Finding Storm

by Samantha Towle

  Gran is the shit. She’s the strongest woman I know.

  Gran and Grandpa moved here when Dad was small. Grandpa had gotten a sizeable inheritance when his dad passed. Using the money, they bought this house, and Gran turned it into a B&B, keeping the back part of the building as a home for them, which is where Gran, Dad, Beck, and I all still live now.

  With the rest of his inheritance, Grandpa bought a building five minutes from here and turned it into a garage. I think he wanted a business that he could one day hand over to his son.

  Gran and Grandpa were the epitome of high school sweethearts. Together from the first year of high school. Married as soon as they graduated.

  Grandpa passed before Beck and I were born, so we never knew him. Only the stories Dad and Gran have told us about him over the years, and he sounds like he was the best. I figure it’s where Dad got his parenting skills because he’s literally the coolest dad ever.

  In all the time I’ve known Gran, she’s never had another man in her life. Grandpa was her one and only.

  I thought that was gonna be me and—

  Nope, not thinking the jerk’s name today.

  “So, you doing this tow or not?” Beck grumbles, dragging my attention back to him.

  “Are you unblocking this toilet for me?” I volley back.

  “Fine.” He sighs. “I’ll sort it when I get back later.”

  I grin. I don’t like doing pickups, but they’re a hell of a lot better than unblocking a toilet.

  “Where’s the tow?”

  “Main Street.”

  “Uh, where on Main Street?”

  “No clue. All I got was Main Street. I was busy when I took the call.”

  I give a mental eye roll. “Well, what’s wrong with the car?” I ask him, wanting to know what I’m gonna be rolling up to.

  “Considering I haven’t seen it, I’m gonna have to say, no fucking clue.”

  “You’re hilarious,” I say in a droll voice. “I meant, what did they say was wrong with it?”

  “The dude said there was black smoke coming out of the exhaust, and it was making a clanging sound. It could be the air filter.”

  “Is this dude someone I know?”

  “Didn’t recognize the voice. So, I’d say no.”

  “And did you get a name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Christ, Beck. You didn’t get a name?”

  “I. Was. Busy.” He punctuates. “Still am.”

  “You’re such a pain in the ass,” I tell him. “You’re sending me out to tow a total stranger, and you didn’t even get his details. He could be a serial killer.”

  “Who gets his victims by ringing a garage,” he says drily.

  “Could be his MO.”

  “Drama queen.”

  “Buttmunch.”

  “If he is a killer, you’ll probably talk him to death before he gets a chance to kill you. So, I wouldn’t worry.”

  I flip the bird even though he can’t see. “If I get murdered on the side of the road, I’m gonna haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  “So, no different to every day of my life for the past twenty-four years.”

  “Asswipe.”

  He laughs. “Go do the fucking tow, cry baby. Dad’s waiting on me.”

  “Make sure you unblock—”

  The fucker hangs up on me before I get a chance to finish my sentence.

  “Ugh!” I grumble, getting to my feet.

  Then, I realize that he never told me what make the car I’m going to collect is.

  Christ almighty, Beck.

  All I have is a guy with a car somewhere on Main Street.

  As Gran would say, he’s about as useful as a fork in a sugar bowl.

  I yank my rubber glove off, leaving it in the sink, and I wash my hands.

  Scooping up my phone, I jog downstairs.

  After I slip on my canvas flats, I write a quick note, telling Gran where I’ve gone, and leave it on the reception desk for her to see when she gets home.

  Leaving the B&B, I don’t lock the front door because I know Gran didn’t take her keys with her. The town we live in is a safe place. It has a low crime rate. It’s the kind of place where you can leave your doors unlocked.

  I walk the ten minutes to Dad’s garage. The tow truck is in the forecourt where it always sits.

  I pop my head inside the door and grab the keys off the hook on the wall by the door.

  “It’s me, just getting the tow truck keys,” I call out.

  Dad’s legs are poking out from underneath Mr. Peterson’s truck. Beck’s under the hood.

  “Okay, baby girl.” Dad’s voice echoes out from under the truck. “Be careful.”

  “Will do.”

  “You got your cell with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Pepper spray’s in the glove compartment. Put it in your pocket.”

  At least my dad cares about safety. Can’t say the same for my brother. Which reminds me …

  “Beck, any clue on what the car I’m towing looks like?”

  “Uh …”

  “Christ’s sake, Beck!”

  “I’m kidding!” He laughs. “Dude said it’s a Maserati. Said you’ll spot it, no problem.”

  That stops me. Maserati. “Bit fancy for round here, isn’t it?”

  Not that we live in a shithole. But not many people, if any, around here would drive a car like that.

  “Probably just passing through,” Beck says.

  “Yeah,” I muse. “Okay, back soon.”

  “Pepper spray!” Dad hollers.

  “Okay, Dad.” I chuckle.

  I head to the tow truck. Climb up inside and turn the engine on, letting it rumble to life.

  While the engine’s warming up, I get the pepper spray out, shove it in my pocket, and rifle through the CDs in there.

  I pull out Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours album and pop the CD in the stereo. I skip to track two, and “Dreams” starts to play.

  Dad’s a big Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks fan. It’s where my name came from. Dad chose my name. Apparently, Mom picked Beck’s name—not that she stuck around long enough to tell us that.

  Beck’s just lucky Dad didn’t get to name him, or he could have ended up being called Mick … or even better, Lindsey.

  Man, I would’ve loved if he’d been called Lindsey. I would have tortured him for his entire existence with a name like that.

  Chuckling to myself, I pull the truck off the garage forecourt and drive in the direction of Main Street to go collect the mystery man waiting to be towed.

  Driving down Main Street, I keep my eyes peeled for a Maserati.

  I spot it halfway down by the small stretch of industrial space.

  He wasn’t kidding when he told Beck I’d easily spot it. It’s not a car you could miss. I’m not a gearhead, but I’ve been around enough cars in my life to know that’s a shit-hot car. A Maserati GranTurismo.

  A couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth of a car.

  Matte black with a gold “go-faster” stripe, as my dad calls them, running over the trunk, roof, and hood of the car.

  I spot a tall dude leaning up against the hood, faced away from me.

  Flicking on my blinker, I pull the tow truck up in front of the Maserati.

  Turning off the engine, I open the door, jump out of the truck, and head over to the guy.

  Lifting his ass off the hood, he straightens up, and—

  Well.

  Oh.

  Wow.

  He’s tall. A lot taller than me. I come in at an average five feet four. This guy must be six-two, six-three at least. About the same height as Dad and Beck.

  And he’s hot.

  Super hot.

  Like if his hotness were a temperature right now, we’d be in the upper kelvins.

  Dude is sun hot.

  I have honestly never in all my life seen a guy who looks like him before.

  Of course I’ve seen hot guys before.
>
  But this guy, he’s on a whole other level, all his own.

  Dirty-blond hair that looks like someone spent the whole night running their hands through it. Leather jacket. No shirt—yep, no frigging shirt. Who even does that? Hot kelvin-temperature guys do, apparently. His bare chest has some serious ink on it, and just beneath the ink are abs that I didn’t even know existed outside of Marvel movies.

  And following down from those superhero abs is a happy trail disappearing into those fitted black jeans.

  My eyes briefly drift skyward.

  Seriously, God, you couldn’t have at least given me a heads-up that I was coming to tow a car that belongs to Thor and Captain Marvel’s love child.

  I never feel conscious of my appearance. I’m happy with the way I look. But in this moment, I find myself feeling inadequate in my ripped jeans, tank top, and sneakers. Face clean of makeup and my hair in a messy bun.

  Not that I’m out to attract any man. I was done with men when I found my ex with his dick in another woman.

  And this dude here has got heartbreak written all over him in capital letters in bold, italicized ink. Probably put there by the trail of broken hearts he’s left in his wake.

  Not that I’d even register on leather-jacket hottie’s radar.

  Cleaned-up Stevie? Maybe.

  Hobo Stevie? Not a chance.

  Basically, if hotness had a smell, his would be Chanel No. 5.

  Mine would be store-bought body spray. The dollar-store kind.

  I was not expecting a guy like this. I figured a suit when Beck said Maserati. This guy looks like he just stepped out for a break from shooting a movie, in which his hotness smoldered his shirt right off his back.

  It’s then I register that he’s got a cigarette in his hand. He’s holding it between his thumb and index finger. Which would be cool if smoking wasn’t responsible for half a million deaths in the US alone each year. A good forty thousand of them from passive smoking.

  The thought makes me lean back a touch.

  I watch him put it between his lips and inhale. The smoke drifts out between his lips, curling up into the air, polluting my oxygen.

  Even though he looks seriously sexy doing it, old-movie-star sexy, it’s still gross. Cigarettes are bad for people. Terrible for marine life.

  He might want to kill himself slowly.

  But our marine life didn’t ask to die.

  Hotness point deducted for a lack of care about the environment.

  He drops the cigarette butt to the floor as I approach, putting it out with his boot. Christ, his feet are big.

  Big feet, big … shoes.

  Funny, Stevie.

  I stop before him and wait for him to pick the butt off the ground. He doesn’t.

  Environmental issues aside, littering is my bugbear.

  “That’s littering.” I point at the butt on the floor by his feet.

  His eyes follow my finger down and then come back up to my face, staring straight into mine.

  I feel a jolt in my stomach. A tightening in my chest. His eyes are intense. Bright blue. Stunning.

  Christ almighty.

  It takes me a good few seconds to regulate my breathing.

  He’s watching me like he’s waiting for something.

  Not sure what.

  But I do know that I’m waiting for him to pick up that damn cigarette butt.

  I watch confusion flicker over his face, drawing his brows in and tightening his lips.

  His head tips to the side. Then, his expression relaxes, and something close to amusement fills his gaze.

  Does he think this is funny? Because littering is no joke.

  My hands find my hips. Those striking eyes follow the movement down. “Did you know that cigarette butts are the single biggest polluter of the ocean?”

  He moistens his lips. It’s insanely distracting. “I thought it was plastic,” he speaks before bringing his shocking gaze back to my face.

  And his voice is … yum.

  Deep. Husky.

  Like molten molasses. The kind of voice that whispers dirty words into your ear in the dark of night while he fucks you good and proper.

  Sweet Lawd.

  My nipples have hardened, and there’s definitely no cool breeze at the moment that I can blame it on.

  I cross my arms over my chest and clear my throat. “Nope. Cigarette butts. I read an article on it last year. They’re the forgotten plastic pollution. Butts or filters are the most littered item on the planet. We focus on straws, plastic bags, disposable coffee cups, but cigarette butts are just as bad. Well, worse. Did you know people like you burn through five trillion cigarettes a year, and two-thirds end up littering our world? And also”—I’m on a roll, and I cannot stop. Why can’t I stop?—“did you know that it’s been scientifically proven that cigarette butts provide no health benefit at all? They’re just a marketing tool. They make it easier for a person to smoke.”

  He’s staring at me like I just landed in from another planet.

  To be fair, I did go off on him about the damaging effects of cigarette butts on the environment.

  Why do I know such random shit?

  I really need to stop watching nature shows and reading the news. I’m such a dork.

  “I did not know that.” His tone is dry.

  And now, I feel like a total dick. “If you don’t believe me, Google it.” I shrug like I didn’t just lecture the hell out of him.

  “No. I’m sure you know what you’re talking about.”

  Yep, that was definitely mocking I detected in his voice.

  I don’t know why, but it instantly annoys me. Like a cattle prod to the spine.

  Maybe it’s because he’s hotter than any man legally should be.

  But it just sets me off again.

  “You really should stop smoking. Not only is it bad for your health and those around you, but it’s also bad for marine life.”

  Please stop talking.

  Another pause.

  His brow lifts. I hate it when people do that. Only because I can’t. There’s seriously no single movement up there. It’s both or nothing at all. And if both go up, I either look surprised or confused. Neither is a good look on me.

  “I’ll take it into consideration,” he says slowly.

  “And you should also pick that butt up and dispose of it responsibly.”

  Now, he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind.

  I think I might have. Horny brain cells killed my good ones.

  I don’t break eye contact with him even though I really want to.

  His eyes really are something else. Intimidating and exciting, all at the same time.

  I watch his lips lift at the corner. He’s got nice lips. Kissable lips. They’re surrounded by a good week’s worth of stubble. Defined cupid’s bow, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. I could imagine sinking my teeth into that bottom lip.

  And clearly, I need to get laid.

  For a moment, I don’t think he’ll pick the butt up.

  But then he does. He bends that ripped chest forward and leans down and picks it up.

  I feel a flash of heat between my legs at the sight of him down there.

  Yep. Definitely need some sex. Or alone time with my vibrator.

  Straightening up, Hottie holds the butt between his thumb and finger. “So, what’s the responsible way to dispose of it?” he asks, that damn eyebrow quirked up again.

  And shit.

  I don’t remember that part of the article. I can remember statistics and figures. But not how to deal with the actual problem.

  This is me all over.

  And now, I have to come up with something at least believable; otherwise, I’m going to look like a dick.

  “Well, um …” I unfold my arms and then don’t know what to do with them, so I place my hands back on my hips. “I’m … not one hundred percent sure, but I’d say putting it in the trash rather than on the ground would be a good way to star
t.”

  There, that’ll do. It was a good solution.

  He glances around. “There are no trash cans around here.”

  Oh. For fuck’s sake.

  “Give it to me.” I stick my hand out, palm up.

  Hottie glances down at my hand. Then, he smiles. For real. Teeth and all.

  And of course, he has a set of straight, well-proportioned, perfectly white teeth.

  My teeth are straight, but I had to wear braces for years to get them like this. He probably came out of the womb with those teeth. Which would be weird.

  I’m weird.

  I just asked this guy to put his used cigarette butt in my hand. What was I thinking? Then again, I did have the same hand down a toilet only half an hour ago.

  How was I raised by such a classy, stylish woman as Gran?

  “You sure?” he asks, still smiling, a look of is this chick for real on his face.

  I want to say no, but I can’t exactly back out now after the fuss I made.

  No matter how gross this is.

  And it is gross. So fucking gross.

  I wiggle my fingers at him, hurrying him to get this over and done with.

  He places the butt in the center of my palm.

  Ew.

  I’m gonna vom.

  I have nicotine, God knows what other chemicals, and a complete stranger’s saliva on my hand.

  A hot stranger.

  But still …

  Ewww!

  And now, what the heck am I going to do with it?

  I turn around and march back to the truck, knowing full well there is something in there I can put it in. My brother is a slob.

  I yank open the driver’s door, and yep, in the pocket of the door is an empty bag of chips.

  Gross, Beck.

  I deposit the butt in the empty chip bag and fold it over to contain the smell, tucking it back in the pocket. I’ll get rid of it in the trash when I get back to the garage.

  I grab the small bottle of sanitizer we keep in the truck and lather my hands and arms with it.

  Marginally better.

  When I turn back to Hottie, he’s still standing there, looking at me with amusement and something else that I can’t quite place. If I didn’t know better, I’d say interest.

  I walk back over to him. “Right, let’s get this show on the road. Or car on the truck …” I trail off, wanting to slap myself in the face.

  Why can’t I be cool, just once?