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I grinned cheekily, trailing my (uninjured) fingertips along the buttons of my blouse, as if I was considering loosening them. His blue eyes tracked the motion of my hand, up and down, up and down. I stopped abruptly, and he shook his head, as if clearing it from some fog.
“On second thought, a lady needs to keep a bit of mystery about her,” I said, lifting my sandwich from the plate and taking a bite.
Mr. Sutherland seemed deflated at my sudden change in course, which was a balm for my ego. He sighed, toying with a packet of Splenda. “Oh, trust me, Miss Puckett, you are an enigma.”
We came so close to having a pleasant evening. Mr. Sutherland even managed to restrain his comments when I ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie, although I’m sure it smelled awful to him. I stopped badgering him with questions and made light conversation about our schedule for the next night. We walked out of the diner, and he actually opened the door for me with a little smile on his face.
“Isn’t that heavy to cart around with you everywhere we go?” I asked, nudging the silver briefcase with my fingers.
He gently spanked my hand away. “What did we say about touching the case?”
“Did we say, ‘If you smack my hand again, I will wedgie you until your underwear comes up over your head’?”
He gave me an arch look.
“I would try,” I muttered.
I’d parked on the far side of the parking lot, beyond the truckers’ area, because I wanted to give us some space if Mr. Sutherland needed to do something vampire-y. Also, the last thing I needed to do was ding some tourist’s car. But as we walked to the car, I could see from a distance that was the least of my concerns. There was something on the hood. Weird, circular shapes with—
“Oh, for the love of Pete!” I cried.
Someone had spray-painted a pair of neon pink breasts on the hood of the car. Big, round, obscenely realistic breasts that were most likely visible from space. I glanced around the parking lot and saw that ours was not the only vehicle to receive a makeover. A Ryder moving truck, a tractor-trailer, and a minivan were all decorated with twin sets of their very own. I noticed that each was parked in a dimly lit area of the lot, giving the vandals the cover of darkness. I scanned the lot for signs of the kids—please, Lord, let this be the work of teenagers and not grown men—but couldn’t see so much as a mist of spray paint. The phantom graffiti artists were long gone.
“Fuck a duck!” I exclaimed.
“Language,” Mr. Sutherland admonished weakly. He was stricken, trying like hell, but failing, to avoid looking at the “art.” “Was it like this before we went into the diner?”
“No, I would have remembered our car having boobs,” I said, staring down at the Batmobile’s generous triple-Z cups. We were transfixed, caught in the thrall of trompe l’oeil cleavage. That was a first for me.
Several awkward, silent moments passed. As I snapped shots of the hood for Iris’s insurance agent—and Mr. Sutherland’s face, for posterity—I considered several options. Calling Iris and telling her she would need to send the National Guard to retrieve Mr. Sutherland. Going back into the diner to inquire whether they served hard liquor. Attempting to paint over the boobs with black nail polish.
Hey, it worked when I scratched my mom’s car in high school.
I realized that Mr. Sutherland had moved on from staring at the car to watching me intently. “Are you waiting for me to know what to do here? Because this was not covered during my orientation.”>“How can you tell?”
“He’s twisting his wedding ring around his finger as he bobs his knee at a hundred miles an hour. We’re in the heart of fly-fishing country. He’s sunburned something awful, except right around the eyes, probably from fishing or boating with sunglasses on. A woman would remind her husband to put on sunscreen, whereas a bunch of other guys wouldn’t care. And he’s been looking at his cell phone as if he thinks it’s going to bite him. He’s waiting for her to call and ask where he is and why the hell he isn’t home yet.”
“You’re just guessing,” he said, smirking derisively.
“It’s all just guessing. That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
As if on cue, the cell phone rang, and the man started stuttering apologies and “Now, honey’s.” I beamed at Mr. Sutherland and popped another fry into my mouth.
“You’re really very good at that,” he said, equally confused and awed.
“Try not to sound so amazed,” I chided. “I do have some skill sets.”
“Yes, cage fighting and impeccable deductive reasoning.”
“I’ve never been in a cage. Where are you getting a cage?” I laughed.
He smirked at me, and I could just make out a hint of a dimple in his cheek. “It’s far more interesting in my head if there’s a cage.”
“That’s a psychological clue that I’m not willing to explore.” I took a bite of my sandwich and took a moment to appreciate the ambrosial combination of turkey, melted cheese, and bacon. “So, Collin Sutherland, Revolutionary War soldier,” I said, lowering my voice so the patrons at the other tables didn’t hear. “You’re a vampire. Why are you afraid to fly?”
“Did no one ever teach you how to make polite conversation?” he grumbled, stirring the coffee he was using as a “blending-in” prop.
“You would be so bored with me right now if someone had.”
