t talk about your clients, but can you at least tell me if this vampire is being nice to you?” he asked. “Do I need to talk to this Iris Scanlon about putting my girl in a car with the cranky undead?”

Something about the way he said “my girl” made me all warm inside. He used to address his notes to me with “To my girl.” Flowers, gifts, little tokens to show how much he cared, how often he thought of me. And I had loved knowing that I was his. It was the first time anyone had really claimed me. I mean, sure, my parents introduced me as their daughter, but they always did it with this note of apology in their voices. Jason had always introduced me with his hand on the small of my back, pushing me gently toward the other party, as if he couldn’t wait for them to meet me.