Ozrik #3
The only dreams I had were about leaving home. Running far, far away and never looking back. Vern knew this.
“What does that mean?”
“Sit. Give me ten minutes.” Vern glanced at the surly bartender and raised his voice. “Another round, Bobby. Your windows are fine, the cat’s outside, and your customers are thirsty. Stop ignoring us.”
“I don’t have time for another drink,” I said. “You know she’s at home staring at the clock right now and counting minutes.”
“Yes, but she won’t call Barclay again until you’re at least twenty minutes late.”
“I hope you’re right.”
As Bobby delivered our drinks—an IPA and a Coke—Vern held my gaze with a shit-eating smirk.
We’d known each other since kindergarten.
Vern was the only person on the planet I could tolerate.
Growing up under the insufferable concern of a mentally unwell parent, it was hard to make friends.
No one else’s mother showed up at school to take their temperature or sent notes demanding they stay in for recess because it was too hot or too cold or too damp or too dry.
I couldn’t play sports—asthma. I couldn’t go on field trips—allergies.
I couldn’t eat the cupcakes brought in for classmates’ birthdays—possible cross-contamination.
She took me out of class for every reason under the sun and diagnosed me with every illness known to man.
I was intimately acquainted with every doctor at the hospital.
Stella Devereaux had made me an outcast.
Vern was the troublemaker in school. The class clown. The rule breaker. The daredevil. A fellow exile, since most kids wouldn’t play with the boy who was always warming a bench in the principal’s office.
We were inexplicably drawn to one another, and no matter how hard my mother fought or who she complained to—the teachers, the principal, the county representatives, the mayor, the fucking president of the United States of America—they couldn’t keep us apart.
As a result, every reckless choice I’d made since my fifth birthday was somehow Vern’s fault.
Every impulsive decision was blamed on my best friend.
Stella didn’t see that her suffocating parenting had unleashed a wild animal inside me, a beast who threw himself against his cage and fought and screamed and wanted nothing more than to break free or die trying.
“Talk,” I prompted. “Time is ticking.”
Vern folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, lowering his voice as though imparting a secret. “Do you know who Dennis Hawking is?”
I plucked the lime wedge from my glass and squeezed it over my drink. “I’ve heard the name.”
“He’s the CEO of CineVision, in charge of content and entertainment. He’s been all over the news lately.”
CineVision, a popular subscription service founded less than ten years ago, was supposedly the fastest-growing network of the twenty-first century.
In fact, it was said that if CineVision continued its steady rate of growth, it would overtake all the popular competitors within the next two years.
Dennis Hawking was the man responsible for bringing CineVision to life.
“Okay. Why is he important to me?”
“Because he has a producer named Charles Gallant who pitched an idea for a CineVision-exclusive show that Dennis is eager to make happen.” Vern paused to sip his beer.
“And?” I couldn’t fit the pieces together. Good for Charles. What did this have to do with me?
“And… it would be a seasonal miniseries reality-type show about storm chasing. He wants to chat with our team tomorrow morning to see if we’re interested in taking it on.”
I studied Vern, looking for signs that he was pulling my leg. Practical jokes were our thing, but I couldn’t see deception in his eyes.
“He wants us?”
“He wants the best, and we are the best.”
It was true. The Wind Riders might have Olivia Windrow’s pretty face and a rapidly increasing subscriber list, but our group, Twisted Fates, was the true heart of the industry.
Our following was triple theirs. Our chases were grittier, more intimate, and showed far more skill.
We had better equipment. More connections, and we took risks no other chasers would dare.
When it came to battling nature, we were the kings of the Midwest.
After graduating from high school, Vern and I dove headfirst into storm chasing. We lived in the heart of tornado alley and had been obsessed with the worst Mother Nature could throw at us since we were kids. It took time to build knowledge and a solid team, but we’d been at it for years.
The risks and danger and adrenaline rush involved had been a massive selling point to a kid who had grown up under the repressive thumb of a mentally sick mother. When I chased storms, the caged animal ran free.
Stella hated my hobby.
“Does this mean…” I dared not hope.
“We’d get paid for doing what we love? Yes, sirree.”
“I could move out.”
“Quite possible.” Vern held up his beer in a toast. “I told you I had good news.”
We clinked glasses, and I sipped my Coke, envisioning a different life as my phone buzzed with an incoming text from my mother.