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“It will be OK,” he promised. “Now, suck it up, people are starting to stare.”>“Don’t be nervous,” Sam told me.
“Can’t help it,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat rest. “There’s a reason I hide in a kitchen all day. I’m not good with crowds.”
He nudged me with his elbow. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Liar.” I sighed.
Sam’s truck smelled nice, like Murphy’s Oil Soap and piña colada air freshener. This was a very different vampire from the one I’d been pranking. He was relaxed, if not quite happy, as he hummed along to George Strait. He actually smiled at me when he emerged from the basement earlier and complimented me on the little red sweater I’d paired with jeans. It felt natural driving along with him like this, almost like a date, if one’s first date involved hauling several servings of synthetic blood around in a warmer.
Sam pulled the truck to a stop in front of an old bank building, near Howlin’ Hank’s. While I stared, bewildered by the sheer number of cars parked in front of the darkened buildings, he pulled me out of the truck and helped me with our parcels.
While parents hauled sunburned, exhausted children to their cars, the “night shift” for Burley Days was arriving in droves. The town square was bustling with laughing humans and vampires toting an odd assortment of cheap stuffed animals. Red, white, and blue twinkle lights hung from every stationary object, giving the square a festive glow. Gleeful screams echoed over the insistent country and western music pumped over the PA system.
We carried our sauce samples in a foam chest lined with warming gel packs. As we walked, I noticed several people watching Sam, flashes of recognition flitting across their faces before they averted their eyes. They were human, I could tell by their tans, and they refused to make eye contact. They didn’t exactly turn their backs, but they definitely weren’t giving him manly fist bumps. Were these people Sam’s friends and clients before he was turned? What had Lindy said to them that would make them retreat this way? My irritation with Sam’s ex ratcheted up to “bitch-slap on sight” levels.
When Sam took my hand to lead me through the crowd gathered in front of the dunking booth, I gave his a little squeeze. He dropped it as if I’d burned him, but I tried not to take it personally. Earlier head patting aside, it must have been strange to have me touching him after I’d done everything in my power to injure him.
We spotted the garish black and red Faux Type O booth near the center of the square. Two tall black columns flanked a long red-swathed table. A black banner proclaimed Half-Moon Hollow’s historic participation in the first-ever Bloody Bake-Off. A handful of people, human and vampire alike, were lined up at the registration point, holding various containers. One woman, with heavy circles under her eyes and a cigarette dangling from her lips, seemed to be holding a pitcher of bloodred margaritas. She actually had me worried. But we registered our entry, which we were calling “Blood Creek Barbecue Sauce,” with little incident. A registration number kept our entry anonymous and prevented bias from the judges. That made me feel a bit guilty, considering that Jane had helped me taste-test. But she’d never tasted the final sauce. Heck, the fact that she’d tasted my lesser efforts would probably keep her from guessing which one was mine.
We were given a goodie bag courtesy of the local Council office, just for participating. The contents included a sample of Solar Shield SPF 500 Sunblock, iron supplements, a six-pack of Faux Type O, and a to-go-sized container of Razor Wire Fang Floss.
“I’m just going to let you hold on to that,” I said, handing the tote to Sam.
“Probably for the best,” he said, peering into the bag. “They make mouthwash just for vampires?”
“You have so much to learn about your own culture,” I said.
“A bag full of blood and dental supplies is culture?”
“It’s some culture. Speaking of which, what do we do now?” I asked. “We’ve got an hour before the results are announced.”
“Now we explore the magic and mystery of Burley Days.”
Sam led me through the rows of food vendors and rigged games and a particularly bewildering antiques mall. We stopped in front of a table where a dozen grown men were participating in a Frito-Pie-eating contest. I watched in horror as they dove face-first into a combination of corn chips, chili, and cheese, lapping it up like ravenous dogs.
He chuckled, dragging me away from the carnage. “This must be hell for you.”
“No, but it will be when the first ‘loser’ sicks up his efforts,” I said, shuddering. “Haven’t you people ever heard of fruit pies?”
“No,” he said, laughing harder. “I meant there are no fancy food emporiums, no Apple Stores, only one Starbucks within a fifty-mile radius. Growin’ up around that sort of thing, you probably take it for granted until you end up in a place like this.”
“I didn’t grow up around it.” I scoffed. “I grew up in Hader’s Knob, Missouri. Population five thousand thirty-four.”
He frowned as he seemed to mentally review all of the conversations we’d had over the last few nights. “I just assumed.”
“You never asked,” I said, smirking. “It wasn’t the greatest place to call home. The liquor stores and the pawn shops were the only businesses that did well.”
“Do you ever go home to visit?”
I shrugged. “No reason to. My parents were killed in a car accident when I was in college. Chef Gamling was the one who drove me home from school to help me arrange my parents’ funeral. He was the one who helped me figure out how to handle their mess of an estate. And he’s right here in the Hollow, so where else would I go?”
“So you’re a small-town girl,” he said, eyeing me speculatively. “Bein’ a small-town boy myself—Mount Pleasant, Tennessee, thank you very much—I can appreciate that. How’d you end up in Chicago?”
“Culinary school,” I said. “My dad thought it was nuts, but Mom said I should follow my dream, even when that dream led me about four hundred miles away from them… which was half of its charm.”
He made a waving motion with his hand, as if to say, And? When I didn’t respond, he nudged my ribs with his elbow. “Woman, I’ve seen you weepin’ over maimed kitchen gadgets. You know about my torpedoed marriage. And I’ve made out with you under the influence of evil peppers. We have no secrets.”
“My parents didn’t fight, exactly. They bickered a lot, but I can’t remember them ever really raising their voices. They were locked in this bizarre constant battle for who was winning at the relationship. One of them was always leaving the other one, demanding apologies, demanding that I take sides one way or the other. They separated, they got back together, they separated, they got back together, over and over.” The words seemed to rush out of my mouth like water. And when they’d finished, I was a bit out of breath but felt lighter. I frowned, mulling over what it meant that I could say those things to Sam in the middle of a crowded street but not to my mentor or licensed psychiatric professionals.
