Driving Mr. Dead Read Online Free PDF

of how to take care of ourselves. I actually did pretty well in my sparring matches, despite the fact that Tino the bouncer was roughly the size of a compact car. Tino speculated that my unique ability to find trouble meant that I spent more quality time in panic mode than the average person. Being accustomed to the fight-or-flight response, I was able to channel all of my adrenaline into hurting someone besides myself. After I called Tino a number of colorful names, I thanked him for his helpful insight.
    My ability to defend myself in rough situations—along with a brief but memorable stint as a taxi driver in Cleveland—turned into quite the selling point for my boss, Iris, during the hiring process. I could parallel-park and adjust my radio while flipping a rude gesture at another driver, all the while calculating a 20-percent tip in myhead. I demonstrated my skills to Iris when she hired me. She asked me never to do it again.
    I slowed my steps, unwilling to stop completely and look around. I popped my thumbs, shaking the blood into my fingers, still hoping that I could make it to my room without confronting Mr. Parking Lot Creeper. It had been a very long time since my last sparring match with Tino, and I stood a pretty good chance of pulling something. Driving long hours the next day with a wrenched hamstring would suck.
    Seriously, where is half-naked, oil-covered Jason Statham when you need him? I wondered, thinking of The Transporter and how he would handle this situation.
    The crunch of gravel moved closer, maybe five paces behind me.
    Stand and fight it was, then.
    Just as I was about to turn and yell at whoever it was to leave me the hell alone, I heard a shout and the sound of feet dragging across pavement. Two mismatched truckers in full plaid regalia had Mr. Sutherland pinned against a car, wrapping a thick chain around his middle. My client seemed more embarrassed than angry, his fangs in full play as he spoke in that rapid, clipped accent. “Get your hands off of me, you cretins!”
    “We caught you, asshole! You don’t sneak up on ladies like that!” the heavier of the two truckers shouted in a heavy Texas accent, giving Mr. Sutherland a violent shake. His arms, bared by ripped sleeves, were as thick as tree trunks and twice as gnarly. His partner had more of a straw-blown build, dirty-blond hair, and a lazy eye that seemed to follow me as I stormed over to them.
    “Hey!” I yelled. “Let him go!”
    “Get back!” the lankier trucker yelled. “Go to your room, honey.Just get out of here. Let us take care of this.”
    “What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded as he looped the chain around Mr. Sutherland’s arms, pinning them to his waist. His skin sizzled and smoked where the chain came into contact with his wrists. These idiots must have sprayed the chain down with colloidal silver, a common trick among bar brawlers who were unsure of whether their opponents were living or undead. For vampires, touching it resulted in burning, itching, weakened muscles and, eventually, a wish for death. And Mr. Sutherland was sort of emo, anyway.
    I surged forward, making a grab for him, but Lanky caught my arm and dragged me away to a “safe distance.” My hand clamped over my purse strap, and I yanked free, using Lanky’s body momentum to shove him a good arm’s length away.
    “Saw this foreign jackwagon following you from the diner, all stealthy-like,” said Heavy-Set, his bewhiskered jowls aquiver. “We figured he wanted to make you his midnight snack or worse. Girlie, don’t you know better than to wander at night when there are vampires running around? We saved your life!”
    I turned on Mr. Sutherland. “You were following me? Really?”
    Mr. Sutherland huffed indignantly but didn’t comment, what with the silver cutting into his flesh and slowly poisoning him.
    “The way we look at it, you owe us a little reward,” Lanky said, posturing and leering at me.
    “Look, I appreciate the