Chase Me If You Can(51)
Wes flashes me his usual grin, settling back into his seat and starting the car. “Let’s go get some killer shots.”
* * *
My lingering exhaustion melts away as the adrenaline of a good chase kicks in. Wes eventually turns up the volume, “Sloane Michaels and the Horrible, Awful, No-Good Playlist” once again the soundtrack for our drive.
When he starts to sing along, I figure what the hell and join him in the most off-key rendition of my playlist on the planet. He has me giggling before long, belting out Taylor Swift songs right along with the rock bands I figured were more his taste. I’m surprised he knows the lyrics, but when I tease him about it—especially after his choice to rename my playlist the way he did—Wes just shrugs. “They’re catchy,” he says unapologetically before joining in on the chorus.
Let the games begin, indeed.
An hour west of our goal, the severe warnings start to pop up. “We’ve got golf balls, ping pongs, and more golf balls,” I tell Wes as I skim the details. “Could be some baseballs before the day is done.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, his mouth forming a wicked grin. “You’re very into ball—”
“Do not finish that sentence.” I glare through my laughter. “Maybe they should use fruit instead of sports metaphors in these hail warnings.”
“Apple hail doesn’t sound nearly as terrifying as baseball hail.” Wes grimaces and shoots me a long look. “We’ll do the smart thing and steer clear of needing to replace your windows.”
“Yes, please.” I go back to reading the severe thunderstorm warning details, then check the models again before switching to the most recent radar scans. “Couple of storms are already pushing forty thousand feet.” Giddy excitement floods my body as adrenaline kicks in. “I think we’re getting something good today.”
“Hell yeah we are!” Wes puts his window down, the scent of baked earth and hot asphalt rushing in. A thick blanket of moisture hangs heavily in the air. It’s so warm that sweat prickles on the back of my neck after only a few minutes.
We lapse into silence, but unlike the start of the trip, it’s an easy quiet, both of us enjoying the freedom of the wide-open road and the promising forecast. Captivated by the way a tiny smile tugs at his lips and his hand sits loosely on the steering wheel, I impulsively grab my camera from the back seat, lean into the door, and snap a photo.
I take another when Wes turns toward me for a few seconds, mischief lighting up his expression. “You want me to pose for you, say the word, darlin’.”
My mind leaps straight to Wes tangled in precariously draped sheets. With his dark hair and tattoos and a good smolder, it would be the sort of image I could break social media with—but if I did take that kind of photo, it would be for me and me alone.
“I would love to know what you’re thinking.”
“Yep,” I agree, popping the p and giving him the same smirk he loves to give me. “You would.”
Wes groans a protest and shoots me a red-hot look. “I’ll get it out of you later.”
“Maybe.” I laugh when he grumbles under his breath and point out the windshield. “I think we should take the next exit and target this cell.” Holding the iPad where he can see it without taking his eyes off the road completely, I tap on the storm in question. “If I remember right, there’s a half-collapsed silo around here somewhere with one of those old-fashioned windmills.”
“And some rusty tractors, if we’re thinking of the same spot.”
I nod, forever amused by the number of storm chasers always prepared to rattle off their favorite farm ruins in five different states. Chasing foreground is as serious a business as chasing tornadoes.
And if I can find a spot with flowers overtaking the ruins, and the storm lines up how I hope, I could get my Nature Shots cover today.
Wes exits the highway behind a line of other chasers all thinking the same thing. He takes a random turn down a dirt road, then another, and then another, until we’re the only ones kicking up dust. In front of us, the storm looms, distant thunder rolling across the plain.
“We need to find a paved road.” I peer nervously out the windshield, the rain column easy to spot against the brighter horizon. “Today is not the day to get stuck in the mud.”
Wes points to a distant spot where what looks like a stop sign gleams. “That one should be paved.”
Sure enough, the tires smooth out as we hit asphalt. He stomps on the gas, sending us racing closer and closer toward the heart of the storm. The sky is taking on a beautiful if eerie turquoise glow, the colors vibrant above the deep green of the wheat field beneath it. I shamelessly hang out the window snapping photos. Wes is doing the same thing, one hand on the wheel, the other white-knuckle gripping his camera as he takes photos out the driver’s side.
“Tornado!” I shout with glee when I spot a swirl of dust kicking up maybe a mile ahead. “Pull over. It’s right in front of us!”
Sliding his sunglasses up, Wes peers through the windshield. “I don’t think so. Maybe a dust devil.”
“Not the way it’s moving.” I quickly grab my phone and refresh the velocity radar scan, which shows a telltale couplet ahead of us. The distinct delineation of red-shaded winds moving away from the radar and green-shaded winds moving in the opposite direction is a dead giveaway for a tornado. “And not according to this. Pull over or it’s going to be on top of us!”