Finding Storm

by Samantha Towle

  I start my car and shove it into drive, and I take off with a screech of tires.

  As I glance back in my rearview, I see Jake, Tom, and Denny come bursting out of the doors I just exited.

  The sight of them enrages me further.

  I raise my hand and lift my middle finger to them even though there’s no way they’ll see.

  The pissed off, humiliated child in me feels marginally better for a moment.

  A minute later, my cell starts vibrating in my pocket and ringing through the car system.

  My eyes flash to the car’s screen display.

  Jake.

  “Fuck off.” I grit my teeth, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I press my foot down on the gas, propelling my car forward faster.

  The ringing stops.

  It starts up again.

  Tom this time.

  “FUCK OFF!” I yell at the display screen.

  Punching the Ignore button, I cut off the call and switch off the system, leaving me in complete silence.

  A text buzzes in a few seconds later.

  I pull my cell out of my pocket, turn it off without looking at it, and toss it on the passenger seat alongside my parking ticket.

  I come up to a red light, forcing me to stop.

  Impatience has me rapping my fingers against the wheel. I just want to keep driving. I need to keep driving. Keep moving.

  The light changes, and I’m pedal to the metal. But before I know it, I’m stopping at another set of traffic lights.

  For fuck’s sake.

  My leg starts to jig restlessly.

  He died because of me.

  Jonny Creed died because of me.

  He got in the car that night because he was coming to see me.

  I scrub my hand over my face.

  Sure, my rational mind tells me it’s not my fault. But rationality means fuck all right now.

  I’m feeling so far from rational; I might as well be on another planet.

  One of the greatest guitarists who ever lived died because of me. And I can’t even live up to his legacy.

  It’s almost fucking laughable.

  My chest starts to tighten.

  My breaths coming in short.

  This used to happen a lot after Mom died.

  What did Tru used to say to me?

  “Nice and slow, Storm. Deep breaths. Slow everything down.”

  Tru.

  Jake.

  An ache lances across my chest.

  I inhale a deep breath and slowly let it out. And repeat.

  A horn beeping behind me shakes me out of my angst.

  I lift my foot off the brake and let the car shoot forward.

  I need to get out of the city. I need time to clear my mind. I just want to drive.

  Dragging my hand through my hair, I catch sight of a sign for the highway. Cutting across lanes to the sounds of more blaring horns—and honestly not giving a shit right now—I take the turn to take me onto the highway.

  It’s the only place I can drive with no interruptions. I just want to put as much distance between them and me as humanly possible.

  Me being in LA right now is not the best idea.

  I take the exit ramp. Before I know it, I’m on the I-40, heading west, and I finally—finally—feel like I can relax.

  Well, not relax.

  I’m still mad as fuck.

  But it’s the best I’m going to get with my current frame of mind.

  I maneuver my car over the lanes into the high-speed lane, and then I put my foot down, opening her up.

  I switch the screen back on, needing to fill the silence in the car and cover the noise in my head.

  Remembering I can’t listen to the music on my phone through the Bluetooth because I turned my cell off, I opt for the radio. I search through the channels.

  I need music to suit my mood.

  The search stops on a station, and one of TMS’s early songs blares out the speakers.

  Seriously?

  My eyes go skyward.

  Are you fucking joking right now?

  I glare at the stereo like it’s personally fucked me over.

  I hit the search button again. And when I say hit, I mean, punch.

  The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” comes on, midway through the song.

  Fucking love that song. But not in the mood right now.

  I need loud guitars. And bass. And drums. I need something to feed my black soul.

  Search stops on a heavy metal station, and the starting sounds of AC/DC’s Thunderstruck” pour out of the speakers.

  “Fucking finally,” I mutter to myself.

  Using the controls on my steering wheel, I turn the volume up to max.

  Bass pounds inside my car, humming over my skin like electricity and settling inside of me like a drug.

  A feeling close to peace settles over my barely hidden rage.

  Only music can calm me in this way.

  Driving fast and listening to loud music might be a fucked up way to relax when, internally, I feel like I could pummel someone to death, but it works for me.

  But I know the moment I stop moving, it’s going to hurt.

  And I don’t want to hurt.

  “Thunderstruck” ends, and the haunting, humming sounds of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” fills my car.

  I fish out a cigarette from my pack. Put it between my lips and spark it up. I lower the window down and let the speed of my car, the low hum of the engine, and the thumping music take me over.

  I rub at my eyes and cast a glance at the clock on my dash.

  Jesus. I’ve been driving for almost four hours.

  Last time I checked the time, I’d been driving for just under an hour, and I wasn’t ready to stop.

  Clearly, I had a lot of driving left in me. I must’ve completely zoned out.

  Lost in my head, on total autopilot.

  I wouldn’t say I’ve calmed down, but I’m not as mad as I was.

  I just feel … like shit.

  And I’m fucking tired of thinking about it.

  I spot a sign for a gas station. The gas light on the dash has been on for a while, so I’d better fill my girl up. I could do with some fuel myself, and I need to take a piss.

  And also figure out where the fuck I am.

  I reckon I’m out of LA by now. I was heading east on the I-40, so I’m either in Nevada or Arizona. And I’ve done the Vegas route enough times to know, this place isn’t Sin City.

  I take the off-ramp and follow the signs to the gas station.

  Yep, I’m in Arizona. The big-ass sign over there says, Welcome to Lake Havasu City.

  I pull in the service station and stop at the pump. It’s self-service.

  I turn off the engine and glance over at my cell.

  I wonder how many missed calls and texts I have.

  They’re probably worried about me. I know them.

  Well, they should have thought about that before they decided to lie to me for the last eleven years.

  Anger quickly coats any guilt I was feeling.

  I grab my sunglasses from the glove compartment and slide them on. Using the little button on the inside of the door, I pop open the gas cap.

  Buy an expensive car, you get some lazy-ass gadgets with it.

  I climb out of my car. Yawning, I stretch. Man, that feels good. Pushing my glasses up my forehead, I rub my eyes again and then let the sunglasses drop back into place.

  I grab the only gas nozzle on this pump and stick it in the gas cap. It’s a tight fit. I have to give it a good shove to get it in.

  Basically like when I’m fucking a woman with my big dick.

  Child that I am, I chuckle to myself.

  I fill her up and tug the nozzle back out, hanging it back up.

  On another yawn, I go inside the gas station. Firstly, I use the restroom, and then I get a to-go coffee from the machine. Wandering around, I pick up a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, M&M’s—peanut, of course—and Twizzler
s.

  I go to the cashier and pay for my fuel and food, and then I head back to my car.

  I unlock the doors as I approach. Using one arm, setting the coffee and all my shit against my chest, I open the door and climb inside.

  “Ah fuck!”

  I spilled the damn coffee all down my front.

  “Fuck! Shit! That burns!”

  Grabbing the coffee, I set it in the cupholder and toss all the other shit on the passenger side.

  I jump back out of my car. Pulling my sunglasses off, I toss them in the car. I drag my coffee-soaked T-shirt off over my head.

  Sighing, I dry my chest off with my T-shirt.

  I drag my hands through my hair, looking up to see an older woman—looks to be in her late fifties, maybe early sixties—filling up her car at the next pump over, and she’s blatantly ogling me.

  Well, my chest.

  She catches my eye and winks at me.

  I suppress a laugh, my lips curling into a grin.

  She’s a total GILF. Not that I’m into fucking grannies. But she’s a looker for her age, for sure.

  I go over to the trunk of my car and pop it open. Get my leather jacket out and toss my wet shirt in. I pull on my jacket, not wanting to drive around shirtless.

  I’m back in my car and driving out of there.

  I’m not even five minutes out of the gas station, chewing on a Twizzler—goddamn, I love these things—and trying to figure out how to get back on the highway and maybe find a hotel for the night, when my car starts making this sputtering noise. Then, it starts to chug. Really fucking loudly. It sounds like a tank.

  “What the hell, girl?”

  I glance at my dash. There’re no warning lights. Nothing telling me what’s wrong with her.

  A glance in my rearview, and that’s when I see the black smoke pouring out the back of my car.

  My heart sinks.

  “What the actual fuck!”

  Pulling my car to the roadside, I shut the engine off and jump out.

  Jesus, it fucking stinks.

  I go to the rear of my car and look down at the exhaust. There are still small trails of black smoke coming out.

  Just great. This is just fucking great.

  I pop the hood and have a look at the engine. Not that I know jack shit about cars, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I mean, it’s not on fire or anything.

  Leaving the hood up, I try turning the engine back on.

  Same again. Black smoke pouring out of the exhaust.

  I walk back to the hood, staring down at the mechanics of my car.

  An almost two-hundred-thousand-dollar car that I’ve had not even six months, and this happens.

  Grumbling to myself, cursing Jake, Tom, Denny, and that fucking journalist Jasper—this is their fault; I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for them—I drop the hood. Then, I reach back in my car and turn off the ignition.

  I grab my cell and fire it to life.

  I need to call AAA.

  Do I even have AAA?

  My cell starts to go crazy in my hand with incoming messages.

  Growling with irritation, I ignore them all.

  I pull up Google, search for AAA’s number, and put a call into them.

  Okay, so it turns out, I don’t have AAA. And the woman on the phone wasn’t exactly helpful.

  For fuck’s sake.

  What do I do now?

  I glance around like the answer is going to come walking over to me.

  It doesn’t.

  Well, I ain’t calling anyone for help.

  I mean, I could call Raze, but I’m four hours out, and I’m not standing around here for that long.

  Think, Slater. Think. I tap my cell against my head.

  A garage. I need a garage.

  I look around again, but nothing nearby looks like a garage.

  I could go back to the gas station. Or …

  Google one, ya dumb fuck.

  I open up another Google search and type in garages in my area. God bless the internet and its location tracking shit.

  Only one garage pops up. It’s a mile away, according to Google. And it’s open. Thank Christ for that.

  I need something to go my way right now because, so far, my day has gone to complete and utter shit.

  I press my thumb down on the number for the garage, select Call, and then put my cell to my ear as it starts to ring.

  I’ve got my hand down one of the guest bathroom toilets when Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” blares out of my cell, letting me know someone is calling.

  Why do you have your hand down the toilet? you ask.

  Because the last guest who stayed, who left this morning, decided it would be a good idea to flush baby wipes down the toilet.

  It wasn’t.

  Firstly, gross.

  And hello, pollution.

  So, now, I have a blocked toilet.

  And I’m the one who has to unblock it.

  The downside of running a B&B.

  A rubber glove on my hand and said hand in the toilet, I try to get all these frigging wipes out that have clogged up the toilet.

  I glance over at my cell sitting on the bath edge, where I left it, and it tells me it’s Beck, my annoying older brother.

  Well, Beck can just wait. I’m busy right now. I’ll call him back when I’m done unclogging this toilet.

  Running a B&B is an easy job, said no one ever.

  I love this place. I grew up here. It’s the only home I’ve ever known. All my best memories are in this house.

  I just don’t love the shitty jobs. Pun intended.

  I leave my cell ringing, so I can sing along with Jim Kerr.

  I’m not the best singer. Actually, I’m the worst. Tone-deaf, as my best friend, Penny, tells me.

  But this song is from one of the best movies ever, The Breakfast Club, so it would be sacrilegious not to sing along. And the house is empty of guests at the moment, so it’s not like I’m scarring anyone’s eardrums.

  And the eighties were the best decade for films and music. Not that I was around to see them. I’m only twenty-four, but I grew up with a dad who loves the music and movies from that era, so Beck and I were raised on it. It’s not that I don’t like modern music. I just have zero interest in it.

  Jim Kerr stops singing, cutting off my singing. But then, immediately, it starts up again.

  I love this song, but sweet Jesus, Beck!

  My hand still in the toilet, I reach over with my other hand and grab my phone off the bath edge, swiping the screen with my thumb, accepting the call.

  “What?” I answer.

  “Hello to you too, baby sister.”

  Twelve months older than me, but you’d think it was twelve years with the way he goes on.

  “Beck, I’ve currently got my hand down the toilet, so can you get to the point?”

  “I need a favor.”

  And there it is. Honestly, I love my brother, but I could drop-kick him at times. He always needs a favor.

  I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and pull out a wipe I managed to dislodge, dropping it in the bucket beside the toilet. “What’s the favor?”

  “I need you to go do a tow for me.”

  “Ah, why can’t you or Dad go?” I sigh. I hate taking the pickup truck out.

  “Because we’re right in the middle of fitting that new engine on Peterson’s truck.”

  I sigh again. “Fine, but you owe me.”

  It’s his turn to sigh. “What?”

  “You can finish off unblocking this toilet for me when you get home.”

  He makes a sound of disgust. Works with dirty cars all day long, but the thought of putting his hand down a toilet grosses him out.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Why can’t Gran do it?” he asks.

  I let out a laugh. “Did you seriously just ask why our sixty-six-year-old grandmother can’t unblock the toilet?”

  “Um … no …” he edge
s the words out, his voice lowering. “Stevie … is Gran there, listening right now?”

  I laugh again.

  It’s not uncommon for Gran to listen in on a phone conversation.

  What does she always say?

  “If you want to know something, you ask. If they don’t tell you, then you spy.”

  The woman is all-seeing, all-knowing. You want the local gossip, Gran is your woman.

  Although even Gran had no clue that my fiancé, my boyfriend since high school, was cheating on me.

  Nope. Not going there right now.

  “Nah, she’s not here.” I chuckle. “It’s Saturday. She went to get her hair done.”

  “Thank fuck,” he breathes.

  Gran would have totally kicked his ass if she’d heard him ask why she couldn’t unblock the toilet.

  Aside from being sixty-six, Gran is incredibly glamorous. She’s a total knockout. I can only pray I look as good as she does at her age. Not that I’ll ever reach her level of glamour.

  Gran’s hair, clothes, nails, and makeup are always on point. She would never be seen dead with her hand down a toilet.

  She always says to me, “Stevie darling, you never know when it’s your time to go, and I ain’t turning up at the pearly gates of heaven in anything less than my best.”

  Me, I’ll probably rock up at the gates of heaven, wearing bleach-stained ripped jeans and the white tank I’ve had since high school.

  And yes, that’s what I’m wearing right now.

  I just don’t see the point in getting dressed up when I’m working.

  And it’s not like I don’t ever dress up or wear makeup. I get glammed up when I go out with Penny. But when I’m working at the B&B, which is pretty much all the time, I don’t see the point.

  I do most of the day-to-day work around here—cleaning, making beds, washing, vacuuming—and Gran does the food. We only serve breakfast and evening dinner, so she has her days to herself.

  I’ve always helped out here, but I started working here full-time when I got out of high school. I could have gone to college—I think Dad would have preferred if I did—but honestly, I didn’t want to leave home.

  I love where I live. And I wanted to give something back to Gran by helping her here. It was the least I could do.

  When our mom ran out on Beck and me when I was still a baby, leaving Dad to raise us alone, Gran stepped in. Moved us all into the B&B and helped Dad raise us.