The line went dead, and bile stung the back of Guthrie’s throat. For one horrible gut-clenching second, he was sure he was going to be sick.
Luke must have seen it on his face because he kicked the tiny trash can closer to Guthrie. “Aim there.”
Guthrie laughed—a panicked, scratchy thing—but it broke the tension, calming his churning gut.
“What was that about?” Luke asked.
“That was the biggest asshole in my life charging in to wreak havoc.”
“Let me guess. Your father.”
“Yup. Our interview went semiviral, and now he wants me on his show.” That interview was the bane of Guthrie’s existence. The views had only ticked higher and higher as the weeks had progressed.
“What a dick. He should want you on his show because you’re his son.” Luke scooted his chair closer, and Guthrie wished he could crawl into Luke’s lap and find some comfort in the man. It had been so long since he’d found comfort in anyone.
But this man was the worst choice possible, for a lot of reasons. The top one being that Slim was trying to poach Luke straight out from under KTTY, and it might work. The season had been slow. If Luke was desperate enough for money, jumping ship might be worth working with a douchebag like Slim Bridges.
“Slim does want me on his show because I’m his son. And I want nothing to do with him because I’m his son, which means I know exactly how shitty of a father he is. He’s either livid or shitting himself with excitement that I’m back out there.” Slim’s reaction depended wholly on what benefit he would get out of Guthrie’s return.
“He’s why you stopped?”
Guthrie shook his head. “I stopped for a lot of reasons. Getting Slim off my back was one of them. His producer contacted KTTY to see if they want to partner with his stupid, tasteless, trashy TV show. And I know that description makes his show sound awesome, but it’s not. It’s horrible!”
“I’ve seen it. It’s bad.” Luke smiled softly and with so much tenderness that Guthrie panicked and stood, ready to run away.
“What if KTTY forces me to be on Into the Storm as a representative of the station?” Guthrie said. He glanced wildly around his office space. It felt like the walls were caving in on him.
“They might see it as a positive opportunity. It’d bring viewers to KTTY, plus they’d have access to Slim’s storm-chasing resources without having to spend money on them.”
“I’d quit.”
Luke lurched forward in his seat and grabbed Guthrie’s hands. “Hey, whoa. You just need to be prepared to counter their arguments. They are not going to force you to be on a reality TV show. That’s nuts.”
“Oh yeah? They’re forcing me to be a storm chaser right now when all I want to be is a human-interest reporter.”
Luke didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Guthrie stared down at their hands.
“What about you?” Guthrie asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you going to say when Slim Bridges asks you to be on his shitty show? Because I can guaran-goddamn-tee it’s happening.”
“I don’t want to be on TV.”
Guthrie pulled his hands out of Luke’s slowly, the scrape of their skin eliciting a shiver. “It’d be good money, Luke. Steady money. And you’d get to chase more storms, not only ones that affect Oklahoma. They travel all over. It could be a lucrative opportunity for you.”
Why the hell was Guthrie trying to talk Luke into this? What was wrong with him?
Luke stood, and they were eye-to-eye. “Better be careful there, cowboy. I’m going to think you want to get rid of me.”
“Oh, I do,” Guthrie said, resorting to his usual defense mechanisms—bitchiness and sarcasm.
Luke laughed and shook his head. “How about this? I’d rather eat roadkill than work with Slim Bridges.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“Working with your dad?”
An unbidden laugh clawed its way out of Guthrie’s throat. “No. Roadkill. I did a feature on a roadkill festival a few years back. It ain’t all bad.”
A sudden knock had Guthrie jumping away from Luke and banging into his chair, which caused a cascade of office junk to evacuate his desk. It was like something out of a slapstick comedy. All Guthrie needed was a banana peel.
Neither Luke nor the new addition to their little party, Seth, seemed fazed by his clumsiness.
“Hi guys,” Seth said. “Y’all all cool?”
Luke laughed. “’Y’all all?’”
Seth shrugged. “Oklahoma born and bred. I’m allowed to say ‘y’all all’ at least once a year.”
“Sorry to hear you’ve hit your quota,” Luke said.
Guthrie cleared his throat. “So what’s up?”
“Oh, right,” Seth said. “Wanted to let you know to be ready for severe weather in two days. And also a nonstorm warning—Guthrie, your dad’s making calls. He caught me on my cell this morning. I know Slim and I go way back, but I’d sure appreciate not being surprised by him before I’ve had my morning coffee.”
Slim had alienated most of his friends and colleagues through the years, including Seth Nguyen. They’d gone to college together.
“What should I do about it?” Guthrie asked. He didn’t control Slim, but he also didn’t want him to be a nuisance to a man Guthrie respected.
“Answer your own phone, so he doesn’t call me demanding answers and promises. You know he’ll call Debbie too.”
“God, I’m sorry. He’s such a vulture.”
Seth shrugged. “Well, some things never change. I’d nip it in the bud before it goes too far.”
Guthrie nodded. “I don’t have much choice.”
With a wave, Seth left.
While watching his retreating form, Luke said, “Seth doesn’t like Slim, does he?”
“Slim burns everyone eventually, even old friends. He lies and exaggerates and uses people.” Slim was the impetus for most of Guthrie’s trust issues and a good handful of his anxieties. The way he wrecked in and out of Guthrie’s life like the Kool-Aid Man, only appearing when it suited Slim Bridges, was Exhibit A.
Luke bent down at Guthrie’s feet to pick up the doodads that had fallen off Guthrie’s desk. Guthrie went to his knees to help him.
They looked up at each other at the same time.
“I would quit too,” Luke said.
“What do you mean?”
Luke smelled good. Like coconut shampoo and minty aftershave. All fruity and clean. Exactly how Guthrie imagined a Californian hotshot would smell.
“If KTTY tries to force me to be a Slim Bridges puppet, I’d quit too.”
Guthrie fell onto his butt and shook his head. “You’re nuts.”
“No. I’m loyal.” Luke stood up, grinned that crazy wild grin of his, and made his way to the mouth of Guthrie’s cubicle. “I’ll see you in two days. Here’s to hoping our second video doesn’t go viral.”
Guthrie was positive Luke had just jinxed them.
Luke watched their “Would You Rather” video five times the morning of their next storm chase. It’d been out for less than twenty-four hours and was getting a lot of clicks, but thankfully not as many as the first interview. He didn’t relish the attention. Only a matter of time before someone started digging into his history, which wasn’t ideal. His past was a long line of boys’ homes and foster care and a cobbled-together career as a professional vagabond. No roots. No lasting connections.
He knew his past could be misconstrued into tragedy porn, a sob story about pulling himself up by his bootstraps. But that wasn’t how he saw it at all. It wasn’t a tragedy. It just was. He was one of a million other kids who’d grown up in similar circumstances, but he’d been one of the lucky ones. The worst that had happened to him was learning the meaning of impermanence way too young.
The “Would You Rather” video made Luke feel dumb, though. He’d fallen all over himself in his desire to be Guthrie’s “partner.” To declare
himself as such.
Luke was so thirsty for a family or team of any kind that he was practically slobbering for it on camera. It was embarrassing. But the worst part was that it came off as flirting, and he was not flirting.
Okay, maybe he was a little, but romance wasn’t what Luke truly wanted—not with a coworker. He was serious about not dating other storm chasers. It was the worst idea in the world to start something with a dude who he was literally stuck in a truck with for the next few months.
Still, Luke wondered if Guthrie was experiencing the same weird pull, if they were both fighting it.
By noon, storm clouds were gathering in the distance, and Luke was itching to chase, itching to be back out there behind the wheel of the truck. He wanted to feel the rumble of thunder, the prelude of calm before a tornado, the threat of nature’s violence. He loved the stillness before the storm, loved the breathless expectation, almost as much as he hated the actual destruction a tornado could trigger.
Luke knew that Guthrie thought he was some dumb adrenaline junkie, and yeah, he might be a thrill seeker. He could admit that the danger of the chase made him restless and excited and jittery. But once he was out there, he didn’t truly want violence for violence’s sake. He didn’t want danger for danger’s sake. He wanted to warn people of an oncoming threat. His job was to be a witness, to be a warning system, to help.
Last night, Luke had watched an episode of Into the Storm. He’d gotten a Facebook message from some suit named Mark D’Amico offering him a job. Luke knew Slim Bridges’s reputation in a roundabout way. His show was the first storm-chasing reality TV show and had birthed many copycats that never had the same staying power. It covered Slim’s personal life as much as his storm chasing.
In the episode, Slim had been brash, self-absorbed, charismatic, loud, bossy, and absolutely impossible to turn away from. There was no doubt he was an asshole. The show didn’t hide that fact. It was part of his appeal.
As the forty-five-minute show had drawn to a close, Slim ordered the driver to get closer and closer to a tornado. They cheered and screamed and high-fived as it touched down. They pumped their fists as it crossed the road in front of them.
It was exciting. Appealing, in a messed-up way. Luke would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t tempted. Of course he wanted that kind of adventure. He chased storms for a living, on purpose. He liked adventure. But then Slim and his merry band of douchebags had driven by a farm that’d been hit. They were laughing about the perfect shots they’d gotten, the danger they’d faced head-on, and there, in the background, was a family whose home had been destroyed. Slim was laughing and a woman with her face blurred was digging through the rubble of her own belongings in the background. Slim and his crew had gotten out to help, but they’d looked like idiots, running around asking if anyone was hurt or needed assistance, as if they could do anything to alleviate this family’s pain. It was obvious Slim was high on adrenaline in the face of tragedy. He couldn’t stop smiling.
It was sickening.
Luke would never be party to that.
His phone buzzed in his hand before he could click the “Would You Rather” video again. He dropped the cell on the edge of his desk in surprise before scrambling to read the message.
Unknown Number: I’ll bring snacks again.
Luke’s heartbeat tripped. It was Guthrie, but they’d always communicated via email. He quickly added Guthrie as a contact. He had no idea what to say, so he tried to make a joke.
Luke: I don’t eat food from unknown numbers.
Guthrie responded by sending him a still frame from their first video in which he’d circled himself. Luke dropped his face into his hands and chuckled helplessly. In the image, Guthrie had a bland smile on his face, and Luke was gazing at him like he hung the fucking moon.
Luke: Bring me chocolate.
Luke didn’t necessarily want chocolate. He needed carbs and protein after his workout class that morning, but if the snacks Guthrie had brought last time were any indication, Guthrie was a health nut. Luke couldn’t help but needle him.
Guthrie: No.
Luke: Mountain Dew?
Guthrie: No.
Luke: You’re no fun.
Guthrie: Nope.
Luke couldn’t wait to go ten rounds with Guthrie again, couldn’t wait to hear his bossy, slow-twang voice. Guthrie’s particular brand of arrogance and prickliness made Luke want to take him apart piece by piece, to live in those moments of tension between them that were sweet and scary all at once. That tension was not unlike the eerie peace before a tornado formed—full of possibility, full of risk.
Forced proximity for the win. Since the night of the lightning, they’d seemed to have called a truce, but something immeasurable and precarious still snapped between them. It was invigorating.
Fun, Luke realized. He had fun around Guthrie, even when Guthrie was a bossy dick.
By the time Luke picked Guthrie up, he felt frazzled.
“Hey!” Luke said, sounding excited like a kid opening Christmas presents.
Guthrie’s eyes narrowed. “Hi.” He was wearing a beat-up baseball cap advertising a local history museum, his stubble was at least a day old, and he had on jeans, a KTTY T-shirt, and work boots. It was the first time he’d truly looked like an authentic cowboy to Luke. A nerdy cowboy, but a cowboy nonetheless.
“What’s the plan today?” Luke asked.
“We’ll head west. Right now there’s only one storm brewing, so we’ll follow it. Our starting target is Binger.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Luke said. After last time, Luke was willing to give Guthrie a modicum of control in this truck. “What do you got in the bag?”
Guthrie lifted up the small soft-sided cooler. “Helped my mom at the farmer’s market this morning. Got some fruit and veggies, cinnamon raisin bread, a bunch of granola, and bison jerky. Want anything?”
“Hit me with the jerky, dude.”
“Sure thing, dude,” Guthrie said, snark dripping from his voice.
“I won’t make fun of your Oklahoma-isms if you don’t make fun of me for saying dude.”
“But you say dude way more often than I talk like a hick.”
Luke laughed. “That is so untrue.”
“Oh yeah? What Oklahoma-isms do I use?”
“Y’all.”
Luke munched on his piece of bison jerky and the bright burst of tangy meat melted on his tongue. This stuff was better than the kind he’d gotten once on a trip to San Luis Obispo with the boys’ home. He slid his sunglasses from the top of his head to his nose and navigated onto the interstate. After a few seconds, the silence in the truck got suspicious. Guthrie was staring.
“What?” Luke asked. “Do I have jerky on my face?”
“I don’t say y’all that much.”
“Do too. It’s… I don’t know. Cute.”
Guthrie took a bite of the orange he’d been peeling, then sucked juice off his thumb. “Don’t call me cute. We should wager.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever says their word the most often owes the other a drink. It’s going to be boring as hell out there. Might as well make it interesting.”
Luke grinned. “You’re on. Dude.”
Chapter Eight
The sky had turned a murky green. That sight normally filled Guthrie with dread, but today he was more relaxed than normal. He was keeping an eye on his Radarscope app, the weather maps, and the Facebook Chaser Chat, but so far, they were in a holding pattern.
Luke was chattering away about football, which Guthrie couldn’t care less about, but he loved Luke’s voice, so he kept humming along like he was actually listening.
“They need to get the ball to the posts, but instead they toss up three-pointers on a wish and a prayer and hope it wins them games. You know?”
“Uh-huh,” Guthrie said. A shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds, and Guthrie closed his eyes as it warmed his face.
“Dude, you’re not hearing a
word I say, are you?”
Guthrie turned in his seat and pointed at Luke. “Ha! Dude. Fuck yes.”
A funny little laughing moan slipped through Luke’s lips—it sounded obscene—and Guthrie’s thoughts plummeted to the gutter. He needed to stop macking on Luke in his brain. Christ.
“What does that make the total?” Luke asked.
“I’m winning. 2-0.”
“That’s because you’re not talking. You’re lounging there fake listening to me.”
“I’m not faking. You’re talking about football.”
Luke slapped the steering wheel and laughed. “I was talking about basketball!”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Your turn to talk.”
“Fine,” Guthrie said. He tried to get his weather maps and radar to update, both on his cell phone and the laptop, but they were out of service range. Losing phone and internet service was one of the bigger obstacles of storm chasing in the sticks, not that Guthrie would call this a chase. It was shaping up to be soupy green cloud gazing. Luckily, Guthrie was fairly familiar with the area, so he didn’t need to rely on the navigation software yet. “We need to head southwest. Let’s jump on County Line in a mile.”
“Giving me directions isn’t talking, by the way.” Once Luke had gotten on the right road, he said, “We’re going to be stuck in this baby for endless hours this spring. Might as well get to know each other.”
The instinct in Guthrie’s gut that made him rebel from any and all connections with new people bobbed to the surface. He was storm chasing because his boss was forcing him, and yeah, it hadn’t been that bad, but that was mostly because they hadn’t yet had a real chase. He didn’t want to get drawn into this partnership more than necessary.
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