Chapter 3-
The blue Camaro sped off from the dinner car park heading to 'Springtime motel' near the town he was in, Herth. Damon thought this was perfect as it was close enough to Mystic Falls for when the call came.
Days passed, but Damon still waited by his phone, hoping that she would call. Hell, anyone would call him asking where he has been to show they care. Yet there was still no ringtone.
Fuck it.
He thought. Just fuck it.
His bags have never been packed faster, with that thought.
His motel door flew open, banging, as he zoomed into his car throwing, his bags in the back. Turning the key, hearing the engine rumbling
with the back tires squealing in the lot, gravel flying underneath the traction. Damon raced away, leaving his hope behind him.
Driving straight pointlessly on the highway was not his way of saying fuck you to the universe. He needed a place to crash, get drunk, get laid, and feed. LA was too druggie, the weed makes the blood taste weird. Seattle? Nah, he wasn't looking to get shot. New York...he had nothing against New York, so there he will be. He can even go and live at his old apartment from the 70s. Finally, driving with a purpose, Damon headed to the big apple and to one of his favourite bars.