Chase Me If You Can(55)

Sunset isn’t far off and the storm shows no sign of slowing. “The low-level jet is going to kick in within a couple of hours.” I point through the windshield where the storm is starting to lose some of its organization despite the amount of lightning still pouring off it. “Might get it back together when that happens.”

“If it keeps lighting up like this, we could get some great shots of the structure.” Wes is quiet for a few minutes, tapping on his phone, and then lets out a triumphant noise. “I’m about to be your favorite person. Take the next left.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

“Wes.”

“Sloane.”

Shooting him a dark look, I take the left. After several miles and even more turns, I’m starting to lose my patience when we come around a large, swooping bend in the road to reveal a half-collapsed windmill, a lone tree, and a rusted-out tractor with the storm looming behind it all. Beneath the clouds, the horizon has taken on a pale orange glow as the sun sinks lower.

“Well, shit,” I breathe out with glee. It’s perfect.

“You’re welcome,” Wes says, smug as can be, and then hurries to grab our tripods from the back. I follow with the cameras. Together we make quick work of setting up our gear and framing our shots. After that, it’s just a matter of programming the interval timer and waiting.

Capturing lightning is mostly a matter of luck and patience. I let the first few intervals go by, stop long enough to make sure my frame is in focus and I’ve got the exposure where I think I need it, and then it’s back to waiting.

Wes catches my eye, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawls, lifting his arm in invitation. “You good?”

Butterflies take up residence in my belly when he wraps one arm around my shoulders and another around my waist, my back against his chest, so we can both continue to watch the storm. It’s good to be held, even if the intimacy of the way he’s holding me makes the questions I’ve been trying to ignore louder than ever.

“Sloane?”

“Sorry, just watching the storm.” It’s not entirely a lie, my attention on the sky as lightning splinters the clouds. We’re far enough away that thunder rolls across the plain in grumbling rumbles, only the occasional bolt close enough to produce chest-rattling booms.

And yet between me and Wes, it’s quiet. Easy. So much easier than I ever thought it could be. Maybe it’s that I’m in the eye of his storm. Maybe I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security and the chaos is soon to return worse than ever.

Or maybe I was just wrong about him.

“I like chasing with you too,” I say softly, just loud enough to make sure he hears me over the wind. Tipping my head back to rest on his shoulder, I catch his eyes before he can mask his pleased surprise, the occasional raindrop splattering on my cheek.

His arms tighten when he bends to steal a kiss. It starts sweet and quickly morphs into something else entirely, need pouring off him and pounding in every beat of my pulse.

Until a lightning bolt comes down so close we both jump from the resulting crash of thunder.

“Probably shouldn’t get too distracted.” Wes lets go with a last lingering kiss before checking on his camera. “Open field. Lightning. All that.”

“Is this the part where I call you the fun police?”

He flattens his palms over his heart, all exaggerated incredulity. “Sloane Michaels, are you suggesting something risky?”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no fighting a grin.

“CGs seem to be coming down to the right of the rain.” Wes points as another brilliant streak of lightning explodes out of the clouds, illuminating the field and the underside of the storm as it slams into the ground. “I’d kill for a nice big bolt to come down behind that windmill.”

“Or a crawler above all of it.”

There’s a metaphor somewhere in there. Wes preferring the stark, blinding beauty of cloud-to-ground lightning versus my preference for the delicate webbing that races through the clouds like a million electrified fingers.

Almost as if on command, lightning forks above our heads. It’s probably out of my frame, but I tip my head back to catch a glimpse. Rain spatters across my cheeks and forehead, a light sprinkle with the occasional fat drop, the heat of the day warring with the cool rain. If someone could capture the scent of hot asphalt with fresh rain in a candle, I’d buy a lifetime supply.

“You know, of all the dangerous stuff out here, none of us really think twice about lightning,” Wes says, amusement lacing every word.

“Those are taller than us,” I say with a laugh, pointing at a nearby telephone pole.

But he has a point. I may not take it as far as he does, but aren’t we all a little reckless out here, chasing lightning and some of the most destructive storms on the planet? A sane person would run in the other direction.

Maybe we’re all just different brands of crazy. Maybe Wes and I aren’t so different after all.

“What’s your lightning unicorn shot?”

“Tornado with a rainbow and lightning.” My eyes slide toward him, and I’m thrown by how relaxed he seems. Wes is someone I associate with a nearly frantic sort of energy, an inability to be still. As if he’s running from something instead of toward it at all times.