Riding in Cars with Boys

~3800 words :: Vampire Chronicles :: Louis/Lestat :: 7/29/02
Lestat and Louis take a little drive. (Note: This is the sequel to Monsieur le Rock Star and is fifth in the Coming Back to Life series, a collection of stories set in a universe where Akasha doesn’t rise.)

“I do know how to drive, Lestat. You’re the one who’s been underground for half a century, not I.”

“It just seems…I don’t know. I can’t imagine you driving,” Lestat finishes lamely.

It’s a few nights after The Vampire Lestat’s debut concert and the two of us are still getting re-acquainted. It’s like walking on a highwire. We haven’t spoken of anything of import. In fact, we haven’t spoken much at all. This is the first night we have had any sort of conversation outside of the bedroom.

Despite the fact that he’s the one who has just risen a couple years ago, or maybe because of it, Lestat is having a hard time getting used to me in this modern setting. I think, perhaps he’d expected me to remain forever as he’d last seen me, back in the Paris theatre. Rather ridiculous, if you ask me. After all, isn’t he a glamorous rock star – the very image of modernity?

“While I may not go about masquerading as a human…” I continue, with a rather pointed glance in his direction.

“I do not masquerade as a human!” he objects loudly, jumping up from the couch. “I have absolutely made no attempts to hide the fact that I’m a vampire, not one. In fact,” now he’s waving his arms at me and it’s getting harder and harder to keep a straight face, “I have gone out of my way to make a point of it! I am the Vampire Lestat!”

I’m determined not to laugh, though, as it would ruin my point. “But Lestat, that’s just it. They think it’s all a show, you know they do.”

“That’s not my fault, is it?” He’s pouting now, lower lip thrust out and his brows drawn together, and I have a sudden desire to kiss him. A very strong desire…

I have to tear my eyes away, but I continue, “You can’t expect them to believe you. Who would believe such a thing?”

With that he’s on top of me, straddling my lap as he leans down and whispers in my ear, “You believed me.” My heart skips a beat and I feel a tightening in my groin. “Lestat,” my voice is ragged, my breathing uneven, “there’s a difference between being drained by a vampire and buying a record.”

He has his arms around my neck and is trying to look me in the eye. I, on the other hand, am making every attempt to avoid that very thing – looking down, up, to the side, anywhere but straight ahead. I’m having a hard enough time thinking as it is, without that added distraction.

“But they see me on the TV,” he persists, shifting slightly on my lap and smiling when he feels how hard I am. “They saw me at the concert.”

“You know it’s not the same!” I manage to choke out, but what I’m thinking is that if he doesn’t stop this, I’m going to come in my jeans. The whole Lestat experience is more than a little overwhelming after having been separated so long.

Then as if he can hear my thoughts, he gives me one of his little smirks and is back in the chair across from me in the blink of an eye.

He’s trying to act smooth, but I can tell it’s taking everything he has to remain in control. He won’t look directly at me and there’s an almost unnoticeable tic in the corner of his eye. I can see these things now, things I couldn’t see before. Back then I was always the one left flustered and confused while he seemed the epitome of cool.

Taking a deep breath, I attempt to put all thoughts of that little interlude out of my mind. What was my point going to be again? Oh yes. “Anyway. I may not parade about as a human, but…”

“Parade! Masquerade! Why do you use these words? What are you trying to imply?” He’s scowling, legs and arms crossed, and I can see he’s only a hair’s breadth away from jumping up again.

“I’m not implying anything, Lestat, if you would let me finish my sentence maybe you’d see that,” I shoot back. My own temper is barely held in check and I notice that I, too, have my legs crossed and my hands clench the arms of the chair, as I fight the urge to just get up and smack him until he shuts up.

Ah, just like the old days. Nothing like a little – or in our case, quite a bit more than a little – sexual frustration to drive one to all sorts of previously unimaginable acts. But I am determined not to fall into that trap again. Seventy years was more than enough, thank you.

So I relax my grip on the poor chair before it splinters and start again, “What I’ve been trying to say is that while I don’t try to pass as a human – and really, I try to have as little to do with them as possible – that doesn’t mean that I’m totally ignorant of the outside world.”

He relaxes a bit, too, when he realizes I’m not launching into some sort of personal attack, but he’s still a bit sulky. “I never said anything of the sort.”

I just roll my eyes. Typical Lestat. “You said you couldn’t imagine me driving, this from a man who had never so much as seen a car until two years ago.”

“It’s not the same.”

I stand up and look at him. “Where is your car, then?”


“Where is your car? We’ll go for a drive.” I’m actually starting to like this idea. A nice moonlit drive sounds rather romantic, certainly more romantic than sitting around arguing in the living room where, now that I think of it, any number of band members could walk in at any time.

“…A drive…” Uh-oh. I know that look well, very well indeed. It’s Lestat’s I-have-an-idea look and it never, ever bodes well. Not for me anyway. It’s too late now, though; he’s already got his keys out of his pocket and is walking towards the door. I have no choice but to follow.

We pass a security guard on the way and Lestat tells him we’re going for a drive and won’t be back for a few hours at the least. I wonder for a moment where, exactly, we’re driving to, but then realize there’s no use in trying to guess what kind of outlandish plan Lestat’s thought up; my mind just doesn’t work that way.

In the garage are several sports cars, all of them gleaming and new. The one Lestat chooses is a black convertible Porsche. He stands to one side and runs his hand over the hood admiringly, looking like nothing more than a little boy with a new toy. “Did you ever imagine, Louis…?” I just shake my head, of course he must know I feel the same. How things had changed in two hundred years… It was comforting to have Lestat back, a link to the world I had known.

He is talking again about the car, “It’s beautiful,” then he looks up at me with that heart-stopping grin of his, fangs and all, and adds, “but not as beautiful as you.”

And with that, the erection I’d had back in the house to surges back to life and I find my jeans to be once again altogether too tight.

I’m still staring at him when suddenly his keys hit me in the chest. “Ow.” I scramble to catch them before they fall to the floor and Lestat just laughs.

“Show me what you’ve got, then,” he says with a leer, his eyes raking me up and down suggestively, and I know he’s not just referring to the drive anymore. Not that I’m averse to the idea, God, it’s quite obvious I’m not, but I’m not about to cave in now. It’ll be more fun that way. Frustrating, yes. Frustrating as hell, but I know from experience how much sweeter it will be in the end. Lestat’s eyes are hooded as he watches me, his heartbeat accelerated, and I know he knows, too.

“My pleasure.”

I slide behind the wheel and Lestat hops over the door into the passenger seat. He flashes me a smile and then stretches so that his muscles are clearly delineated beneath his clothes. And such clothing it is, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised in the least at his choices; he has always been rather flamboyant. Tight-fitting red leather pants topped off with an equally tight grey t-shirt. My own black jeans and turtleneck look positively drab in comparison. I was actually quite amazed to find anything this…normal in his wardrobe. I have a suspicion he might have bought them just for me, but I know that if I asked he would deny it.

He catches me staring again and winks, jogging me back to my senses. I turn the key in the ignition as he says, “The remote for the garage door’s in the glove compartment.”

I reach over to get it and ask with a raised eyebrow, “Are you sure you’ve just awakened from a fifty year sleep?” The rate at which he’s adjusted to modern life amazes me. It is one thing to have lived through it as things changed slowly, but to come up from the ground to find everything so radically different…I can’t imagine it myself, and yet here he is acting like a child of the times rather than a two hundred year old vampire.

I’m suddenly reminded of Armand and his obsession with understanding each new era. I wonder if he’s read Lestat’s book and what he thinks of all this rock star business. But then as we’re backing down the driveway, I feel a hand on my thigh and Armand is now the furthest thing from my mind.

“Lestat,” I hiss, but then his hand is gone and he’s rummaging around in the back for something.

“Aha!” he crows excitedly, holding up a small plastic rectangle. An audiotape. He pops it in the player, turning the volume up as high as it’ll go, and I groan as his voice blares from the speakers.

“Not conceited in the least, are we?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Louis,” he shoots back, but he’s laughing.

“You do realize it’s the middle of the night, don’t you?”

“Mortals should feel privileged to listen to the Vampire Lestat any time of the night or day.”

I’m not sure I agree with that, but I can’t resist laughing with him. “I’m sure.”

“Besides, we’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

“So which way?” I ask when we reach the bottom of the drive.

“Doesn’t matter.”

So I drive off down the road until it joins up with the highway. Not too many other travelers – it is the middle of the night after all – mainly just truckers. “Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, Lestat, I am driving.”

“Did I mention about the sarcasm? Because I’m pretty sure I did.”

He’s quiet for a few minutes and then he laughs. I look over through the corner of my eye and notice he’s got that look again. Whatever plan he’d cooked up earlier was about to be put into action.

Eyes back on the road, I pick up speed, deftly weaving between the slower cars ahead. Although I have driven many times in the decades since the invention of the automobile, I don’t think I’ve ever driven quite like this. Racing down the highway at easily ninety miles an hour. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m determined to prove to Lestat that I’m not some relic, that I can fit into this modern age just as easily as he.

The sound of the wind as we rush by almost drowns out the music, even though the stereo is turned up as loud as possible. I think perhaps mortals would have to yell to be heard, but I have no problem hearing Lestat when he leans over to squeeze my thigh, urging me on in a voice that should be banned for being too damned sexy, “Faster, Louis.”

My cock twitches and I have to blink my eyes to dispel the images of slick, naked flesh that voice calls to mind. The road, Louis, watch the road.

The speedometer reads 110 now. Other vehicles are nothing more than a blur, even through my vampire eyes.

Then I notice I can hear the song much more clearly than before, but before I can wonder how that’s possible, I realize it’s because he’s singing along. His clear, strong voice blends seamlessly with that of the recording.

I risk another glance in his direction and nearly lose control of the car. He’s swaying with the pulsing music, almost dancing – if you can dance sitting in a car – and when he sees me looking over he begins the show in earnest.

I’m trying to watch him and the road at the same time – not an easy task by any means – and I imagine that if I were mortal still, I’d have whiplash by now.

His hands massage his chest through the thin cotton of the t-shirt. He’s still singing, always singing. Moving down to his waistband, he tugs out the hem and pulls it up, millimeter by millimeter, stroking his bare flesh as he goes.

Flashback to the concert and him up on the stage doing the exact same thing.

“Oh God…” I moan and close my eyes. Just for a fraction of a second, but when I open them I find we’re right on a tail of a huge eighteen-wheeler and I have to wrench the wheel to the left to avoid a wreck.

“I’m the only god here,” he replies, amused, as the song comes to an end. “You were doing so well there, Louis, you really should pay more attention to your driving.” All this without missing a beat. The shirt is hiked halfway up his torso now and he slides one hand up to pinch a nipple.

The next song starts and he throws his head back with a roar, pinching himself harder. This one is even more fast-paced than the one before.

He gets up on his knees and whips the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He whirls it around over his head a few times and then leans over and wraps it around my neck, pulling me into a quick kiss. His lips are on mine for no more than a second, but it’s enough to throw me for a loop. I utter a brief prayer of thanks, that this time there are no other cars nearby as I appear to have veered across two of the three lanes and am partially driving on the right shoulder.

I get back into a lane and start to slow down, but Lestat’s not having any of that. “Now now, Louis, keep it up to speed. Show me you can handle it.”

He’s caressing himself as he speaks and it’s driving me mad, absolutely mad. I don’t think I’ve been this hard in my entire life. I want him so badly it hurts. His arousal is obvious as well; nothing is hidden in those skintight pants, especially in the position he’s in – on his knees with his hips thrust out, gyrating to the beat. It’s torture, pure torture.

I wonder if he’ll continue the strip show, but it seems he has other plans. He strokes his erection through the fabric of his pants and grabs my hand, the one resting on the gearshift. He raises my arm slowly, his eyes boring into me, and brings it to his mouth.

The song is building as he turns my hand over to lick my wrist, to lick the vein that seems to throb in time with the music. The pressure inside me is building, too. My blood is boiling and I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice, seconds away from orgasm, from madness.

He plunges his fangs into my wrist at the exact moment when the song reaches its peak. I cry out and am surprised at the sound of my own voice – it sounds more like the growl of a wild beast than a man.

I am desperately trying not to come, focusing every last fiber of my being on that one task. To give in now would mean losing control – both of the car and of the game. So I will myself to ignore him totally, ignore the electric feel of his fangs sliding in and out.

Stop thinking about it!

My breathing is labored, ragged. I am having serious doubts as to whether I can hold out much longer when suddenly the music stops. The song is over.

He eases his fangs out and licks the tiny wounds as they heal. The stereo is silent. That must have been the end of the tape. The only sounds are the wind whipping by and our gasping breaths as we both struggle for air.

His eyes are wild. His tongue flicks out to catch a drop of my blood that has escaped out of the corner of his mouth. “Louis,” his voice is guttural, thick with desire, “pull off at the next exit.”

Letting go of my hand finally, he settles back down in his seat. I floor it in my eagerness to reach the exit and he laughs, but I can see he’s trembling with the effort of holding himself together.

Control. In his eagerness to throw me off balance, he’s nearly lost control of himself. Not, I imagine, the way things were supposed to go.

And then the exit is right up ahead, so I begin to let up on the acceleration and apply the brake. Without the harsh wind to cool me, I realize I’m sweating what seems like buckets of blood. Lestat, too, is covered in a sheen of red.

I pull off to the side and he’s on me before I even have a chance to take the keys out of the ignition. Thank God the roads are deserted, nothing but orchards for miles.

We’re like a couple of teenagers as we fumble with buttons and zippers. Any and all semblance of reason has fled my mind. All I can think of is Lestat – the feel of him in my arms, the smell of his blood, the taste of his skin.

He literally rips off my shirt and that brings me back to my senses for a moment. “Lestat, the pants,” I gasp, “Don’t. Rip. My pants. I don’t want to have to drive home naked!”

He laughs an evil laugh, but he does heed my warning. We somehow manage to slither out of our pants and, God, the feel of his skin on mine is like heaven. He’s straddling me now, kneeling with his legs spread wide across my lap.

His hands tangle in my hair and he pulls me forward for a kiss. Fierce, demanding, he takes control of my mouth, purposely slicing his tongue on my fangs. I return the favor and our blood runs freely for a few seconds, mingling in our mouths before the wounds close.

I run my hands down his back, pulling him closer – as close as possible. His cock presses into my stomach and I can feel it throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He raises himself up off my lap and spreads his legs as wide as he can in the small space we have. Reaching behind him, he grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth, gashing all four fingertips with one quick motion.

Taking his cue, I insert one bloody finger and then another into that tight, hot space. Raised up as he is, his nipples are just level with my mouth and I suckle first one and then the other as I continue to work him with my fingers.

“Louis… Louis, I need you now!”

“I love you, Stat,” I reply as I remove my fingers. He moves slightly to position himself and then comes down hard, hilting me in a single, smooth motion that tears a scream from his throat.

His muscles clench me tightly as he begins to move. “Lestat, please,” I beg, so close to the edge. Closing my eyes I bend my head and sink my fangs into his jugular. He throws his head back and his whole body spasms as he climaxes, bloody come spurting up to cover my chest.

Tearing my fangs from his throat, I kiss him hard as I come, too. He bites through my lip, reopening the wound every time it closes until he’s had enough. Then, satiated and exhausted, we lie back in the seat.

To be like this forever, just the two of us. Nothing else matters.

Maybe an hour passes as we lie this way. The feeling of connectedness, of oneness, slowly fades as we come back to ourselves. He moves to get off me, opening the door and spilling out while still somehow managing to look graceful.

I watch him as he struggles with his pants, the leather not wanting to slide on very well with his skin all covered with sweat as it is. He is so beautiful… Sighing, I use the remains of my turtleneck to wipe off the blood before getting dressed myself.

“Not bad, Louis. Not bad.”

I cock my head to the side and I can feel a silly grin spreading across my face. “To which are you referring, monsieur? The sex or the driving?”

“The sex of course,” he replies smoothly, sauntering around the front of the car before coming to a stop at the passenger’s side. “Your driving needs a little more practice, I’m afraid.” He smirks, hopping in and motioning me to start the engine. “I can’t count the number of times you nearly caused an accident.” He clucks his tongue at me and shakes his head in a way that makes me want to strangle him.

I’m about to reach over and do just that when he adds, “You did look damned sexy, though, so I’ll forgive you this time.”

I just laugh and roll my eyes, “Whatever you say, monsieur. After all, you are the Vampire Lestat.”

Read the sequel: Breaking and Entering.