Chase Me If You Can(16)
“I like plain glazed,” I retort. “It’s a classic for a reason.”
“Lucky Charms are a classic. C’mon, taste the rainbow!”
“That’s Skittles.”
“I’ve got those this year too!” Mae sets the box with a half dozen plain glazed donuts on the counter and winks. “If you’re feeling adventurous.”
I pluck one of the donuts out of the box and take a giant bite, letting out a quiet groan at the perfection of sugar and light, airy dough. “Nah,” I say with my eyes on Wes while he takes a big gulp of his coffee. “I know what I like. And what I don’t.” I turn my attention back to Mae and offer her a genuine smile. “These are fantastic. Even if some people think they’re boring.”
* * *
By the time Matt and Tracy show up and everyone heads back to their cars loaded up with donuts and coffee, the Storm Prediction Center has a wide swath of western Kansas marked with a high probability of strong storms. With the phrase numerous tornadoes with very large/destructive hail included in the discussion notes, just about every chaser in the area will be out. There’s a trough coming in this afternoon, the atmospheric equivalent of dropping a mass of cold air into a seething cauldron of heat and humidity.
All the ingredients for a nice simmering pot of tornado soup.
When Tracy, Matt, and Wes opt for the core of the storm on the hunt for aqua skies and menacing clouds, I hang back, more in the mood for structure and scale today. If a tornado pops out, I can throw on my telephoto lens and still pick up detail at a distance.
While I miss the tornado—it’s hidden behind rain and I’m too far away—I do get some of the shots I’m after, including a panorama of the whole storm looming high above freshly plowed fields. The distinct rows of tilled earth provide perfect leading lines, the warm brown of the dirt a great contrast to the whites and grays of the sky.
Wes texts the group chat while I’m piling my gear into the car to reposition. It’s a selfie uncomfortably close to the tornado, his hair and shirt soaked with rain and a mile-wide grin on his face. I sigh, type out Try not to end up under a house in Oz, and stuff my phone into my pocket before getting back behind the wheel in search of sunset’s cotton candy colors.
Twenty minutes later, I pop out on the backside of the storm just as the angle of the sun is starting to paint the towering mass pale pink. With any luck, that color will intensify shortly into the brilliant oranges and deep reds I’m hoping for.
What I’m not hoping for is the sight of Wes’s SUV. I’m too far away to be certain, but there aren’t many chasers out here in brand-new vehicles, and there definitely aren’t that many with his towering height.
Sure enough, as I get closer, the guy standing on the edge of the road is definitely Wes. Not in the mood for his gloating, I’m about to blow by and find a spot farther down the road, but the red stains on his exposed forearm look a hell of a lot like blood.
Which is when I notice that his windows, including the rear windshield, are smashed out. Bits of broken glass crunch under my tires when I pull over just in front of him, the storm at our backs. I hop out and scowl at the wreckage with my camera in hand out of habit. Whatever happened, Wes is lucky it didn’t end up much worse.
“She’s going to light up like a damn firework,” he calls while I stand there gaping at the broken glass and blood spattered across his leather seats with my heart in my throat. There are only a few things that could have blown windows out like this. All of them are scary as hell.
Not that Wes gives a damn.
“Have you lost your mind?” I gesture wildly to his car when he glances back at my shout. Blood dribbles down his cheek from a gash uncomfortably close to his eye. “You did a hook punch again, didn’t you? For fuck’s sake, Wes, you need stitches!”
“I’m fine.” He has the audacity to grin. “It was just a little impromptu shower.”
“In glass!”
Wes shrugs and turns back to the storm, leaving me to stare incredulously, camera dangling at my side. I want to rip his camera out of his hands, but I’ve known him too long to bother. This is classic Wild Wes. Anything to get the shot. Consequences and collateral damage be damned.
“Well, fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, moving around him to line up my own composition. We’ve got maybe ten to fifteen minutes to shoot this thing before the sun sinks under the horizon. His injuries will keep that long, and it’s not like his windows are going to get any more broken.
Besides, I can work and give Wes I told you so face at the same time.
We move around each other in silence. Wes makes me nuts, but he’s a talented photographer, and when it comes down to it, it’s not because he has the cash for the best equipment or connections with big brands. When we’re out here shooting, he’s all business.
But when the colors fade and I lower my camera, there’s still blood leaking from the cut on his face. “I really think you need stitches. At minimum, you need to clean that.”
His hand starts to rise. I snatch his wrist and jerk his arm down. “You’re covered in dirt and who the hell knows what else. Do not touch an open cut on your face. What’s the matter with you? You should be on your way to urgent care.” I glance back over my shoulder at his ruined windows. “And a repair shop.”