Page 75 of The Best Kind of Bad

Dusty ignores her goading stare. “We better get to the basement.”

“Majorly inconvenient.” She mutters, pausing to grab some sneakers before following the two of us down the stairs.

Ed waits for us right outside Dusty’s door, his tail thumping with relief. He whines and spins towards the house, leading the way. I pick my way across the yard, but stiletto heels and gravel do not make a good pair. There’s another flash of lightning, one that seems to connect somewhere nearby. The air is almost staticky as a deafening roll of thunder crashes over us.

“Okay, enough of this.” Dusty sweeps me up, hustling across the yard just as the skies crack open and rain pours down.

Sienna lets out a big whoop and runs ahead of us.

By the time we’re all safely inside, we’re dripping wet. All except Ed, who was waiting under the eaves while the slow humans meandered across the yard.

Sienna doesn’t even bother looking back at us before trooping off to the basement. “I’m going to my old room.”

I elect to change into some shorts and a tank top before going down. Maybe it’s because I’m upstairs and not safe in the basement, but something about this storm feels different. More violent.

My heart is racing as I climb down the stairs, and when my feet hit the basement floor, I feel marginally better. Seeing Dusty waiting for me is even better. He grabs my hand and leads me to his old bedroom. Sienna’s bedroom was on one end of the basement, Dusty’s was on the other.

We find Ed lying on his bed. When Dusty urges him to make room, he gives us one baleful puppy stare before grumpily retreating to the living room.

Dusty’s old bedroom was simple. A full-size bed with a heavy quilt. A dresser with a lamp. Where Sienna’s old room was imbued with personality, this room has no sign of Dusty.

It’s possible he stripped it down when they moved, but somehow, I don’t think so.

He throws back the quilt, climbing underneath, before tugging me after him. Laying on his back, he stares up at the ceiling. I watch him, wary of how uneasy he seems.

When the first ball of hail pelts the window, he flinches. One piece of hail turns into a shower of hard ice pounding the ground, hitting the window with increasing violence. I’m surprised the glass doesn’t break.

Dusty squeezes his eyes shut, frowning, before staring at the ceiling again. Listening.

“Is it bad?” I ask, smoothing my hand across his chest.

“It’s not good.” He says, his voice gritty. “Not good. Not good.”

“Didn’t Gus have hail insurance?”

He nods. “Yeah. He has it. But no farmer prays for hail. It ain’t a good trade.”

50.

Dusty

I didn’t ask for this hail, and yet, I find myself feeling responsible.

Worried.

I wanted to have a banner year this year. I wanted to prove to Marnie that renting is the way to go. But if we’re trading out sky-high corn prices for a meager insurance pay out, she’s going to be underwhelmed at best.

I wanted to impress her.

Hail clatters against the window.

Not good.

I wanted to be able to spoil her.

Wind tears at the trees outside.

Not good at all.

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