Sunglasses 14: Storm Chasing in Circles (Patreon)

~ Mel ~

“I scared you, didn’t I?”

“I’m not scared,” Cal says. “Those were just…a lot of warnings.”

I glance over. Cal’s chin is on his chest, as if his head is too heavy. Probably because I’d just spent thirty minutes filling it with awful facts, one dire thing after another, dumped into his cerebral cortex like sharp rocks from a bucket. Regret is bubbling inside me like acid reflux.

“It was the pine needle thing, right?” My voice is tight. “That may have been too much.” Trick question. It had all been too much.

“It was…yeah. Maybe.”

Is he pale? He seems pale. My primal half isn't happy about that. Well, what did she expect? That's another trick question. My primal self doesn't expect anything. She’s pure pushy primeval instinct.

This is your fault! I rage in my head. It gives me harsh satisfaction to pretend she’s entirely separate in moments like this, a hiding monster who blunders out to wreck my day. You were making me crazy with your overprotectiveness! I felt like I couldn’t breathe until I’d word-vomited every possible risk of storm chasing. Cal didn't need to hear that a tornado can drive pine needles through bone! I grind my teeth angrily. We've broken him. You’ve broken him. Go back to sleep before you do any more damage.

Amazingly, my rant seems to work. My other half disappears, blinking from my conscious mind like a magic trick—which is eerie considering her size.

Great. I have officially Fucked Up.

No matter how much I pretend otherwise, my primal self is me, only with different priorities and stronger emotions. I’d just mentally bitched out my inner child. My face pulls into a grimace. More like, my “inner angsty teen with zero chill and a crush on a cute boy.” And she’d just slammed her bedroom door.

Goddess…on top of that she’s probably still mad about pretending to be a cat. 

Who am I kidding? I’m still mad about pretending to be a cat.

Losing touch with my primal self will make things easier for now—in the same way that collecting sea shells is easier when the ocean recedes in front of a tidal wave. My wave, a foaming wall of anxiety, guilt, and self-loathing, will be back to crash down on me very soon.

That’s what I get for arguing with myself.

Obviously, since my primal side and my human side are both me, it goes without saying that I’m the one crushing on Cal. Hard. And now my smitten ass needs to course correct from the disaster of the previous half hour before the backlash hits, or it will be even worse.

“All right,” I announce into the moody silence, “we still have some time before reaching the motel. I get to start over.”

“Start over?” Cal asks. He seems rightfully nervous. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘let’s forget the last thirty minutes of trauma.’ I want you to just…erase it.”

“Okay…” He doesn’t sound erased.

I press on desperately. “Look, Cal, I messed up. The truth is that storm chasing is pretty safe, especially if you’re riding with an experienced chaser—which you are.” 

“I believe the ‘experienced part,’ ” he replies after a second. “Since you know all the ways things tend to go horribly wrong.”

“Which means I also know how to minimize risks,” I rejoin smoothly. “I swear. So just erase everything I said before, okay?” Cal shifts in his seat, his brow furrowed. “Please delete it?” I try.

“You know,” Cal says finally, “Grams brought me up on old VHS tapes…”

“What?” My glance confirms the levity I heard in his tone—thank the goddess for that. He’s even smiling a little, and it makes the morning sunshine seem…happier. Fuck, I am so gone with this guy. I quickly turn back to the road. “Why are we talking about VHS tapes?” 

“I’m saying I can’t just ‘delete the file,’ Mel.”

I frown. “It was an expression.”

“Too late. You’re stuck with my VHS memory. Can’t easily be erased.” He turns to the window, and I catch a reflection of his grin overlaid on fields still brown from winter. “We’ll have to tape over it.” 

“Tape over it,” I echo. What the hell is he talking about?

“And I’m only willing to do that for a more entertaining program.”

“Wait, so now we’re back to computers?” The growing ridiculousness of this exchange coaxes out my own smile. 

He laughs. “Grams always called TV shows her ‘programs.’ If you want me to erase a half-hour of your terrifying weather apocalypse show, I’m going to need something better to justify taping over it,” he teases.

This is…flirting. We’re flirting. My insides melt a little. “I can do that. I’ll replace it with a happier, shorter, less scary show,” I offer.

“Hmm…that’s all?”

My lips part. “What do you mean, ‘that’s all’? That’s a much better…” I gesture helplessly with a hand. “…program!”

“Yeah, but you gave me a serious shock. I’m going to need something with…impact.” There’s a pause, and when he speaks again he’s broken character, sounding unsure. “Maybe like what we did at Mammoth Mart.”

A tiny curl of heat in my belly. “You mean the kiss?” That moment had been pure impulse, the result of my relief that Ángel hadn’t hurt Cal. But the dozens of times I'd replayed it in my mind afterward…those had been quite deliberate. “You want another kiss?”

His shrug is big enough to see out of the corner of my eye. “I…I was…maybe  I'm being dumb. Out loud it sounds like gross blackmail—”

“No,” I say quickly, “it sounds like suggestive banter.” Pause. “And I like hearing you make suggestions.” His breath audibly catches.

Deep down, I finally get a sense of my other half, the barest impression of her uncurling from a tense defensive ball. She's still sulking, but it's slightly less explosive than before. As a peace offering, I bypass my usual caution and do what she would: follow my instincts.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” The hope in his voice gives me confidence.

“Yes. A better storm chasing talk…and a kiss.” 

“Okay.” Cal’s low agreement is barely louder than the road noise, but it contains an intensity that matches my own feelings. He clears his throat. “We’re now taping over the ‘Scare the Bejeezus Out of Cal’ show.”

I make a noise of protest at the title, but it's playful—like our newly restored mood. Considering my second chance carefully, I take a minute to pass a slow-moving big rig. Traffic is picking up. Pierre isn’t exactly huge, but the state capitol is a metropolis compared to the endless farmland we’ve been seeing.

“Let’s start,” I finally decide in a soothing voice, “with how storm chasing works on a normal day. First, we—

“Check out of the hospital? After they patch the pine needle holes in our lungs?”

Someone lets loose with a breathy girlish laugh. I blink in mild surprise. It was me. I'm not a giggler, but Cal has a damn talent at luring them out. I need to stay focused before he makes me snort like last night.

“We’re taping over the pine needle stuff,” I say in a no-nonsense tone, but those smiling backstabbers, my lips, continue to betray me. “First we get up and get ready, then we eat breakfast.”

“If that means pancakes, this is already nicer than your first lesson.”

I gracefully ignore his commentary. "During breakfast, we access the National Weather Service’s Storm Prediction Center to check for updates and see if there are any new severe thunderstorm or tornado watches.”

Cal nods, his expression growing more serious. That “concentrating” look he gets is kinda hot on him, if I'm being honest.

“After updates, we study satellite feeds. Temperature, moisture, prevailing winds...a little bit of everything. And we use that to decide where we’ll go chasing.” I smirk. “Or fight about it, which is just as likely. Eventually, the squabbling turns into a consensus.” I pause, then decide to be honest. “Or…Bobby just tells us where to go and we do that.”

“Bobby?” Cal asks.

“He’s kind of a weather genius,” I explain. “A regular human, like you. His sister is the shifter.”

“Ah. Another cousin?” He’s not even trying to hide his amusement at how threadbare that word is getting. Normally that would cause internal alarm bells to start clanking, but with Cal I find myself matching his good humor. 

“More or less,” I allow. “Anyway, Bobby and Lori usually join up early in the season and stay for most of it. You’ll probably meet them today.”

“Sounds fun. So far your friends have been as weird as mine.” His words are genuine, not judgy. My cautious optimism is helped by the knowledge that his Drywell friends are plenty weird based on the stories he told me last night.

“I hope I get to meet your friends too.” I’m not sure why I say it, but it feels significant, like I'm laying the cornerstone of something much bigger than a road trip. I hastily get back on topic. “Anyway, once we know where to chase, we hit the road. If we’ve done our homework—and the weather cooperates—a big storm will be forming when we arrive.”

“Does the weather usually cooperate?”

I can almost feel my palms sweat as I admit the truth. “A long day of driving followed by a big miss isn't unusual. Some people who try chasing end up finding it boring.”

Cal makes a “hm” sound, and I start to feel defensive. But who could blame him if he’s not liking the trip so far? All he’s experienced are endless fields and Ángel being an asshole.

“Wishing you hadn't climbed in last night?” The words come out too high and too jokey; it must be obvious how much I'm bracing for his answer.

“Not at all,” Cal says. No hesitation. “For a ‘Drywellian’ like me, this is…” He laughs ruefully. “It’s an adventure, Mel. I'm not bored.” The sincerity and shyness in his voice soothes my tension like a shoulder rub. I bite back another smile.

“I’m not bored either,” I tell him, and it's like my words complete a hidden circuit between us, forming a charged moment. We enjoy it for the length of time it takes to pass a garish billboard advertising the local Cactus Kidd’s.

“Always wanted to eat there,” Cal says idly. 

“Cactus Kidd’s?” I think of the chain’s jarring fusion of Southwest decor and swashbuckling pirates. “Why?”

“Never have,” he says simply. 

I'm floored. I keep forgetting just how isolated Cal’s been most of his life. His sense of humor and clever comments make it easy to pretend he’s seen a lot…but he hasn't. “I like their logo treatment,” I offer after a second.

“Is that important?”

“A decent logo makes the food taste better,” I say without missing a beat, and he laughs.  “And they serve steak. So if we see a tornado, I'll take you. You always eat steak on a tornado day. It’s tradition.”

His bright expression dims, and I realize my error. Cal’s slipping back into the pit of storm warnings I'd dug earlier. 

“Uh, let's get back to ‘Chasing 101.’ We were talking about driving to where we hope a storm will be, right?” I sound like a damn tour guide, all chirpy and fake. Wincing, I dial it back. “So…if there's a storm where we expect it to be, that's when the real chase begins. We try to get close while keeping safe.”

“How do we do that? Keep safe?” His hastiness betrays his nerves, but I already have an answer.

“We watch the radar, make observations, and stay out of the path of the storm. If it changes direction, we haul ass. Do you know much about thunderstorms?” I don’t want sound like a know-it-all, so I check first.

Cal shakes his head, looking apologetic. “I used all my time yesterday reading about shifters. All I know about big storms is that they show up in classic horror movies, and I hope they don't show up in Drywell.”

I smirk. “Fair enough. I’ll give you the short short version, and this time I promise it won’t just be a list of terrifying dangers.”

“Please.” Amusement is smoothing out his voice again, which makes my toes curl happily inside my chucks.

“Okay, so there are lots of different thunderstorm types. We want the ones called ‘supercells.’  If you add rotation to a thunderstorm, you get a supercell.”

“Like a hurricane?”

“Sort of. It’s not the whole thing that spins, just a piece. Wind shear—let’s skip the meaning for now—hits a thunderstorm, and a section that's miles across starts to rotate. The spinny part is called a ‘mesocyclone.’ If a thunderstorm has a mesocyclone, it’s a supercell.”

My passenger gives me more of his sexy “thinking man” face, and I have to force my eyes back to the road. “And the…mesocyclone…creates tornados?” Cal asks.

“You got it.” I shoot him a pleased look. “Now, an ideal supercell won’t have a ton of rain. Hail and some rain are common, but we really want a mesocyclone with a precipitation free updraft. If you’ve ever seen good footage of tornados, it means there wasn’t too much rain.”

“What happens if there's a lot of rain?” Cal says.

I hit the turn signal to pass an ancient station wagon. “I won't sugarcoat this part. A rain shrouded storm is a lot more dangerous. Storm chasers call it ‘the bear’s cage.’ ” Leaving the slowpoke behind, we ease back over. “Imagine a cage with curtains hanging on the inside of the bars, all around it. The cage is the mesocyclone. The curtain is the precipitation.”

“And the tornado is the bear?”

“Exactly.” I resist the urge to tap the back of his hand for emphasis, because the real motivation would be seeking another “hit” of those skin tingles I get when I touch him—my Cal addiction is verging out of control. “The thing is, you won’t know if there’s a bear in the cage…unless you go inside it.”

Cal gives a low whistle.

I nod. “It’s very dangerous, and we definitely will not be going into the bear’s cage on this or any other chase.”

Cal rubs his chin and rests his head against the seat. He no longer looks pale and anxious. I think I even see a bit of anticipation.

Praise Father Tempest and Mother Moon, I think reflexively.

“So what exactly do storm chasers do once they get close to a tornado?” he says.

Feast. The mental word comes with imaginary drool, but there’s no way I can tell him about that part. “We…enjoy it,” I say finally. “A lot of us take pictures and video. We’re not researchers. For us it’s about the experience.”

“The experience…” he muses. “Okay. I think I’m starting to get it. Honestly, you make it sound pretty amazing.” Cal gives me a sidelong glance. “This talk is way better than your doom lecture.”

“That's why we've taped over the doom lecture,” I grumble, feeling my cheeks heat.

He laughs. “Apparently so.”

“There is, um, one last thing you should know.” I wet my lips, which suddenly feel dry. “It’s…shifter stuff.” I sense Cal’s sharpened interest and do my best to sound bored. “Sometimes we chase at night. Our eyes allow us to see real well in the dark, so we can do that and stay safe.” His mouth purses like he wants to speak, so I rush out the important part. “You can’t come on night intercepts, okay? You just…you can't.”

Whatever he was going to say, Cal’s new answer is a subdued, “Oh.”

“It’s just that they’re more dangerous. And you wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway. Sorry,” I add, startled to realize I am—even though Cal’s presence at a Storm Blessed conclave is a flat impossibility.

“Well…that's all right,” he says after a moment. “Maybe if I really get into this I can buy a pair of night vision goggles.”

I laugh at his joke, hoping it doesn't sound too forced. “Thanks for understanding.”

“Sure.” He still seems a little rebuffed, but his expression is open enough when I glance at him. “So is there anything else in this lesson?” he asks.

“We’re all done.” A little flutter goes through me. “Except for the kiss…but that has to wait until we stop.”

Cal opens his mouth like he wants to say something witty, but after a few seconds all he manages is a husky, “Cool.”

I get it. My own body already feels over-tuned for that kiss—so much that my excitement is burying my worries. A delicious heat settles low in my belly at the thought of four walls and privacy and Cal.

Pace yourself, girl.

I crack the window and turn up the radio. A pop station. Perfect. I raise the volume higher. With no more talking until the motel, I have a chance to settle down and reclaim some composure.

Which is when my fingers start to tingle. Not like when I touch Cal, but a more familiar—and depressing—sensation. The tidal wave is here. Backlash.

Any thoughts of kissing are doused like freezing rain on an open fire. Within a few minutes my hands are trembling. A feeling like ice begins to spread out from my mid-section as I work to keep my face calm—another emergency pull-over like last night’s cannot happen. Cal has to know I'm reliable so he doesn't stress about the chase this afternoon.

I’m pretty sure regular shifters don't experience backlash. They get a lot more time learning to balance their two halves. Meanwhile, my other half spends most of her time asleep. How can I practice emotional regulation when I’m hardly aware of her for nine months out of the year? Even during the chasing season she's barely awake until she’s had enough to eat. It’s that way with all Storm Kin. And, as a result, most of us get physical symptoms when we clash with our primal selves. It's as if our suppressed emotions have to find another way out.

Ever since my primal self woke up early she's been acting loca. But it didn't start last night. She's been more…restless…for awhile. It really began last season.

On the night of the lion shifter show. The one Cal went to.

Fine! Giving in, I accept that Cal somehow has the power to wake up my primal side. It shouldn't be possible, but there it is. Not only that, she isn’t as ravenous this year. It's as if my interactions with Cal are somehow…nourishing her? And then there's the bizarre protective streak; she’s never shown anything like that. In fact, she’s being a real bitch about it, because the aftermath of our little spat is currently hitting me like a speeding truck. I clamp my shaking hands tighter on the wheel.

Just breathe. Breathing helps.  

The effect Cal has on me…it almost resembles something that doesn't exist for Storm Kin. Like he could be—

I drive the word out of my head before it can form. Whatever this is, my primal self is testing my control in ways I’ve never experienced. And despite knowing that Cal is at the heart of it, I still don’t want him out of my sight. 

 My desire to be near him—my need—scares me more than anything.

“Is that the motel?”

I blink, coming back to myself. Shit. I’d driven right through the outskirts of Pierre on autopilot. “Y-eah…this is the place.”

The Missouri River Motor Lodge is a two story building with a bleached blue exterior. It gives the impression that wind and sun have scoured any bright colors off. My primal eyes have been showing since the backlash started, and I actually feel them contract to tiny slits as morning rays bounce off the white gravel around the motel’s sign and needle into my sunglasses. I grimace and flip on the turn signal.

We pull into the lot, where I abruptly brake the roadster.

In front of us is the turn-off to the front office. I made my sleep arrangements almost ten hours ago, right before I peeled out of Hoisington, but Cal…

We sit there as seconds tick by. My hands are locked to the wheel. At some point a crowbar might have to get involved. I stare straight ahead, trying to figure out how to navigate what I need to say. My slitted eyes give the parking lot hyper-exaggerated depth, like staring down a long tunnel. 

After a moment, Cal reaches over and turns down the radio. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” The words come out in a near rasp due to nerves. I’ve been told I sometimes sound “smoky,” but a suggestive voice isn’t what I want here. “Just…listen. It feels dumb to make you spend eighty bucks when there’s already a bed available.”

I detect a strange energy in Cal’s answering silence, so I play my words back. The implications—delivered in that husky register—sink in like a naughty knife. Heat flares in my cheeks.

“Um—” Cal says.

“Shut up,” I blurt. “Don’t talk! I-I didn’t…say that right.” I dry swallow pure embarrassment and cough to raise my voice out of the sex basement. “What I mean is I’ve already booked a room—it’s a double,” I hasten to add. “And it has early check-in, so there’s no waiting. And it’s a double…is what I meant.” My oxygen runs out on that lame finish.

“Oh…no, Mel, I didn’t assume—”

“I know we're going to kiss, but it wasn’t, like, a prelude.”

“No, oh my God, of course not. I know you wouldn’t—”

“I wouldn’t! Not like that. Like I was being coy or something. I’ll be direct. I mean, shit, I would be direct. When we—if people like us—if there were a scenario where people like us…did more than kiss.” I sound unhinged. Fuck. FUCK.

“Yeah, no, I get what you meant.” Cal nods—I assume he nods, because I refuse to look at him. My face is stinging with warmth, which means I’m now as ruddy as Santa Claus.

“So…yeah?” I say weakly.

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely. That would be incredible.” Pause. “The ‘incredible’ part is the, um, the savings. The cash value. Well, plus your company obviously, but, like, as in a friendly face. Though maybe not just a friendly face if things—agh!” The muffled thump tells me he's dropped his head against the passenger window. “Jesus…this is worse than the boobs discussion. We should stop talking, right?”

“God please yes. So much.”

We collectively zip it.

Now that it's safe to bypass check-in, I let off the brake and start driving along the building towards our room—or towards Cal’s room, since there’s a good chance that I will run off as soon as we park, fleeing into the wilderness to live out the rest of my years as a savage woman of the plains, forever trying to outrun my humiliation.

“Woah, look at that,” Cal says with heightened enthusiasm, the voice of a person desperate to change the subject. “That’s the kind of car you only see in movies.”

A sudden prickle of warning rushes over my scalp. I carefully park the roadster, then turn my head to take in the unlikely-looking vehicle a few spaces down.

I didn’t know what kind of exotic car I was looking at, but it was probably built in Italy by a company no one’s heard of, and they probably only made a dozen this year. It was silver, angular, and studded with carbon fiber panels. If King Arther had used a boomerang instead of a sword, its sharp narrow spoiler would have been his Excalibur.

The car looks like it’s about to take off and fly into orbit. I wait. When it doesn’t move, I know I’m about to undergo an intense interrogation.