Hopelessly Devoted: (Sacred Sinners MC - Texas Chapter #3)

by Bink Cummings

  Ten small farming communities in ten years. Places where you're guaranteed to be an outsider since you weren’t born and raised there. Places where you become the dull gray stone in the vast sea of pearly white. Or more specifically, the sloppy, introverted, vertically challenged, backward tomboy, who could always understand cars and vegetables better than she could ever understand a living person. Especially females, who are notoriously focused on the glitz, the glamor, the 'something better'—the end game. Rings, weddings, babies, dresses, being sickly thin, and wearing gobs of makeup. All of those things I've never understood. Or maybe I did once, but not anymore. That part of me withered away and died long ago.

  Well, I suppose I should stop being a Debbie Downer and make a run for it. The storm has settled for a moment and the clouds have parted in the sky. Beams of vibrant sun are casting down on Mother Earth, breaking through the dreary for a moment.

  I grab the cash between my legs, throw open my weighted car door, and make a break for the entrance. The door chimes as I dash inside and shake off like a dog. My hand runs through my long, wavy hair, damp from the rain.

  “Can I help ya?” the older woman asks with a smoker’s rasp, standing behind the counter with her shotgun left lying in front of her, next to the register.

  The noise of the weather forecast is broadcasted over the surround sound speakers, as heavy winds shake the windows. Air whistles through poorly sealed seams, and water drips from the leaky roof into buckets on the cracked linoleum floor. On a deep inhale, I’m assaulted with the cheap tang of lemon cleaner, and worse—the unmistakable scent of mildew. I try not to judge or crinkle my nose in disgust, because I’ve smelled worse. Lived in worse. Survived worse.

  Meeting the woman’s eyes, I flash her a friendly, closed mouth smile. “I need to fill up,” I point to my car outside, “and I could use a little break from riding so long.”

  She leans against the wall behind her, covering a beer poster, and crosses her arms over her chest. “You been drivin’ long?” She jerks her chubby chin my way.

  “Eight hours.” I wade further into the store. The shelves are minimally stocked and the prices, as I figured, are outrageous. Beggars can’t be choosers, though, so I snatch a handful of candy bars and a few bags of chips, paying special attention to the expiration dates. There is no way I’m paying almost two dollars for a bag of candy if it’s expired. All of them, except the Baby Ruth, are fresh, so I put that one back and continue my inspection of snacks for the long ride ahead.

  “Where ya headed?” she snoops, just as a siren broadcasts over the speakers, immediately followed by a tornado warning.

  “Is that a local station?” I ask, choosing to ignore her question.

  “Yeah,” is as much as I get outta her.

  “Should we be taking cover?” From my experience, most warnings are more of a safety precaution. However, this woman appears unfazed by the whole thing. She doesn’t seem to care that the rain is beating the windows like they owe it money. Or that I can see huge branches flying like feathers through the front lot.

  I wince, sucking in a sharp breath when a broken branch barely misses my beloved Viola. At my sides, I fist my hands, still full of candy, and clench my teeth. My car shouldn’t be out in this weather. It’s not letting up; it’s only getting worse. If she gets the slightest scratch, I’m going to lose it. I’ve kept her pristine for almost fourteen years. I can’t allow a storm like this ruin her custom paint job. It’ll wreck me.

  The sky’s black now, matching my heart. Can you see the low hanging clouds and the streaks of lightning slash through the sky? It’s beautiful, in an End of Days morbidity, don’t you think?

  A deafening boom and sizzling crackle of thunder shakes the windows. I move closer to the back of the store, just in case one of those flying branches decides to do the swan dive and impale the glass.

  I spare a brief sideways glance at the woman. Her bushy brows are pinched and her aged lips pursed as her eyes fix on the storm brewing in Mother Nature’s cauldron. She makes a disgruntled noise in her throat.

  My eyes fly wide when I catch sight of an iron gate tumbling like a weed down the country highway. “Holy crap,” I mutter to myself, following the gate’s path until it’s out of sight.

  “It’s gettin’ nasty out there,” she comments. “Owned this place for thirty-five years and she’s still standin’.” Her hand proudly slaps the counter and it startles me. I fidget, dropping my unpurchased candy to the floor, and my heart leaps into my throat.

  Bending down between two shelves to pick up my mess, I hear the first crack.

  “Damn it!” she barks.

  I forget the candy and shoot upright just in time to catch another branch collide with one of the store’s windows, cracking the pane like a spider web. The rain hardens and the roof groans under pressure. I warily watch the paneled ceiling and send a silent prayer to my grams, God, and Brian, to keep me safe and the roof from buckling. If anything goes, my fear is that’ll be the first to collapse.

  The older woman leaves her post and scurries past me to the back wall of the store. She presses herself against it, between stacks of unpacked goods. I follow right on her tail and slide up beside her, my back flush against the wall. “Is this the safest place?”

  “The store room has too much glass, so yes.” Her voice wavers.

  Uh-oh, that’s not a good sign….

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