Sunglasses 4: Storming Chasers (Patreon)

Okay, it’s not like I really have a sixth sense for fuckwads, but allow me a little artistic license, especially in this case.

If we're going strictly by reality, the arrival of the black pick-up only annoyed me at first. It meant I’d have to make sure that Rory had gotten back from dropping off my groceries. But things got a lot more ominous when Mel noticed the truck. I watched her entire body tighten like a wire had just been jerked between her shoulders.

“Are you okay?” I gave the truck a glance. The windows were tinted, but I could see motion behind the windshield.

“Dandy.” Her lips were so tight they barely moved. “Look…I'm sorry about this.”

“You’re sorry?” My brow knit in confusion. “About what?”

The truck’s doors opened behind me, but the strain on Mel’s face kept me focused on her. She gave me the barest headshake. Doors slammed. Multiple pairs of footsteps were headed our way. The distant drone of Derry’s go kart warbled on the breeze; maybe he wasn't heading this way after all.

“Listen,” Mel suddenly murmured, “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?” 

A dull shock hit me. Who the hell was she talking about? While I was reeling, her expression changed like a switch got flipped. Her eyebrows raised and her mouth curved in a dazzling smile. Only a tiny groove of stress remained between her arched brows.

“Hola, pequeña madreselva.” A man’s voice, rich and pleasant, just behind me.

Mel’s smile ratcheted a touch wider, but something told me it wasn't reflected in her hidden eyes. “Hola, Ángel. It's good to see you.”

She pronounced it Ahn-gel, and I could almost see the accent over one of the letters, I just wasn’t sure which one. I turned around and faced the new arrivals.

There were four of them, all men. The closest was of average height, but broad-chested and handsome—that had to be Ángel, because of course Mel’s not-boyfriend would be handsome. His skin tone, a rich shade between brown and amber, glowed with health. He wore jeans and a leather jacket over a wife-beater. With his black shoulder-length hair and mirror shades, he looked like an eighties glam rocker.

Yeah, I know what eighties glam rockers look like. Grams had whole tapes of her favorite hair bands. Don't give me a hard time.

Ángel stared at me, and I stared at the two of me reflected in his lenses. There was something unnerving about the way he held himself. Mel’s stillness was like leashed energy, the way a gymnast looked right before she dashed towards those swingy bar things. This guy was truly motionless. It was unnatural.

He glanced at Mel. “Quién es?”

She looked at me. “Oh, uh…” For a moment Mel looked genuinely stumped. “Cal, I think. It's Cal, right?” 

“Right,” I said. I swallowed the pinprick of hurt, reminding myself that she'd used my name just fine before this guy showed up. Something was going on, but I couldn't figure out the shape of it.

“Cal works at the gas station—” 

“I manage it,” I interjected, wanting Ángel to know that for some reason.

 Mel nodded with a touch of exasperation. “Right. Anyway, I stopped for a snack and he wanted to check out my ride.”

My hesitation only lasted a second. “Never seen a hatchback roadster quite like this.” That was true, at least.

“This is Ángel,” she continued, as if eager to smother any small talk. “And these are…his friends.” Mel gave them an apologetic smile.

“Introduce yourselves,” Ángel commanded. His English was faintly accented.

Those twin mirrors had returned to size me up as the other three mumbled their names, fulfilling the legal definition of “introduction.” The names were Orlan, Hector, and Paul. To this day, I couldn't tell you which was which if I had a gun to my head. Two had dark hair, one had light, and all three wore khaki pants, T-shirts, and cheap off-the-rack shades.

Everyone was wearing sunglasses but me.

I felt another tingle of awareness at the nape of my neck as certain ideas solidified. We eyed each other. In the background, the engine of Derry’s go kart rose and fell like a mosquito hovering around my ear.

“We ready to go?” Ángel said. He was asking Mel but looking at me. “Lori got all of us rooms in Hoisington.”

Mel shifted her weight, irritation flickering like light through a tiny crack. But the artificial smile never slipped. “Is Maira there yet?”

“Everyone probably is. We’re the late ones, madreselva.” His words sparked more irritation from Mel. It was obvious to me, but Ángel didn't seem to notice—or was ignoring it.

She shrugged. “Sounds good.”

Nobody moved. I think Mel had been hoping Ángel and his posse would head back to his truck so we could exchange a few words. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen. My lurking headache turned into a sharp pain behind one eye.

Mel ran a hand along the back of her neck and looked at me. “Nice talking to you, Cal.”

“Same here,” I said. Then, even though it felt like a dangerous play, I added, “Feel free to stop by while you’re chasing storms. I’d love to get the full story about that car.”

“We’re leaving at dawn for a promising system in South Dakota,” Ángel said. Mel’s lovely mouth, which had opened to answer, pressed shut.

“Too bad.” My voice was flat.

“We’re always on the move,” Ángel explained. His leather jacket creaked as he folded his arms. He didn’t, in fact, move.

With a barely audible sigh, Mel turned and walked away. She climbed into her car, slamming the door harder than she had to. I watched her fumble for her keys with sharp, agitated moves that were the opposite of her usual poise. My chest began to ache in time with my head.

“Stay away from her.” 

It took me a second to process Ángel’s words. Stripped of all affability, the richness of his voice turned into something like a judge delivering a sentence. I stared, not quite believing it.

“I say this as a friend,” he warned. “She is trouble. She would get you in trouble. Understand?”

I understood a cold threat when it was frosting my veins. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how. I’d seen this sort of thing hundreds of times in movies and shows, a scene so common it’s almost boring. But it wasn’t boring now, not face-to-face with an overly-biceped guy in mirror shades whose “friends” acted like underlings. It was intimidating as hell.

Mel’s car rumbled to life. She stared at us through the windshield. Her face was expressionless, but for some reason I got the feeling she was…sad. She raised one hand off the wheel and waved: two fingers and a thumb. Would Ángel throw a punch if I waved back? Fuck it. I waved back anyway.

“Estupido,” he muttered.

We watched her drive onto Highway 281. The roadster seemed to gather itself as Mel changed gears, then lunged down the road with a throaty growl, heading south towards Hoisington. Derry's wandering go kart engine sounded more dinky than ever.

Ángel put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Tontolculo.” I didn't know if he was talking to me, but one of the others laughed. “Stay away from her,” he repeated.

Making a gesture to the others, he started for his truck. They fell right into line behind him. It wasn’t a brotherhood of equals, that was for damn sure.

Ángel drove off in the same direction Mel had gone. When the pick-up was a dark speck on the asphalt, I trudged for the Gas N Snak and the aspirin I kept below the register. 

Inside, Terry was leaning against the counter and jawing with Rory about car shit I didn’t understand. Something about exhaust valves. They both ignored my while I pawed out the container and shook three aspirin into my palm. The squeeze bottle I used during my shifts still had some liquid in it, so I washed them down with last night’s stale water.

With my eyes shut and a finger pressing the bridge of my nose, it took me a second to realize the talking had stopped. When I looked, the other two were staring at me with curious expressions.

“What?”

“She coming?” Terry asked.

“What?” I repeated helplessly.

“Your girl. She coming to the cook-out?”

I blinked at him. “What the fuck do you think?”

“I think that guy was standing real close to you.” Terry scratched the front of his ball cap like it was his forehead. “He an overprotective brother or something?”

“He wasn’t her boyfriend,” I replied wearily, “that’s all I know.” My nerves felt frayed and exposed, and I didn’t want to talk about it until I had some time to think. Would I ever see Mel Wade again?

Rory and Terry exchanged a glance, and I was pretty sure they were about to ignore my “I don’t want to discuss this” body language, but that happened to be the exact moment that Derry’s long-promised go kart finally materialized.

He must have been coming from behind the building, because the indistinct hum abruptly turned into what sounded like a pissed-off lawnmower. We all turned to see the roof of the kart flash past the store windows before Derry braked to a stop outside the front door. The engine died away.

Terry had been the first to tell us about his brother’s new toy, and I’d been hearing it for a couple weeks, but this was my first time seeing it. The kart was a lattice of metal tubes sitting on four small wheels. A small engine was bolted onto the back, and a roll cage made it seem too tall for its length.

“Kinda compact,” Rory said.

Derry Wagner had to unscrunch his knees to pry himself from behind the wheel. The little vehicle was clearly not intended for full-sized adults, but at least the man driving it had a proper crash helmet—his head was scrambled enough without additional impacts. 

“What the hell does he have on?” Rory asked.

“Racer coveralls,” Terry said in the tones of a put-upon brother. “He found them online.” He sighed. “The fever’s took him.”

Derry’s obsession with off-road racing was only his latest. Like clockwork, he ran through one or two fixations a year. This one had its hooks in deep.

“They don’t fit great,” I observed.

The coveralls were baggy in the shoulders, and I could see his white socks where the cuffs rode high. Derry undid the neck closure and peeled the outfit to his waist, where he tied the sleeves. Underneath was a red shirt advertising the fireworks stand, a leftover of Derry’s screen printing phase. He’d also come up with the slogan: “Sparklers ain’t sh*t, let her rip!”

Derry tossed the helmet into the front seat and pulled open the front door. “I’m here,” he proclaimed unnecessarily, running his fingers through his curly hair to prop it up.

Despite being twins, Derry and Terry looked nothing alike. Terry was tan and brawny from maintaining the sprawling Wagner homestead, while his brother was gangly and pale. But the biggest difference was the hair.

Terry wore ball caps like they were religious coverings. In direct contrast, his brother chased trends, most recently springing for the curly-haired “broccoli” mop that was everywhere online. Though Derry’s version was…off. The stylist had been too aggressive on the sides and too extravagant on top; it looked like an unbalanced tower of curls plunked onto a bald head.

He reminded me of Kid, from the late eighties hip-hop duo, Kid ‘n Play. I wanted to make a joke the first time I saw it, but none of the others would have gotten it. Grams would have laughed her ass off, though.

“How’d the kart—” Terry began.

“Don’t talk to me,” Derry interrupted. “I have to meditate.” He immediately slumped into the booth and bowed his head.

“Oooh-kay…” Rory said after a moment, looking uncomfortable. Then he brightened. “I’d rather talk about Cal’s cute girl anyway.”

“Same,” Terry said.

The phrase sent another thrill racing through me. I desperately choked it off. These assholes were giving me notions that weren’t true. “She’s not my girl.” God, I wished she was.

“Are you her boy?” Terry asked. Rory snickered.

“Probably,” I mumbled.

“Damn,” Rory said, “she must really be something.”

I didn’t reply, but every cell in my body agreed with him. She was…something. The phrasing made my thoughts spin and swirl.

“So what was up with those other hombres?” Terry said, bringing us back to the subject before Derry’s arrival.

It took me a moment to answer. I was trying to find a way to be casual, but curiosity finally compelled me to just say what I was thinking. “Do either of you guys know much about shifters?” I asked.

Both men were surprised. I could practically see the word “shifter” bouncing back-and-forth between Terry and Rory’s heads, lighting up their thoughts like pinball bumpers.

“Why?” Terry said slowly. “Do you think she might be one?”

All at once I felt shy. Or weirdly guilty, like I’d shared something private. Fortunately, Derry decided he was done meditating and saved me from answering.

“Today went well,” he announced from his place at the booth. “I’ll have a win by the end of the year.”

The rest of us shared a look. Derry had the reflexes of a turtle with a broken leg. I was pretty sure the only way he would ever win a race was if the other cars didn’t have wheels.

“For someone who’s a goddamn genius, you’re dumb as hell,” Terry pointed out drily.

“I’m going to start on restocking,” I said, aiming to beat the brotherly bickering. I still had an hour before my shift started, but I was craving the privacy of my thoughts. 

I entered the stock room, happy to have a wall between myself and the conversation ramping up in the store. I could do the invoice paperwork I’d been putting off, then break into the required supply boxes and fill the restock tray. That would give me at least fifteen minutes of silence. 

But instead of doing any paperwork, I just ended up staring blindly at the form, my pencil poised above the unchecked boxes and empty lines.

My head was a storm of crashing thoughts. The electrical connection I felt whenever I was around Mel had been mashed into a queasy spin with Ángel and his creepy goons. And behind all of it were thoughts of hidden eyes and opaque lenses.

A low reverberating boom meshed so well with the roiling clouds in my mind that it took me a moment to realize I hadn’t imagined it. I waited, listening. Then it came again: deep sustained rumbles, like the drum section of some impossibly vast orchestra limbering up. Thunder.

We were in for some weather.