Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

"They say grief makes you do foolish things." Paul doesn't meet my gaze as he peers at the motel parking lot. "Maybe that's all this trip is. An illogical thing we're doing because we don't know what else to do with ourselves."

This is not what I thought Paul would say once we were alone. And I didn't expect him to appear so calm.

"With death, nothing makes sense, does it?" he asks, but he's not looking for an answer. I stay quiet as he continues. "It just happens when it wants. And we're left trying to figure it all out. I keep trying to think of a reason to tell Diana about why her mother died. I want to be honest, but I don't want her to know those things about Nancy. I don't want her to hate the half of herself that came from that woman, but I'm struggling. I love the daughter we created and will never regret any of it because of that. But Nancy? Part of me is glad she's?—"

"Dad, this stupid shit is not working!" Diana yells through the open door from inside the motel room.

"Hold on." Paul takes a deep breath.

From the surprised look on his face, I realize he won't finish the thought. The words that tumbled past his guard will not be released again. It was a momentary slip, a second of weakness that almost caused him to speak his deepest shame. I don't even know if he meant what he was about to confess. People say all kinds of things when they're lost and frustrated.

Paul leaves me alone on the sidewalk. To Diana, he scolds, "Watch the potty mouth."

"You said it before," Diana counters, trying to sound tougher than she is. The cursing would be funny if this situation didn't suck so badly. Poor kid. I'm sure she's feeding off our tension. She's trying to be brave under unusual circumstances. Parts of her remind me of me at her age. I had the same desire to keep everything even-keeled when the family seas were rocky. But her innocence, that's different. I wonder if I was ever really innocent. I grew up knowing monsters are real. Diana probably has a vague fear of the unknown fueled by imagination.

I don't want that to change for her, but the monsters are coming.

I can't help but note that the roadside motel looks like something out of a horror movie. It's partially isolated like a complex of abandoned office buildings had tried to swallow it whole only to choke the weather-bleached motel out as unpalatable. On the other side are dense trees covered in vines. The interstate is close. I can hear the cars, but I can't see them.

I peeked inside the lobby window while Paul checked us in and noticed taxidermy guarding the front office. I'm pretty sure this is the exact setup that the psychotic killer from that old movie had—the one with the mom in the basement and the knife shower.

What the heck is that movie called? It's driving me crazy. The guy dressed up like his dead mother. Larry? Tate?

Argh.

The sound of the television comes through the open door behind me, and I hear Paul telling Diana to calm down. Her response is lost as the impending storm makes itself known.

Lightning cracks across the sky. The threat of bad weather isn't helping the death-trap atmosphere. The temperature is dropping at a noticeable rate, but I still want to stand outside on the sidewalk. The roof juts out over the walkway to provide shelter from the drizzle. Our room is at the end of a long L shape, far from the creepy lobby.

"I ordered pizza." Paul reappears next to me.

"Norman Bates!" I say at the same time. I'm momentarily happy to have the mind puzzle solved.

Paul looks at me and then around at the motel, confused.

Diana is on the bed playing. I hear the steady squeaks of her jumping on the mattress.

I wave my hands in dismissal. "Never mind. What were you saying?"

"I ordered pizza," he says. "It's the only place that delivers."

"Cool." I'm uncomfortable and don't know what to say. I rub my naked arms and think of the new lightweight jacket in the bags.

Paul's hands rest on his hips as he studies our surroundings. He tries to hide it under a show of quiet strength, but I see a vulnerability in him that mirrors my own. "I guess this does kind of look like the Bates Motel."

"Right?" I nod in agreement, starting to laugh.

His face tightens. "The storm looks like it's going to be a strong one."

My smile drops. He's not laughing with me. In fact, he appears to be thinking that this is another problem he needs to solve.

"It's fine, Paul. I was only joking. We're already here, and taking off in this weather isn't a good idea. This place is as suitable as any. It's got character." It sounds like I'm trying too hard.

Paul releases a long sigh. "Yeah, I guess."

An invisible barrier has risen between us, casting doubt. It's deeply uncomfortable, and I know it's my fault. I want so desperately to mend the rift, but I can't. They say honesty is the best policy, but I don't think they ever had to explain a vampiric threat.

"My name really is Tamara," I blurt. The words have been bubbling inside me for some time. "I didn't lie to you. I didn't tell you some things, but I didn't lie."

Paul glances over his shoulder into the room and listens to Diana for a moment before turning his attention back to me. "What things?"

A rush of random facts fills my head as if my brain is trying to get me to retreat from the truth that needs to be told.

"The police are looking at me as a suspect for starting the fire that killed my family. I didn't, I swear, but I was there that night." I can't look him in the eye. Not yet. I need to get all of it out.

"I would assume they look at family and friends first," he answers. "That sounds pretty standard."

Why is he always so composed and understanding? That makes no sense to me.

"Then when the second fire…" I don't know how to explain it.

"You thought that made you look guiltier," he finishes.

"It does. I went there to hide because I didn't want the police to take me in for questioning after the funeral. I couldn't deal with them, not with everything." I run my hands through my hair in frustration. "These last weeks have been one giant blurry nightmare. I keep waiting to wake up."

He listens patiently, and I feel his attention focused on me.

"The woman who died in the apartment fire was the birth mother of my adopted brother, Conrad. He recently reconnected with her. He thought I'd be safe there until the lawyers could talk to the police and clear my name. I'd never met Darlene before you dropped me off. I can't explain why someone… I don't know what is happening to my family."

Too many thoughts are trying to come out at once in my desperate attempt to convince him I'm innocent. Paul's not accusing me, but it feels like I still need to defend myself. When we were kids, Conrad used to tell me that I act like I'm being judged even when I'm not. Often, this led me to confess when no one was even asking questions.

I make the worse criminal.

"I know you didn't set the second fire. You didn't have time," Paul says. "We should go to the police, and I'll tell them that. You'll see you're worried for nothing. We'll tell them what we know like we should have done right after it happened. I'll explain that we'd just come from the funerals and were not thinking clearly. It's going to be fine."

Paul takes a deep breath, like a giant weight is being lifted at the decision. He gives a small nod of self-approval.

It's a bad decision. I need to make him see that.

"You didn't go inside. They'll say you can't know for a fact what I did or didn't do," I protest. "I'm connected to both events."

Paul touches my shoulder, startling me. He keeps his hand there until I settle, and then he lets go. I instantly miss the contact.

"It sounds like Conrad is more connected to them than you are," he says. "Maybe you should consider?—"

"Don't." I stiffen and shake my head in warning.

"I'm not saying he did it. I'm saying that it was his birth mother at the second?—"

"Stop," I interrupt, refusing to listen to him badmouth my brother. "You don't know him. Conrad would never put me in danger. He didn't do this."

Paul looks like he has more thoughts on the subject but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

"Besides, they're not looking at him. He's not a suspect. I am." I know it sounds like I'm trying to divert blame back to myself while also protesting my innocence. But I trust Conrad. People don't understand what our lives have been like. If I don't have Conrad, nothing I have left makes sense. I need to know that at least that connection is solid.

Conrad would never hurt me.

I think of the time I broke my arm.

Conrad would never purposefully hurt me.

But what if he did something unintentionally? Like believing dirt could make us fly? What if this mess is inadvertently Conrad's fault?

I hate myself for allowing the suspicion to surface. Fear will only lead me down the wrong path. I must have faith in what I know to be true. Conrad is my anchor, and I can rely on him. It's the only way to preserve my sanity.

"You don't have all the facts." I sound defensive, and this is not the convincing reasoning I want to convey.

Why do none of my conversations with Paul go how I need them to?

This is so frustrating.

"You were only inside for about a minute," he says as he crosses his arms over his chest. "You saved my daughter's life. That's what I know for a fact. I couldn't have survived if anything happened to Diana."

It suddenly makes sense why he's putting up with me. He thinks he owes me, a stranger. Giving me a ride after a funeral was a kindness. Everything after is a debt he believes he needs to repay. I'm not sure how to feel about that. It's understandable as far as reasons go, but it's not the one the woman in me hopes for.

"I can't force you to do anything," he continues, "but I strongly feel we should contact the NYPD and have a conversation. I think you'll feel better when this is all cleared up. I know I will."

He unfolds his arms and starts to reach for me, but he stops himself and shoves his hands into his front pockets.

"There's more." Everything in me screams to shut my mouth. Apparently, everything in me is a coward. But no. I must get through this. "There is another reason we can't go back. It's not just that it's the police. It's that it's the vampire-controlled police."

I tense and wait for his response. He says nothing. We stand quietly for so long that I start to doubt he heard me. My hands shake, and I clasp them together to make them stop.

"Paul?" I ask, finally daring a nervous glance at his face.

He's staring at me as if weighing his thoughts. I wish I could hear what he's thinking.

"Come here." He reaches out his arms.

I wince and automatically take a step back.

"Come here," he says again, his voice soft. He bends his fingers as if to gently will me toward him.

I hesitate before moving into his embrace. He hugs me tenderly. His hand strokes my back like a feral animal needing to be tamed. As good as his touch feels, it's weird.

He believes me? I can't believe he actually?—

"It's going to be all right," he soothes. "We're going to get you help. I promise. There is no shame in taking care of your mental health. You're not alone."

He doesn't believe me.

He thinks I'm insane.

Can't say I'm surprised, but…

Dammit.

"You're dealing with immense grief. It makes sense that it would come out in unusual ways. There is no right or wrong way of dealing with things. We just deal. You're not alone, Tamara. I'll make sure we find you the help you need."

He keeps talking, his tone soft and soothing. I'm not sure what to do.

I push away from him. "I'm not crazy."

"Hey, I never used the word crazy," he says in that same composed, firm voice. I find it irritating and slightly condescending.

"I know what's real." I take a deep breath. He already thinks I should be committed. I might as well say it all. "The supernatural exists. Those things humans are scared of? The bumps in the night? They're real. Very real. And we should be scared of them. Terrified. Petrified. I've known about them my entire life. There are creatures that crawl out of the belly of the Earth every hundred or so years so that they can wear a human skin suit and stretch their legs before their next big nap. Werewolves are controlled by the moon. Giant monsters live in the ocean. Dragons fly the Norwegian skies in protected territory, of course, so that's why you don't see them. And vampires are just as monstrous as you think they might be. It's not all Hollywood happy endings. This is real. I'm not crazy, and I didn't start those fires."

He glances around the parking lot. The rain seems to come a little heavier. "Do you see them now?"

I look at the cars. No one's around. I scoff. "Of course not. I'm not hallucinating."

The important conversations in my life never go how I want them to. I wish I could come off as charming and sophisticated, but I can never get the words out right. And with Paul, it's worse because I really care what he thinks of me. After this outburst, I'm sure all he feels is pity.

Great. Just what every woman wants. A sexy man to pity her.

Fuck my life.

The explosive outburst should have made me feel better like I was getting a weight off my chest. It doesn't. I feel like a freak.

"I guess that explains the jars of minced garlic I found in your shopping bags," he says, more to himself than to me. "Let me guess. It's a blood thinner, and vampires are naturally repulsed by it."

"Think of it more like a severe allergy or poison." I see no point in hiding facts now. "Can I have the keys? I want to get my bags out of the car."

At this point, if he sneaks off in the middle of the night and abandons me here at the Bates Motel, I won't blame him.

"Your clothes and backpack are inside the room." He gestures over his shoulder. The squeak of the bed playground has settled down.

I wonder if Diana overheard us. I feel like I can't get anything right. The last thing I wanted was to traumatize a child with my rantings.

A scream of frustration builds inside me, and I fight to keep it bottled.

"I need all the bags before it gets dark," I manage through a tight throat.

"Sure." He pulls his keys from his pocket and points the fob at the small SUV. "Just… Don't say any of this to Diana."

"Yeah, of course." I nod. I'm not an idiot.

I hear the beep indicating the door is unlocked before he puts the keys back in his pocket.

I run through the rain to the back of the SUV and reach to lift open the door. My hand hesitates as I see the vampire symbol redrawn in the dust on the vehicle like some magical tracking signal. Moisture streaks the design, but it's there. I instantly rub my palm against the door, erasing it into a muddy smudge print.

I check the parking lot, trying to peer into the empty cars. I don't see anyone. Still, I feel watched. I'm not sure if it's paranoia or a sixth sense.

The car locks click and then beep a couple of times. I startle at the sound, but I hear feet coming at me before I can react. I turn to see Paul reaching for the door handle.

"Having trouble?" he asks, his voice louder as the rainfall continues to thicken.

The door lifts upwards, creating a metal umbrella above us as the storm's primitive drumbeat intensifies.

My heart is beating fast. I look at my dirty, shaking palm as if it's proof to validate my fear. That trooper had spent time examining the back of the car. Did he mark us? Or was it someone here in the parking lot?

I rub my hands in the rain to clean them as if that can erase the threat. I hate unanswered questions. Not knowing is the worst.

I don't want to die here tonight.

Paul reaches into the back. The moisture molds the t-shirt to his body, and I can't help but notice. "Run inside. I got these."

Instead, I kneel on the wet ground and look under the chassis. A muddy puddle wets my knees and hands, and tiny bits of gravel push uncomfortably into my skin. Water creeps into my shoes.

I have no clue what I'm looking for, but in the movies, a tracker always has a little blinking light, right? I don't see anything. I have to tell myself this isn't a movie. It's real life. There are tiny trackers on the market now. I reach to feel along the bumper. My fingers glide against clumps of mud to knock them off.

"Tamara," Paul says sternly as if struggling to bury his frustrations. "Get up."

He pulls at my elbow to keep me from crawling under the wet car. I don't know what I'm doing anyway, acting like I'm some sort of trained spy.

"No, wait. I just…" It's the only protest I have. I'm reacting in pure panic.

Paul urges me to my feet. His grip is firm but doesn't hurt.

We stand under the door umbrella. The rain is coming in thick now and creates loud splatters against the concrete all around us. The dark clouds make it feel later than it is. But sunset is close, and that means danger won't be far behind.

Paul is staring at me, gripping the bags in one hand and my arm in the other. He's breathing heavily. His fingers work against me, kneading. Something about his eyes makes him appear lost.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I say. My skin is wet. My soaked clothes cling to me uncomfortably, and threads of my hair stick to my face. Everything about me is a hot mess. I feel as if the world is ending, and I can't do anything to stop its painful finale.

He drops the bags into the back of the car and reaches for my face. "Neither do I."

Paul pushes his mouth to mine. I'm not expecting it, and so I stiffen in initial surprise. Oh, but his body is warm and strong, and I'm drawn to lean into him. His heat infuses the wet on our clothes.

At my movement, his kiss deepens. His tongue slides past my lips. His hand leaves my arm, snaking around my back to pull me fully against his length. The world fades away into this moment. Raindrops cocoon us, blocking out all other noises but for a rumble of thunder.

I feel safe in his embrace. Pleasure and desire swirl inside of me. I breathe him in and deepen the kiss as my hands move over the indentation of muscles on his arms. It's been so long since I've been connected to another person. I want the mindless pleasure only sex can offer. I need to be touched.

It's easy not to think beyond the intimate press of his hips to mine. When you're this physically close to someone, all other pretenses fall away, and you can't hide your attraction. It's animalistic. I circle my hips in primal invitation at the lift of his obvious arousal. I want to tear off his clothes and let the rain hit our naked bodies.

The attraction that has been building between us explodes. I need to feel anything that isn't death and fear. I don't care if people can see us. He can take me right here in the back of this SUV if he wants. I won't stop him. In fact, I want him to.

I claw at the dancing turtle holding a gas can, wanting to rid him of the shirt. My leg lifts along the outside of his thigh. The hunger is intense and causes a physical ache inside of me.

A thought tries to warn me that I'm being shameless and desperate. I ignore it. I don't care. I am desperate to end the loneliness and pain.

He moans and tries to pull his mouth back. I can't let him break the spell of his kiss. I grip his head to keep him there. This can't end.

He can't leave me.

Paul keeps kissing me, but he won't lift his arms so I can strip him of his shirt. That's fine. I don't need his shirt off. I reach for his waist and begin tugging at the fly of his jeans. His hands slide over mine to stop me.

With my hands trapped, he ends the kiss. He's breathing heavily, and his eyes are wild. I know he wants more.

I try to lean toward him, but he pulls his mouth out of reach with a long, staggered breath.

"Tamara, we…" He sighs and shakes his head.

"Please," I whisper, well aware of how pathetic begging sounds. "Don't think."

Please just kiss me.

"Diana," he states.

The word is like a block of ice crashing on top of my head. I blink, stunned, and we both lean to look toward the open motel room door. Diana stands at the entrance and waves.

"I don't think she saw," he says.

I say nothing. There's nothing to say.

Diana starts to step into the rain as if to come to us. Paul grabs the plastic bags from the back and sweeps them behind my back to gently guide me toward the motel room.

I don't want to leave our little alcove. I want to rewind to the moments before.

The sense of danger washes back over me to combine with my sexual frustration and disappointment.

"Stay there!" Paul yells to Diana, pushing me more insistently toward the motel.

I tuck my head and run through the rain. Paul slams the car door shut, and I hear his feet splash as he follows me back to the room.

Diana sticks her cupped hands into the rain, catching the droplets. The expression of joy on her face at her small swimming pool is enviable. She's so innocent. And there is so much danger in the world that she can't even comprehend.

When I rush toward her, Diana flicks her hands in my direction and laughs. The small amount of water doesn't matter when my clothes are already soaked. As if the temptation is too much to resist, she jumps out into the storm before following me into the room.

I stand near the doorway, dripping. Paul stops under the overhang and shakes off the moisture the best he can.

A weather-beaten hatchback pulls up next to him. On the side panel, the logo of a beaver holding a pizza box announces our dinner. I find the logo odd. What do beavers have to do with pizza?

The kid driving doesn't get out of the car. His passenger window rolls down, and two pizza boxes are thrust into the rain toward Paul. I guess it's lucky the kid didn't just chuck them at the open door like frisbees.

Paul grabs the food, and when he turns to bring the boxes inside, the hatchback's tires spin in a puddle, creating a reverse waterfall from the street onto the sidewalk. The dirty water barely misses the back of Paul's legs.

I see Paul's lips move to form a silent curse as he carries the boxes into the room and sets them down on the nightstand.

"That was rude. You shouldn't tip him," Diana says, her tone matter of fact.

"The tip is already on the bill when we order," Paul answers in his usual steadiness. "Fast food drivers are underpaid as it is. Plus, he drove our food here in a storm. I think we can be grateful for that."

"Mom wouldn't have tipped him," Diana mumbles.

I hate to admit it, but my first reaction to having my food shoved at me into the rain wouldn't have been to tip very much, either. Paul is a better person than me by far.

Paul disappears into the bathroom and returns with a couple of towels. He tosses one at me before dabbing at himself. The unspent desire lingers, and there is nothing I can do to help it. I watch him for a moment but force myself not to stare for too long.

My mind is a jumbled mess of confusion and guilt.

I go into the bathroom and shut the door to compose myself. The room smells of mildew and disappointment. I never realized disappointment had a fragrance until now. The combination of chipped paint and peeling wallpaper announced its sad, neglected state. It feels fitting to my situation somehow.

The walls are too close, creating a cramped, suffocating space. A dim light flickers and buzzes, making my shadow dance behind me as I stare into the old mirror. The edges are clouded, vignetting my face in the tarnished glass. A faint crack in the corner reveals where someone had tried to tighten its metal clamp too tightly against the wall.

A drowned rat of a woman stares at me in accusation. I barely recognize myself. Lady Astrid would have had a fit to see me like this. What's the saying? She'd be rolling over in her grave?

The fact that I don't know what I'm doing has become an inner mantra.

I see myself as my mother would have seen me at this moment, with all the imperfections and mortality. Astrid was a great beauty—so elegant, so perfect. She was a fierce figure of a woman from a powerful Scandinavian witch heritage. I can't remember a time when her hair or makeup was out of place.

I'm only twenty-eight, but it's only a matter of years before wrinkles overtake my face and weight spreads my hips. Twenty years might feel long to me, but to the rest of the supernatural world, it's a blip on a timeline. I'll be dead and forgotten soon. At best, I can hope to be a footnote to a story—probably not even my story, but someone else's. The fairytale of a mortal girl who survived the death of her supernatural family only to be killed by vampires. What would the moral of my story be? You can't outrun fate? Mortals are stupid, fragile creatures? Life is unfair? Vampires do what vampires do?

Boo-fucking-hoo.

This self-pity isn't helping. And it sure as hell won't keep the three of us alive.

My eyes go to the amulet. The jewelry has become as much a part of me as my own arm.

"I'm a delicate butterfly in a world of fiery dragons," I whisper as if my grandfather can hear me somewhere out there in the universe. If he were here, he'd warn me to be careful.

I may be fragile, but this butterfly isn't going down without a fight. I just need to be smarter than the bloodsuckers.

I angrily pull out of my wet clothes and get some pleasure from the loud splat they make on the yellowed linoleum floor. The building fight feels better than defeatism.

I turn on the shower, and the rusty showerhead releases a stream of hot water. It doesn't take long for a misty fog to overtake the bathroom.

"Welcome to the Bates Motel," I mutter under my breath as I step into the tub and pull the curtain closed. The plastic barrier is new and seems out of place.

Chipped blue tiles line the shower wall. As water splashes between my lips, I notice it has a metallic taste. That can't be healthy. I instantly shut my mouth and turn my back toward the stream. Despite the disrepair, the hot water hits my skin like a welcome embrace. The white noise of the shower is calming, drowning out all other sounds when I lean my head back into it.

The cheaply scented motel soap boasts of being a relaxing lavender vanilla blend, but its overpowering scent is more like a discount store floor cleaner. It isn't exactly what I'm used to, and it leaves my skin feeling tight and a little itchy, but it doesn't matter. I make quick work of washing off the traces of mud.

I want to do more, but I don't let my hands linger in any one place. Any self-pleasure would be a poor comparison to the real feel of Paul kissing me at the back of his car. Plus, it's just weird knowing they're eating pizza on the other side of the thin bathroom door.

I don't understand Paul. He didn't believe me when I told him about vampires, but still he kissed me. Maybe the man is attracted to crazy? It sounds like his late wife had been a piece of work.

Vampires.

The thought lingers in my mind like a bad omen. It prompts me to get out of the shower and dry off. I clutch the towel to my chest and poke my head out of the door while using the barrier to hide my half-naked body. "Can someone hand me my clothes?"

"Tamara, do you want pepperoni or gross adult pizza?" Diana yells.

"She'll be out in a second." Paul shushes her. He appears holding a plastic bag with the clothes I bought. He reaches through the crack in the door. "Here."

As I take the bag, his hand lingers through the opening longer than it needs to. His eyes hold mine, full of questions like he's worried about me. I don't know what to say, so I merely nod and shut the door.