Page 2 of Chasing Storm

The crazy bastard silences me with a kiss, and not just any kiss. One demonstrating he’s the boss, while at the same time apologizing for not appreciating my assistance. It quickly becomes a panty melting kiss. His hand caresses my nape, drawing me closer, and the other drifts over my back. It’s possessive, intense, yet caught between denying my words and accepting them. We pull apart, foreheads resting against each other while our breathing simmers. His blood seeps onto my temple.

Joey runs his finger along my lower lip. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Same.” I put distance between us and wipe at his forehead. “We need to rely on each other. This won’t work any other way.” I use my shirt to scrub my face of his blood. He keeps pressing the palm of his hand against the cut, so I shove his arm, and say, “Out! I’m driving. You need to put pressure on the wound.”

This time, Joey doesn’t argue. He gets out, rounds the car, and sits in the passenger seat. Before getting behind the wheel, I rummage through my suitcase in the trunk to find a compress for him to use. An old Van Halen shirt will do. I toss him the shirt, start the car, and continue eastward.

Joey fiddles with the radio, finding a station we both can enjoy while driving. At this point, we don’t have a game plan. All I know is Joey wants as much distance between us and Chicago as possible, except I’m too hungry to venture far. Off the main road sits a dive bar, so I park toward the back.

His eyes appear tired when he asks, “What are we doing here? We can’t waste time.”

I shove the car keys into my pocket. “After we eat something.”

Joey’s head drops onto the headrest and his eyes close. “I’m too tired to eat.”

My internal alarms go off. He might have a concussion, so I pat his cheeks. “Come on, Joey, stay awake. Let’s get something in our stomachs before the long haul east.”

It’s dark inside the bar. A perfect place for hiding his injury and the blood on our hands and clothes. Our first stop is to the washrooms, to clean up, where Joey waits for me. We find a corner table, shadowed by a lack of light. Several sets of eyes follow our movements. The place smells of stale beer and vomit. There are tables and booths scattered around the place, and a small stage on one wall adjacent to the bar. I’m guessing strangers aren’t welcome because the bartender wears a heavy scowl. His ragged beard sports gray hair to counter the loss on top of his head. Arms stretch out, leaning on the bar. Cataract eyes bore into mine while I head toward him.

I smile. “Good afternoon.”

Nothing. Just a stare.

“I was wondering if you have any menus.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he reaches under the bar and produces them.

“Thanks.” My eyes wander to the menu and back to him. “May I have two cokes, please?”

The man lets out a frustrated sigh, lines the glasses up, and shoots the soda gun into both. I thank him, tucking the menus under my arm, and join Joey.

His eyes are closed, so I nudge him and say, “Stay awake.”

I shove a menu into his hand, settle on burgers and fries, and place the order with the over-friendly bartender. Two older men hug the bar, pampering their beers as they watch me through the mirror behind the bar. An older couple sits at a table one over from ours. The woman’s wig is lopsided, and her clothes squeeze her body to the point of overflow. Her breasts, waist, and thighs push past the material, resting a hand on the man’s dirty overalls. When he smiles at her, all his front teeth are missing.

I turn to Joey, whose eyes are half-lidded. “Drink your coke. It will perk you up.”

So far, he hasn’t argued, which makes me nervous. Joey’s too complacent. In my purse, I toss around the contents until I find some Tylenol and give it to him.

The door opens and light shoots into the bar, assaulting our eyes, which have adjusted to the darkness. Joey’s hands block the light and my eyes narrow to minimize the glare as a police officer saunters in. His footfalls are leaden. He scans the bar and then his eyes lock on our table. Tucking his thumbs into his extended waistband, he approaches us, puts a toothpick in his mouth, and chews on it for several seconds.

Without any introductions, he asks, “You two involved in the car accident back there?”

I don’t even give Joey a chance to speak. “No, Sir.”

He eyes the two of us. “Looks like he’s got a head injury.”

“He tripped and fell on a rock while hiking.”

The toothpick shifts to the other side of his mouth while he appraises us, chewing and head tilting. He scopes out the rest of the bar, acknowledging the other patrons.

The officer returns his attention to us, lets out a breath through his nose, and says, “All right then.”

Without uttering another word, he tips his hat toward the bartender and the other patrons and leaves. I hurry to tell the bartender we’d like the food to-go.

With our orders in the backseat, Joey dosing off next to me, I drive, not paying much attention to where we’re headed.

Chapter 2

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