Chasing Storm (5 page)

Recovered, he lifts himself from me, reaching down to take my chin and pull me back to his mouth.

He breaks away and I have never seen such satisfaction on anyone’s face.

Ever.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning every word.

I kiss him again. This could be the start of something. I feel no post-coital regret, no immediate shame. “No,” I reply, “thank
you
.”

The story’s not quite the same in the morning.

I roll over in Dan’s bed to find two things: a pair of adorable dog eyes watching me over the sheets, and a note.

Annabelle leaps onto the bed and licks up the side of my face as I struggle to sit up and read the note:

Sorry I had to leave, but work calls. Please stay. I made you breakfast.

Dan xx

Simple words, but that’s Dan.

I turn and see the breakfast tray by the bed, steam rising from the coffee mug. My nostrils flare. I lie back down.

Bliss.

Eventually I rouse myself to finish off the coffee and toast. Dressed only in Dan’s bed sheets, I work my way around the house.

I was here once for his birthday party back in primary school. It’s exactly as I remember it right down to the doilies on the table and the framed photos on the wall.

I stop by a family portrait. It’s amazing how much Dan looks like his father, but while Dan smiles in the photo, his father looks ominous, solemn.

On the table below is another framed photo, Dan in his army uniform, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a cute brunette by his side.

A pang of jealously sweeps through me. It takes a while for me to register it, but I note it all the same and make a mental note to enquire further of this mystery girl.

I make my way back to the room and dress. My bra and panties are still a little damp as I put them on. I’m reminded of the previous night’s events and the string of orgasms that followed.

There’s a dull ache between my legs, but it’s nice. I stroke myself down there.
Still got it.

I’m placing the breakfast tray back on the counter when my eyes fall to an official-looking document on top of a pile of bills and general paperwork.

The letterhead reads: American Veterans Association.

Don’t do it. Don’t you dare read it.

It’s a list of appointments. I scan through the times before my eyes finally rest on ‘Overcoming PTSD. All vets welcome’.

PTSD? He’s never mentioned anything about it.

I glance back to the appointments. The last matches with the night Dan said he was busy.

Make like Idina Menzel and let it go, Alice, seriously.

But I can’t get it out of my head. The need to repair is strong, to take on his case, to care and comfort him.

You’ve only just met him – again.

Fuck.
I sit down but my head continues to rattle with thoughts.

As I drive home, I start to recall the rest of the night.

A lingering sense of guilt begins to develop.

As much as my thoughts rest with Dan, there was something about that singer at Dixie’s, the resigned way he let them take him away in such contrast to the joy that had been lighting his face on stage.

An enigma, sure – a dark, attractive enigma I should probably stay the hell away from. I can hear my mom in the back of my head warning me off spending time with Tim. “Boys like that will only bring trouble, Alice. Before you know it you’ll be pregnant and destitute while he blows all your money on booze and drugs.”

I believed, perhaps with some degree of teenage naivety, that Tim was going to become more than the sum of where he lived and who he was surrounded by. He was going to transcend his situation, and I was going to be by his side. Everyone has the capacity to be change, to be changed. I still believe that.

Thinking about Tim brings fresh tears to my eyes. I dab them away before I step through the front door at home and “breakfast!” reverberates through the house.

Mom and Dad seem to be sharing something when I find them in the kitchen.

Dad holds a stack of pancakes up. “Pancakes?”

“I’ve already had breakfast.”

“Oh? Out late, were we?”

The two of them giggle like schoolgirls.

“Ha-de-ha-ha.”

Mom: “Bit of a sleepover?”

“I’ll be in my room.”

Dad looks at Mom knowingly. “It’s like we’ve time-warped back to 2010!”

It doesn’t get any better at the lunch table.

I can’t stand their smiling faces any longer. I place my salad sandwich down. It spills out on my plate. “Okay, what is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” says Mom, busying herself with buttering bread. “It’s just nice to see you out and about again, that’s all.”

“It’s nice to have you home,” Dad adds.

“It’s nice to be back.”

Finally, cordial conversation.

“Any plans for today?” Dad asks.

“I was thinking of driving around town a little, seeing what’s changed.”

What I’m actually thinking of doing, of course, is driving to Millertown and seeing just how much of a story is there for the taking.

“Well, don’t stay out too late now, especially by yourself. Crime’s really picked up here since…” Dad trails off.

“Since what?”

“Oh, you know, like Dan said, we get a lot of out-of-towners through. Best to stay inside at night if you can.”

Mom puts on her concern face. “We heard about the trouble at Dixie’s.”

“That’s precisely what I’m talking about,” says Dad, but Mom places a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“Not now, Gerald.”

I fully intended to leave right after breakfast for Millertown, but once I’ve gotten through a flurry of emails from the office in New York and an extended phone call with my editor, the day has moved on with lightning speed. Before I know it the sun that so basked the house in the morning has moved away entirely.

I close my laptop and head out to my car. Storm clouds are looming on the horizon, but I’m not planning to stay long. I throw an umbrella in just in case and hit the road.

Driving past
that
corner is always difficult, but today seems particularly painful. I can almost picture Tim again, face larger than life, waving his arm just before he was blinded away in a terrible shriek of metal.

I didn’t even run to him. He might have been alive. I could have held his hand. My face would have been the last thing he’d seen, a memory of love before the light took him.

Instead, I stood there like a statue, pissing my pants as the driver of the bus yelled for me to get help.

I take the highway and head off into the distance.

My primary research tells me Jemma is spot-on. The mill kept the town in a constant state of affluence for almost a century until a series of deaths and board fumbles forced its closure a year or two after I left Rosie. The mill accounted for almost ninety percent of the town’s employment. Without it, Millertown crumbled. Rosie has its own mill, but it was down in supply, unable to take on the massive influx of those looking for employment from Millertown.

Crime rose, domestic violence soared, and those who couldn’t find cash in Millertown soon found their way across the tracks to their nearest neighbor, Rosie. The bars and shutters that are now a fixture of Rosie aren’t just there for good looks. The residents of Millertown are desperate. Someone needs to tell their story.

It’s only 10 miles between Rosie and Millertown, but I’m barely five minutes off the highway when all signs of life evaporate. The road pulls out licorice-like ahead into barren fields singular and long.

The mill’s the first thing I see. It sits on a hill above the town like a lumbering giant. Part of the roof has collapsed. Wooden beams hold up the rest.

I pass a group of kids on my way through Millertown’s outer limits. They look at me with suspicion, sunken eyes full of despair.

The town hasn’t fared much better. The main street is potholed and stark, every shop bordered up or broken.

An old man steps in front of the car. I jam on the brakes. He doesn’t even flinch as my front bumper nudges his knees. He just continues to look ahead, lost.

Houses soon past my windows. People live here, there is no doubting that, but if they do, it’s behind closed doors.

I wind up my window as two youths run out to tap on the glass, yelling. Their cheeks are pulled tight, limbs little but bone – classic drug abusers.

Suddenly, one of my quarter windows shatters. I scream as glass fragments shower over my lap and legs

A rock sits in the passenger-side foot well. It could easily have hit me in the head.

I scan the rear-view, but there’s no one there. The streets are bare again.

I step on the gas and head back out of town just as the downpour starts.

The window wipers struggle to keep up, rain coming straight through the area where the window was smashed beside me and turning my clothes wet. A crack of thunder shakes the roof lining. I turn the demister on. It does precious little, forcing me to squint into the windscreen while I try to follow the markers on the road.

The rain increases and the car slips a little as I correct, fighting with the steering wheel to keep straight. Visibility is all but gone, all light seemingly sucked away by the storm.

The questions come thick and fast into my head.

Why did you go out in this weather? It’s storm season, you know.

Why did you even go to Millertown?

Why don’t you buy a better car?

I turn the headlights on. As soon as I do there’s a defined wheeze from the engine. The car loses power. I press the accelerator again, but all I get back is a sputter. The engine dies and all I can do is steer the car to the shoulder as the rain continues to fall in great, gulping heaves.

“Shit.”

I look through the windscreen. Even through the blur it’s clear I’m in the middle of nowhere.

I take out my cell and go to dial, but there’s no signal.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

It will be night soon and I can’t afford to be stuck out here. I could walk back to Millertown. It’s closer than Rosie, but I remember those guys that ran out, the look of desperation on their faces. I shiver to think what they might do me alone, cornered.

I decide to wait five minutes to see if the rain will relent, but when it doesn’t, I make the decision. I’ll walk south, to Rosie, and hope to find someone on the way.

I take the umbrella and step out into the rain. It hammers at the thin material above like liquid needles. Wind sweeps underneath and I have to use two hands to hold the umbrella in place, my shoes slipping in the dirt and gravel as I start my way down the road.

An hour in and my legs are burning, my breath coming out in clouded gasps. The umbrella’s long gone, blown away by the wind. My blouse is soaked to translucency and my skirt hangs from my hips heavy with water.

I shake, teeth chattering in the cold and regretting my decision not to stay with the car.

At first I think it’s a trick of light, but as I round the bend it becomes clearer. There’s a light in the distance. A window.

I head towards it and the window becomes a house, a shed, but more than that it becomes warmth. It becomes rescue.

I cut across a field, losing a shoe in the process but forging ahead without it, sock soggy and damp.

It’s a house alright, but the light’s coming from the shed to the side, a large, barn-like structure.

I come around to the front, hugging myself in a vain attempt at warmth.

I go to knock on the door of the barn, but it swings open before my hand makes contact. There’s light ahead. There’s music.

“Hello?” I offer, but the music’s too loud. I recognize The Ramones’
Blitzkrieg Bop
, a song I haven’t heard for years.

I take my chance and step inside, thankful to be out of the wet but dripping water and accumulated muck.

‘Hello?” I try again, louder now but still not enough to be heard over the din.

I round the corner and at first don’t see anyone. There’s a car on a hoist, another two or three on the ground and a bike, a hog of some sort. That’s when I see a pair of legs poking out from beneath a green Chevy.

Someone’s working on it, spannering underneath with their overalls pulled down to reveal a dark singlet above.

I step closer until I’m at their feet.

“Hello?”

The stranger sits up. I hear the metallic ring as their head strikes the underside of the car in fright, followed by a vocal “fuck”.

They slide out on a crawler, and it’s him, Storm, the singer from Dixie’s, rubbing his already cut-up head and looking up at me with squinty, greased-up eyes.

“You,” he simply says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

It’s more an exclamation of surprise than accusation.

I look down at my see-through top and immediately feel completely naked. I stumble for words. “Ah, I’m Alice. My car broke down, I-” I don’t know how to word it.
My car broke down and I stupidly decided to walk a couple of miles in the rain, lose my umbrella and shoe, and stumble into a stranger’s home
.

But he has all he needs. He slides out, stands up and wipes his hands on his overalls.

He’s wearing a stained black singlet, muscular arms, one with a
Dia de los Muertos skull over the bicep.

He heads to the back of the shed, rummaging around in some boxes and bringing back a blanket, slinging it over my shoulders. It has a texture like steel wool and smells like dirt, but it’s warm and I’m thankful for the gesture.

I smile. “Thanks.”

He just nods. “You were at the bar, right? The new girl?”

What are we? Back in middle school? “Yeah. I saw what happened. You didn’t start it.”

Storm tosses the spanner onto a shelf with a clank. “Try telling that to Deputy Dipshit.”

“You mean Dan?”

Genuine curiosity. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Oh, my folks tried to hook us up by inviting him over for dinner. We kissed, fucked. Probably settle down and pop out some kids soon. You know. Nothing major.
“He’s an old friend.”

“Oh, sorry, but hey, they’ve got it in for us, all of them.”

“Who?”

“Us,” he throws his hands out to encompass an invisible group of people. “Out-of-towners.”

“Right,” I nod, still trying not to shake. “I’m actually thinking about writing a piece on Millertown.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes, for one of the New York papers.”

His mood changes in an instant. “We don’t need any god-damn help, you understand?”

I pull the blanket tighter. “I know, but-”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t know anything.”

“Yes, but–”

“But nothing.”

He sees the hurt on my face and steps closer with his hands out. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t get many visitors here. But it’s true. What Millertown needs is more than a fancy paper piece. It needs jobs, education.”

“I can help. Once people read–”

“They’ll come running?” he laughs. “I don’t think so. Never have, never will.”

I’m starting to think this guy is kind of an asshole, but I gravitate towards him all the same, Icarus reaching for the sun. “You live here alone?”

He picks up another, smaller spanner and flips it over in his hand. “Yeah, folks passed a few years ago.”

Now it’s me who looks like the asshole. “Shit, sorry.”

He waves the spanner. “It’s fine. The world is better off without them.”

How can someone even say that about their own flesh and blood?

His eyes meet mine and they’re such a striking cerulean that it takes my breath away.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little exhausted, that’s all.”

He takes a step closer and my chest tightens. I pull the blanket even tighter around myself.

He looks up and down my body, what’s not covered by the blanket. My hair hangs in wet tendrils around my ears and shoulders. I look like a drowned rat, but in his eyes I see myself as something different, as something… desirable.

I attempt to kick-start the conversation as I inadvertently back up against the front of the green Chevy. “Ah, Storm, right?

He nods.

“What do you do? You know, when you aren’t playing in the band.”

“For work?”

I nod, a shiver running through me that could be the cold or the sight of the man in front of me, a man who is not Dan, a man whose very presence screams ‘run away!’.

“The band’s just a small gig. I fix cars mostly, bikes… odd jobs here and there.”

“You’re not a biker?”

Really, Alice?

“You think I’m a biker?” he laughs. “Is that the kind of vibe I give off? I mean, I’m no office jockey, but a biker? As much as you might look at my tats and denim and think otherwise, I’m not as cliché as you think.”

“I never said you were.”

“A criminal? Because that’s what you’re thinking. Be honest.”

I can’t take his antagonizing tone. “Fine, yeah. People say you’re bad news. Why shouldn’t I believe them?”

He stands so close the heat coming from his body is a physical thing. “Because it’s not true. Why should a son suffer for his father’s sins?”

“Your father?”

“Was a drug dealer, yes. He was rotten as they come. He hit me, he made me cut up his coke and light his pipe while Mom watched on bloody from the floor. But I am not him, you hear? I’m not part of that life anymore.”

He’s emotional. His face hovers before me, eyes boring right into my skull. I can’t tell whether he’s going to hit me or kiss me.

He chooses the latter.

With one hand pressed to my chest, he pushes me down onto the Chevy’s bonnet and leans into me.

He kisses me on the mouth, firmly, and I respond. It happens so quickly I have no response but to run with it.

I press my lips against his mouth hard. His teeth nip against them. I lean into him, my need growing. Kissing Dan was one thing, but this is different. This is the kind of all-consuming lust that comes once in a lifetime.

I feel the act inflaming me, the feeling of his mouth against my own equal parts strange and arousing, a dream come to life. My fingers find the edge of his chin and it’s rough with stubble. He smells of grease and machinery, of forged metal.

He grows bolder, threading his fingers through my hair. He kisses me deeper, longer, parting my lips with his tongue. The grille of the Chevy is hard against the small of my back as he leans over me.

The sense of urgency grows, my temperature rising swiftly. My senses are on knifepoint, my nostrils flaring wide as I take him in, the hot, alpha masculinity of this creature.

My hands move down to his hips and I’m aware of his erection pressing through the denim of his overalls. I take his free hand and guide it under my wet skirt.

His hand moves up my thigh swiftly, finger scrabbling with the waistband of my soaking panties. He pulls them down, tugging them roughly down my legs to remain stretched between my knees.

His hand moves again between my legs as we continue to kiss and grind against one another above. When his fingers reach my folds, when he slides a finger inside me, I’m his.

But it’s not enough. He knows it too. He bunches his fingers together in a quasi-arrowhead and drives them deep inside me, but again, it is not enough. His entire hand shakes as he works, his breath hot on my cheek as our lips part, hot on my neck when he falls into the cradle of my shoulder. Yet his eagerness does not bother me. In fact, it only increases my desire more.