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I sat there smugly chewing, waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I had the best zinger lined up for when he gasped and dove for his slushie.
“That’s rather nice,” he said it as if he were tasting some fancy Julia Child recipe. I blinked at him chewing politely, paper napkin on his lap, mouth closed. Wish I could get my cousin Petrocci to chew with his mouth closed. Sunday dinners at Aunt Louisa’s place was like eating seated across from a running garbage disposal. “I like the crispness of the vegetables. You said they have an actual cook?”
He leaned out from the shade of the umbrella and then winced as the sun hit his pale, tender skin. He drew back quickly. I knew it! The man was a vampire just like in that show. All refined and pretty, sexy hair and pouty lips, musical French accent. Yep, he had all that charm that roped you in then BITE SUCK you were a vampire. Sharing coffins and…hmm, the sucking and biting Henry while in a small, padded space didn’t really sound all that bad.
Shame he was such a snob.
“Well, Marvin isn’t really a cook,” I replied around a mouthful of burrito. One pale blond eyebrow rose above Henry’s crazy dark shades. It was the same kind of arched brow Ma gave me when I was talking with my mouth full. Swallowing harshly, I took a loud sip of my slushie and then spoke. “Marvin owns this Fill ’Er Up. They’re an East Coast chain, you know.” He shook his head, blond hair sliding down over his glasses. He absently reached up to flick his hair back. Suddenly, all I could think about was doing that for him. I felt a tingle in my boxers. Shifting to sit differently and choke the swelling in my dick down, I looked at something else. Anything else. “Well, they’re quite famous. Anyways, he owns this one and takes pride in the food and shit that they sell. So he and his wife Becca make all the food they serve for breakfast. Like the burritos, the pizzas, and the egg and muffin sandwiches.”
“Oh, so an entrepreneur in the truest sense. Commendable. This is rather tasty. I’ll have to instruct Barnaby to stop here to fill up from now on.” He genteelly dipped his burrito into the salsa as I stared at a starling on the roof of a fancy Greek restaurant across the street. He fell silent, which I assumed meant he was chewing. I glanced from the starling to Henry in time to catch him rubbing at his left eye beneath his sunglasses. His brows beetled tightly again.
“You okay?” I asked since he seemed to be in some sort of pain.
“Fine, just the sun.” He placed his half-eaten burrito on the foil wrapper he’d laid out on the table after he had situated his tiny ass on a napkin.
Sun? How could he see any sun through those ebony lenses? I pulled out the cross I always wore around my neck. Just to make sure it was showing in case he dove over the table to suckle on my jugular. A thought that made my balls feel hot and heavy. Shit. That wasn’t good. I shifted again.
“You got a headache?” I ventured, and he nodded slowly as if bobbing his head with vigor would cause more pain. “Damn, that sucks.”
“Yes, it does.” He said nothing more, just sipped on his slushie and then wrapped up the remainder of his food. I wolfed down my burrito. “I think I should go.”
“Okay, yeah, we can go,” I answered, picking up my drink so I could follow him to his car. “You good to drive?”
He nodded, paused, and then delicately shook his head. “Perhaps you should drive. The sun was brighter than I thought it would be, and my trip was longer. I generally only get behind the wheel…well, today the sun is bright and I am squinting. I foolishly forgot my driving glasses.” He turned to face me and I could see the strain on his face. “Do not go too fast or be reckless as they are when they are driving in New York City.”
I opened my hand. His keys fell into my palm. I took note that his accent grew a bit thicker, and his grammar a bit looser, when he was in pain.
“Just so you know, we don’t all drive like maniacs in New York,” I stated as I scurried in front of him and reached for his car door.
He stiffened as if I had slapped him. “I am fully capable of opening my own door,” he snarled, yanking the handle with force.
I drew back, now aware that I had offended him, and let him do it himself. I’d thought he would appreciate me playing at being his butler, but nope. Noted. So, I let him be and got behind the wheel of the Audi. When the car was running, I reached for the stereo. His hand shot out, fast as mercury, and his fingers tightened around my wrist. “Please, leave Chopin playing.”
“Sure, yeah, I can do that.” I backed out and gave him a worried look as he let his golden head ease back to the rest. “So, yeah, driving in New York ain’t for sissies,” I said and got a sigh from the man next to me. Wasn’t sure if it was a sigh of despair or one of pleasure knowing I was going to relay something interesting. “One time, Shaun O’Malley, my third cousin removed four times—he’s on my father’s side of the family in case you was wondering—drove into Queens to come visit for my mother’s birthday about eight years ago. We like to gather up big for important things like birthdays. Mine’s coming up. I’ll be thirty-four. Anyways, so Shaun drove down from Buffalo where he lives and works as a cat therapist.” I peeked his way as we sat at one of the many traffic lights along the main street. He seemed to be listening, so I kept talking. The lake was to our left now as we were slowly heading to the east side of the water. Henry sat beside me, quiet as a church mouse, his head back, long throat exposed. I tore my sight from his neck, wondering if I was maybe the undead bloodsucker and not him because damnation that throat looked tasty. “I never heard of a cat therapist either,” I said as we rolled away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. “He says he communicates with cats via this empathic wave in the back of his brain. Who am I to question? I once knew a guy who swore he could talk to the pigeons that hung out in the Queens Zoo. Personally, I think that pigeons would be full of sassy talk. You ever see the way they walk? My uncle Cian, which you say as Kee-An—on my father’s side too—is super sassy and has that kind of head-bob-strut-thing that pigeons do. Hey, he’s the uncle of Shaun, so maybe they both got a pigeon gene. You think?”
When he didn’t reply, I dared a glance. He was sound asleep.
His face was so smooth now. All the tension lines that he carried all the time were gone. I was tempted to pull over just to gawk at the man slumbering beside me, but I didn’t. Instead, I paid attention to traffic and slowed just a bit as we passed Hector Falls, a stunning waterfall that flowed down to Seneca Lake. The road out to the Gaudion vineyards ran past the falls, affording folks a great view of the tumbling water as it cascaded to the Finger Lakes. Cars sometimes pulled over to enjoy the scenery even though they weren’t supposed to on the right side of the bridge so you had to pay close attention to tourists and kids.
A big Winnebago was trying to back out of the road to view the falls, so I had a minute to sit and admire Henry. He was a dainty sleeper, not like me at all. I slept like a rock, snored like a boar, according to a few former lovers, and drooled on myself when I drifted off sitting up. There were pictures of such drooling taken by my teammates while I innocently napped on the team bus. Paybacks were a bitch, though, so they’ll all learn.
Henry did none of them things. His right temple rested on the window, his lips slightly parted as he breathed in and out silently. Guess refined French gents didn’t slobber all over themselves like us Americans did. He was a magnificent sight. Easily as pretty as the falls flowing downward to the water.
A horn blared behind me. I startled and then hit the gas, blushing when I realized the Winnebago had parked and the family in it was piling out.
“Pay attention, knucklehead,” I mumbled to myself, eyes ahead the whole way to the small road that left the Seneca Lake Scenic Byway to climb up to the winery. Gaudion was one of many vineyards in this area. I knew little about wine other than it was tasty and made me talkative—more talkative that should be—but people raved about the wine grown in this area for good reason. We peeled off of 79 and followed that past a horse farm and craft barn and a huge renovated Victorian house—all bright blue and white—which was now a B&B.
Henry snoozed the entire way.
I slowed to a crawl when turning off the two-lane road that wound up and away from the lake. Taking the left by the large wooden sign artfully reading GAUDION WINERY—EST. 1960, we drove past acres and acres of wine grapes. Lush green plants heavy with grapes were all one saw for miles and miles. If you glanced left, you could see the solar panels that had been added to the vineyard about three years ago. Henry might be a little prissy, but he did have causes. Climate change, some organization for an eye disease that kids got, the Open Arms Tabernacle, something about a regatta or maybe it was manicotti…not a clue. He was on the local Pride committee and hosted several other non-profit fundraisers that the Gladiators were encouraged to attend all the time. Something about the owner of the salt plant who owned our barn being good friends with Henry’s dead father. So yeah, he was a pretty, rich prig, but he did good things. Maybe the good things evened out his uppity ways…
The inside of the car was filled with some sort of piano music. I glanced to the right, saw he was still asleep, and sneakily made a move for the stereo.
“Non,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“You said the driver chooses the music,” I countered as we drove up to a parking area where a tour bus sat in the shade of a dozen old oaks. The tasting barn sat to the left. Wine tours and tastings were big business here in Watkins Glen. Maybe even bigger than hockey, which, yeah, blew my mind, but there it was. Not that we did bad here. We had great fans and a solid base, but nothing could match the interest in wine in this neck of the woods. “So, that being the case, I’m choosing something without a harpsichord being played by some guy in a powered wig.”
He chuckled. Then tried to make it sound like a cough, but I had heard it. Knowing I’d made him laugh made me feel ten feet tall. Which it shouldn’t have because he was a snobby rich boy who I didn’t like all that much. I’d have to keep reminding myself of that over my time here.
