Chase Me If You Can(6)
With promises to bring Tracy some snacks from “civilization” when I see her tomorrow, I set my phone down, determined to focus on myself for the next six weeks. Not my mother, not my brothers, and definitely not Wes Talbot.
I can’t help that I’ll run into him at gas stations, hotels, coffee shops, and restaurants countless times over the next six weeks—likely as an involuntary witness to the finding out part of his fucking around. We’ll do our usual snarky jokes-that-aren’t-always-entirely-funny thing, probably piss each other off a few times, share a beer at an Applebee’s at one in the morning in the middle of nowhere when I’m too exhausted to remember he’s bad news, and do it all again next year.
Wes will be insufferable if he wins the contest, but if I win, I can’t deny that rubbing it in his face is absolutely on the agenda. Maybe I’ll have my cover printed on a coffee mug. Or postcards that I can leave under his windshield in hotel parking lots for the next couple of years. Not to mention that the next time he starts lecturing me about switching out my gear to his oh-so-superior pick, I can remind him that my choice landed me on the cover of Nature Shots.
The thought puts a smile on my face as I sink into a deep sleep.
* * *
Thankful to be hitting the road and inaccessible to my mother—not being able to find her favorite handbag is not the emergency she thinks it is—I point myself east early the next morning.
In my rearview, pink paints the still snowcapped Front Range, while ahead of me, oranges and reds burn across the eastern sky. Buoyed by the high of witnessing some sky magic, I stop long enough to grab a cup of coffee and top off my gas tank. I’ve got about eight hours to get into West Texas ahead of today’s storms. Which means it’s me, my favorite road trip playlist—a chaotic combination of genres featuring my favorite songs to sing along to with an audience of none—and a couple hundred miles of highway for the rest of the morning.
Once I’m clear of Colorado Springs, I savor the open fields and fresh air—at least until I drive past one of the massive cattle operations hours later. I can’t recommend taking a deep breath of that particular odor.
Trading voice notes with Tracy, we eventually agree to meet in a small town just over the New Mexico border. There’s a gas station right off the highway where we can relax before things fire up in the next hour or two.
It’s plainly one of those places that stays in business due to truckers coming through on cross-country routes. Today, there are easily thirty-something storm chasers milling about. I instantly spot several familiar faces standing around in a loose circle, though Tracy’s last message puts her and Matt another ten minutes out. For now, it appears I’m the only woman. Not unusual, but depending on who else is lurking, could be unpleasant.
After a quick fill up, I head inside. The cashiers have a shell-shocked looked about them, not exactly surprising when this place probably sees twenty customers a day, not fifty in an hour. Half the shelves are empty, and at least one of the trash cans is overflowing.
Welcome to storm season.
There are a couple of other unfamiliar chasers roaming the store, easily identifiable by the embroidered tour company tornado logo on their hats. I’d recognize them as chasers even without the hats. These two stick out like a sore thumb in their expensive tech fabrics and high-end watches in this part of the country.
I flash a tight smile, not in the mood to socialize with strangers, and gesture to the drink case they’re blocking. “Mind if I get by you?”
“Sure, darling.” The two men shuffle to the side but don’t move entirely, leaving only a narrow gap to reach into the cooler. I bite my cheek so I don’t react to the darling. Wes calls me that sometimes, but when he does it, he’s always wearing a shit-eating grin. It’s obnoxious, but childishly trying to push my buttons isn’t what this guy is up to. His leering isn’t a joke, his tone patronizing. “You out here with your boyfriend, sweetheart?” the other one adds while dragging his stare over my legs.
My temper flares. It doesn’t matter that I switched out my colorful leggings years ago for plain black, or that I’m not the only one wearing flip-flops for the long drives and swapping into sturdier shoes before the chase gets serious. The baseline assumption that I’m only here because I’m some guy’s arm candy persists.
“No. Excuse me,” I say stiffly, holding my water bottles in a death grip so I don’t throw them. I instantly regret admitting I’m alone and can’t wait to get outside to friendlier faces.
They don’t move. One elbows the other and says loudly, “Hear that? Fresh meat!”
Considering I’ve been chasing for a decade and don’t recognize their faces, I’m tempted to ask if it’s their first season. I swallow it. No matter how much I’d like to tell them to go fuck themselves, pissing off a bunch of strange men isn’t smart.
Except when I turn away, I nearly crash into Wes. He reaches out to steady me, his touch light on my biceps. “You good?” His eyes race over me from beneath the brim of his well-worn baseball cap, mouth tightening into a frown.
“Wes Talbot!” Asshole One beams at Asshole Two, their entire demeanor changing. Now it’s all friendly smiles. “Hey, man, we’re huge fans. We were just joking with your girl.”
I stiffen at the implication that I’m Wes’s anything and duck around him. “Good luck with that,” I mutter, beelining for the register on the other side of the building. It’s hardly the first time, but I’m in no mood to watch the same jerks who treated me like nothing more than an accessory worship at Wes’s altar.