The Grumpy Storm Chaser - Page 4

Colby

As I barrel my rental truck down a shitty gravel road, there’s no denying that my sister was right—this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. If I live through this, I’ve really got to start listening to Marjorie more.

The producers of Rise and Shine, Los Angeles, rejected my request to chase the storm with a full camera crew by my side. If Marjorie had pitched the idea, they may have gone for it, but without her support, the answer was a resounding “No way. No how.” They informed me that I’m too valuable as on-air talent to take such a risk with my safety. When I made it clear that I was going to chase the storm with or without their permission, they threatened my job. When that didn’t dissuade me, they finally—and very reluctantly—agreed to grant a few days of leave for me to “get it out of my system.”

Without a camera crew, getting the best footage of the storm would be difficult, but I still felt up to the task. After reviewing all of the data and forecasting models, it was clear that the best potential for severe weather would be in Tennessee and the Carolinas. So, I flew to Nashville, rented a four-wheel drive vehicle, and started driving east.

And I nailed this forecast. It’s spot-on. Deadly accurate.

Deadly being the operative word.

I swear under my breath as a sheet of horizontal rain slams into the side of the truck. I clutch the steering wheel with both hands, struggling to keep the tires on the road. If I veer even an inch off the side of the road, a tire will sink into the swollen, rain-drenched ground, and I’ll be stuck good and tight. A sitting duck for the tornado to suck me into its vortex.

Glancing in the review mirror, I see the beast barreling toward me. Twenty minutes ago, it had been a pretty little rope tornado snaking down from the clouds. Now, the twister is at least half a mile wide and moving with the speed of a freight train. It’s a twisting, churning monster, carving a path of destruction straight toward me. It’s filthy with debris: trees, pieces of buildings and houses, and only God knows what else. I watch in horror as a car is tossed from the funnel like a ragdoll. I say a quick prayer that no one was inside it. For good measure, I add a quick, “And please don’t let me die today.”

I need to get off this road. I scan the area to my left and right, but there’s nothing but crop fields. I’m in valley bottom and there’s nowhere to go. The tornado is getting closer in the rearview mirror. Unless this road has a twist or a turn up ahead, it may as well be one big welcome mat to the Highway to Heaven. If I’m still in the truck when the tornado hits, there’s no chance of survival.

Bailing from the truck and lying in the middle of a field isn’t a much better option. Odds are I’ll be crushed by debris or sucked up by the tornado.

I’m going to die today. The thought hits with such clarity that it takes my breath away. I’m not ready to die yet. Not even a little bit.

Oz’s grinning face pops to the forefront of my mind. He’s always had a knack for goading me into dangerous situations. If I’m the grumpy meteorologist, he’s the daring one. In the fifth grade, he talked me into jumping my bike off the front porch, which resulted in my first broken bone. Things just went downhill from there until our friendship ended after a disastrous spring break trip in college. I dislocated my shoulder, another friend ended up in a wheelchair, and Oz got arrested.

When I’m being reasonable, I can admit that Oz wasn’t to blame for any of that. We were adults, and we willingly followed him into danger. Just like I did today.

I’m going to die, and it’s my own damn fault.

The gravel road slants up a hill and the truck loses speed as it makes the climb. I slam my foot onto the gas pedal and the tires spin, attempting to gain purchase as gravel is kicked into the air.

When I reach the top of the hill, I see that this isn’t a road, after all. It’s a driveway. The road ends at an old farmhouse. If the tornado stays on its current course, the house will take a direct hit, but it’s my only option for shelter. Hopefully, the residents are friendly and will let me in.

I reach the house at full speed, slamming on the brakes and yanking the wheel to skid to a stop in front of the door. There’s no time to knock or to introduce myself. I spot a large flowerpot on the front porch. If the door’s locked, I’ll use the pot to break a window. But that’ll take precious seconds that I don’t have. I grip the doorknob in my hand and turn it. Miraculously, the door is unlocked, and it swings open with ease.

The sound of music wafts from the center of the house. I dash toward the sound, desperate to find shelter.

I reach a door and shove it open, bursting into a bathroom. My eyes quickly scan the room, and I freeze in my tracks as I spot a gorgeous blonde masturbating in the bathtub. For a moment, the deadly tornado is completely forgotten.

I greedily take in the sight, realizing that it’s wrong to do so but unable to look away. She hasn’t noticed that I’m here. Her eyes are closed, and her lips are parted as she pounds her pussy with a vibrator. Her heavy breasts heave as her breath grows shorter.

Fuuuuuuck. She’s the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. She’s all soft, fleshy curves, designed to perfection by the Almighty for a man to sink into. My cock is instantly rock-hard, straining against the fly of my jeans for release. Use Me by Bill Withers booms through a Bluetooth speaker, and my God, what I wouldn’t give for this woman to use me up. Her every wish is my command. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I’d die for her.

She raises her hips, pushing the vibrator deeper inside with both hands. Little whimpers burst from her lips. She’s on the edge of an intense orgasm, and my hand drifts to my crotch, desperate to join her in her ecstasy.

Then several things happen at once, each bringing back with perfect clarity the danger we’re in:

She opens her mouth to cry out in pleasure, cresting over the edge of her orgasm.

There’s a sudden drop in barometric pressure, making my ears pop and bringing me back to my senses.

Her eyes pop open, probably due to the drop in pressure. She sees me and her ecstatic cry mingles with one of terror.

“It’s okay,” I say, holding up my hands to show I’m unarmed.

But it’s not okay. Nothing is okay.

The tornado is here.

The gears in my brain finally click back into place, and I spring into action. I grip the shower curtain rod with both hands, yanking it down as I climb into the tub next to the blonde. I fall to my knees, covering her body with mine and wrapping the curtain around us as best as I can. It’ll offer minimal protection, but it’s better than nothing.