Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (26 page)

Like Lot’s wife, I make the deadly mistake of turning to look back. She’s a goddess at rest, the blanket and sheet at her waist. Fuck. Fuck. How can I walk away from a woman like her?
 

Because it’s what I do. I can’t do this. I thought I could but I can’t. I’m not what she needs. I just don’t know how to be that man.
 

There’s a desk near the window with a pad of paper and some hotel pens. I scribble her a note.
 

Niall,

I
’
m so sorry. For everything. For showing up. For so many things, I guess. I
’
m not the kind of man that
’
s ever been there in the morning, and I don
’
t know how to do it now. You deserve better.
 

I wish I were better with this sort of thing. I wish I knew the words to express to you how incredible it was to know you. The time I had with you was…the best thing I
’
ve ever known. Ever will know, probably. And you? You
’
re the most beautiful woman I
’
ve ever known, and ever will know.
 

Goodbye.

And I
’
m sorry.

Lock.

I hustle Utah quietly out the door. We’re in the truck and out of Ardmore before dawn breaks over the horizon.

Just lost in the sky wondering why

Goddamn it, Lock.
 

I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry about this, but I know I’m going to. Just as soon as I get home.
 

But, apparently, life or fate or whatever has other plans.

It’s early morning. Six, maybe? I shower before I leave the hotel room, wash my hair and scour my skin clean, trying vainly to scrub away so much more than just a night of lovemaking. I slip my dress on, regretting the decision to come here commando. No bra, no panties, not a damn thing but the dress, which is a whole lot of not much. It felt sexy on the way here last night, but now? Not so much.
 

God, I feel like such an idiot for thinking a guy like Lock could change his ways.
 

I wanted him to. I dared to hope he could.

And that note? What the fuck, Lock? That’s the best you can do? If you’re going to leave a note, at least make it a good one. That shit you wrote sucks. A complete cop-out.
 

I make it home, slip on some clean clothes. I realize I’m in no shape to work, so I call in sick and decide to just drive. I need time to sort myself out. I pick a direction, and just drive. And think. About Ollie. About Lock. About loss, about death, about myself. My thoughts are a maelstrom, whirling a million miles an hour, going haywire like an Oklahoma tornado: unstoppable.
 

I roll the windows down and crank up the radio. I turn the dial until I find anything
but
country. Modern pop, something new and peppy and upbeat.
 

God, Ollie. Why’d you have to die? Why couldn’t I have saved you?
 

Why’d Lock have to come crashing into my life? Why did I give in? Because now I want more. I want him back. I want him to be the man I think he could be, if he’d dare to try.

I drive so long, so far, I lose myself. I have no idea where I am. I’m so lost in my thoughts that when I finally shake out of my trance I realize the weather has taken a rather dramatic turn. It dawned clear and promised to be sunny, but as I drove it clouded over—low, heavy cloud cover. And now, as I drive, I realize those clouds aren’t just gray, they aren’t just cloud cover. Those are storm clouds. Low, heavy, dark, threatening thunderheads.
 

I keep driving, but now I’m keeping a nervous eye on the sky.
 

Rain patters on the windshield. A few drops, here and there, at first. Then harder. I close the windows and lower the volume on the radio. Mile after mile I drive, and the rain beats harder and harder, and the skies darken, going leaden and then nearly black, so even though it’s nearly midday, it could very well be past sunset. It’s like nightfall, after dark.
 

Out the window, I can see smaller trees bent sideways in the driving wind.
 

Something in my gut stirs, clenches. I slow down, scanning the horizon. Wind buffets the truck, rocking it on its suspension. Even with the windows closed, the wind howls deafeningly. I should turn around, go back home. But then I realize I’m far enough away from home that I wouldn’t make it before this storm breaks. And something in me says I shouldn’t be on the road when it does.
 

I accelerate, seeing a sign on the highway announcing the nearest town is less than ten miles away. Rain batters and splatters on the windshield, thick, fat hammering drops in a deluge so blinding the wipers make no difference even on full blast. The wind is screaming now and hitting the truck side-on, rocking it, knocking the rear end sideways, pushing me toward the ditch. My heart is in my throat, my pulse hammering, both fists gripping the steering wheel for dear life.

I can’t see shit. It’s pitch black outside, with only the occasional flash of lightning in the distance to illuminate the storm-wracked world.
 

Finally, ahead of me, civilization appears: a single main drag with a gas station, a diner, a drug store, and a liquor store on one side, and an auto garage, a hardware store, a supermarket, and a car parts place on the other. There is also a church with a wide corona of grassy yard and a small cemetery. I can tell there are a few square miles of residential streets on either side of the main street, as well as a strip mall with a doctor’s office, a video rental place and another bar. I pull into the gas station, just to get off the road and out of the truck. I park near the front door of the gas station market, exit the truck and jog into the store, soaked to the bone in the few steps it takes to get from my truck to the store. The wind is a roar, twisting street signs on their poles, blowing trash down the street, sending traffic lights swinging on the power lines.

There are a few other trucks parked out front, and an ancient Buick parked at a gas pump. One of the trucks looks familiar, but I barely have time to notice it. I manage to make it into the store itself where a group of men are clustered around the coffee station, clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee and talking about the storm.

“Powerful shit comin’,” one old, white-haired man says, in a thick twang. “Powerful, I’m tellin’ ya. Ya’ll best get home, down in’ta a basement, if you got one. This here is the makin’s of a tornado. Big’un, ’less I miss my guess. This here town is gonna get flattened, I do believe.”
 

The next voice to speak sends shivers down my spine, and ripples into my core. “You’re sure?” It’s Lock. Of all the people, in all the places in the state, he has to be here, standing inside this gas station.
 

“Son, I lived my entire life in these parts. I been through more twisters’n I can count. This here is shapin’ up to be an F-4, at least. Probably an F-5. You got any brains in that big, bearded head of yours, you’ll get to safety.”

“I’m just passing through. Nowhere to go.”
 

I’m standing by the door, dripping wet, frozen in place just by his voice.
 

“Well, son, I’ve got a shelter and you’re welcome to it. Take this here main street coupla miles east a ways. I’m the big red barn with the little white house. Shelter’s around the back of the house. Just go on down and hunker it out.”

“Where will you be?”
 

The old man waves a gnarled hand. “Out there. Folk’s’ll need a hand after she blows herself out.”
 

“Think I’ll stick with you, in that case.”

“You ever sit through a twister?”
 

Lock sounds to me like he’s trying to suppress amusement. “No sir, but—”

“It ain’t no fuckin’ hayride, boy. Get to the shelter.”
 

“I haven’t been through a tornado, but I’ve sailed through more than my share of hurricanes and typhoons. Nearly capsized twice, lost my mainsail once, and had my dinghy ripped away another time. I think I can handle a tornado. Besides, maybe I can help when it’s over.”

The old man shrugs a shoulder. “All right, then. Your funeral. Just stay clear of her path, and when she’s gone, smell for natural gas. Leaks happen, and that’s a quick way to get blowed up if you set off a spark in the wrong place.”

“Got it.”
 

The old man finally sees me. “You lost, sweetheart?”
   

I shake my head. “No, I just…I was going to wait out the storm here, too.”

Lock hears my voice, pivots sharply, eyes like lasers fixing on me. “Niall.” He takes a step toward me. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t know how to answer that. If I open my mouth, venom will flow, I just know it. I’m pissed at him, and now that he’s in front of me, I want to lay into him. Rip him a new asshole for being a coward.
 

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I went for a drive.”
 

“Two hours from home?”
 

I narrow my eyes at him, keep my voice sharp and cold. “Yes, two hours from home. Which makes it kind of funny, running into
you
all the way out here, two hours away from home.”

“Niall—”

“Save it, Lock. Not the place, not the time.”
 

As if to punctuate my statement, a loud siren cranks up to a deafening, shrieking wail. The old man slaps a cover on his coffee and heads for the door.
 

“There she is,” he says. “She’s made touch-down.” He climbs into an old, battered, but well-loved F-150, cranks the engine and backs out.
 

He pauses at the main road and then turns right, heading for who knows what. Chasing the storm, maybe.

Lock’s gaze returns to mine. “It’s not safe here.”
 

“It’s not safe anywhere, right now.”

“We should go for that guy’s shelter,” Lock says. “North two miles, big red—”

“I have ears.”
 

The siren is still howling, and now the sound of the wind is loud enough to drown out even that. Outside, rain is driving in sideways sheets, the traffic light isn’t just swaying or twisting now, but is suspended sideways by the wind force. A blue plastic wading pool tumbles down the road, and then a trampoline, a stop sign, and various other debris. The other men in the store are standing stock-still, clutching coffees and staring outside, brows wrinkled, trying to be stoic but clearly afraid.

And if
they’re
afraid, tough old farmers and cowboys born and raised in tornado alley? Shit. This is
bad
.

Lock stares at me, then glances outside, then back to me. Jaw flexing, fists clenching and unclenching, tension in his shoulders. I recognize the signs: he’s fighting a war with himself, and losing.
 

“Fuck,” he growls. “Come on.”
 

He grabs me by the hand and drags me into a stumbling run out of the gas station toward his truck. He rounds the front bumper with me in tow, hauls open the passenger seat, and physically lifts me up and into the cab.
 

“Lock, I’m not—”

“You’re going with me. End of story.” His voice is hard and irritated as he reaches past me to click the seatbelt into place.
 

He shuts the passenger door after me, so abruptly it bumps my knee. As soon as I’m in, Utah is trying to lick me from the backseat. Lock trots over to my truck, retrieves my purse and keys, and then jumps into the driver’s seat of his truck, smelling wet and looking delicious…and pissed off. What did
I
do to
him?
I’m the one who’s pissed.
 

He twists the key in the ignition savagely, jerking the shifter into reverse, peeling out in a wide arc, and then we’re lurching forward, back wheels skidding and fishtailing on the wet cement as Lock guns it. He twists the transfer case knob, activating the four-by-four. We head onto the main road, turning right. The engine roars, and we bolt forward as the turbodiesel spools up and unleashes power. I hear the wind, ever-present, wild, powerful, terrifying. I twist in my seat and scan the horizon.

Clouds, low, thick, curling, black. Whipped into a churning froth by the wind. I feel the truck swaying as the wind batters us, and glance over to see Lock white-knuckling the steering wheel with both hands, jaw tensed, body hunched forward, scanning the horizon, looking for the twister, same as me.

“Fuck. Jesus—” His voice is shocked, stunned breathless. “Fucking hell, that thing is…
huge.
” He points to two o’clock out the windshield.
 

I follow his outstretched finger, and my breath leaves my body in a horrified whoosh.
 

We’re heading north—to our right, from the east, sunlight is visible through a break in the clouds, shedding a thin stream of weak orange light. To the left is a hell-scape. Lit by the sun, the anchor-shaped wall cloud is an impenetrable fortress of thick, angry, violent black, a frenzied maelstrom of wind and rain and hail.
 

The funnel?

A massive wedge easily a mile wide, hundreds of feet high, visibly rotating even from this distance. We’re traveling parallel to it, following its path…and losing pace. And then it abruptly veers east, directly toward us.
 

The sound? I’ve heard the usual descriptors before, of course: freight train, jet engine, et cetera.
 

Words don’t do it justice.

The twister is easily half a mile away from us, and even with the windows closed the roar is…beyond deafening. It’s as if the skies themselves have given voice to some colossal, superhuman rage. Screaming, howling, roaring, so loud that conversation is utterly impossible and my ears ache from the sheer decibel force.

My heart is hammering in my chest, just watching the thing, mesmerized, unable to look away.

Hail bounces violently off the hood of the truck, off the roof in staccato drumming thunder, cracking off the windshield, huge golf balls of ice. Rain blasts at us in sheets and horizontal waves.