Chapter Fourteen
I sleep like the dead and wake to Wes pounding on my door, already dressed and excitement sparking in his eyes. “Refresh came out twenty minutes ago.” He shoves his iPad under my nose, zoomed in to the Storm Prediction Center’s tornado forecast for northern Kansas. “Fifteen-hatched. Get dressed.”
He slides his hand around the back of my neck, pulls me in for a hard, minty kiss that reignites last night’s spark, and then just as quickly lets go with a soft noise of regret.
His hand slips down to toy with the thin strap of my tank top.
“And now I’m going to get us coffee before the sight of you like this makes me forget what a tornado is. ”
“Oh thank god,” I mutter when Wes is standing outside the elevator in the lobby with a giant cup of coffee. “Gimme.”
He laughs, trading me the coffee and taking my heavy camera bag before tucking me into his side.
I’m tired enough that I lean into him without thought and take a long sip before I notice our audience.
A dozen chasers are spread out across the lobby’s seating area with their breakfasts, laptops, and iPads.
It’s not exactly unexpected given the forecast and how few hotels are out this way—but I wasn’t thinking about that in my half-asleep delirium.
I freeze with the coffee cup halfway to my mouth, the not-at-all quiet whispers surrounding us.
Pay up. I told you they were fucking.
She’s just trying to get an in with Nature Shots. Everyone knows Wes is going to win.
Another chick screwing her way to the top.
Tracy and Matt betting on me was one thing, but strangers discussing my personal life on this level is downright humiliating. I start to slip out from under Wes’s arm, but his grip tightens. The way we’re pressed together, I feel each of his muscles lock up.
Wes is generally a friendly and easygoing guy.
In all the years we’ve spent snarking back and forth, he’s always done it with a grin and a wink.
The Wild Wes nickname comes from the questionable risks he takes more than his temperament—the only time I’ve ever seen him genuinely pissed is when other chasers drive so recklessly they put us all at risk.
And now.
“Hey!” His voice carries easily, shutting everyone up. “Sloane invited me to chase with her, very graciously, after I fucked up my ride. Anything beyond that is none of your goddamned business.”
His sharp words shut down the whispers instantly.
There’s a lot of foot-shuffling and mumbled apologies, all directed at the floor or their laps.
I hate that the men gathered in this lobby are having the exact reaction I wanted so badly to avoid, even though Wes defending me without hesitation goes a hell of a long way toward soothing the sting.
We stand there for another long moment in silence before Wes turns us toward the exit without another word. “If anyone says anything to you, I want to know,” he says gruffly once we’re outside, guiding me toward the car. “You don’t deserve any of that shit.”
“I know. And I can defend myself, but thank you for what you said.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
I put my bags in the car and step out of the way so he can do the same.
“You realize Nature Shots has never featured a female photographer on the cover, right? It’s part of why I want to win so badly.
It could be a real stepping stone into paid landscape work.
And a chance to beat you, of course,” I add, bumping his hip with mine to break some of the tension.
I’m not sure it works. “But if it’s being judged blindly and they still pick me?
It’s going to be hard for guys like that to bitch that I only won because of some diversity quota. I’d be recognized for my talent.”
Finally.
“Never? That can’t be right.” Wes holds up his palms at my scowl. “Not saying I don’t believe you, just…really? Not once?”
“Not once.”
“Shit.” He fiddles with his hat, taking it off to run his hand through his hair before shoving it back into place. “That’s messed up.”
“It is.” I close the back hatch with a sigh and jingle the keys in my hand. “But the only way I beat them is if I get that shot, so let’s go.”
The storms do not disappoint.
We catch a beast of a storm in midafternoon, the open plain showing off the towering cylinder of rotating clouds tightly stacked together. No tornado, but I’m happy when we find a field full of pink and purple wildflowers.
Matt, who’s on another storm, sends a snap to the group text of a massive mothership that’s been kind enough to loom over a bright red barn and silo.
We race south to intercept it, tiny bits of hail pinging off the roof as we skirt the storm before bursting out on the other side.
The supercell towers over the farm, just about every chaser we know crowded against the fence line.
Grimacing at the crowd, I pull over on the narrow shoulder and lower my window before hopping out. I glance at Wes, a flicker of unease skating over my skin after what happened this morning, but we’re both in work mode when we grab our cameras and hustle across the road to find a clear shot.
Some storms make it easy on us, hovering over the same area as they lazily spin ever so slowly off to the east. This monster does no such thing, whirling like a top and marching across the plain like an invading army.
We barely get five minutes to shoot before hail starts to pelt down, stinging where it makes contact.
It doesn’t matter. We’re both laughing as we tumble back into the car, quickly slamming the doors shut and raising the windows.
I’m shoving my seat belt back into the clip when Wes leans over, sinks his fingers into my braid, and pulls me in for a quick, hard kiss.
“Have I told you how much I like chasing with you?”
Blushing, I give him a playful shove back into his seat and shift out of park. “You can butter me up later. Are we staying with this one?”
He nods, once again focused as he taps on his iPad. “It’s kicking out a ton of lightning. If we head east and look for a spot, we should get a clear shot.”
Sunset isn’t far off and the storm shows no sign of slowing.
“The low-level jet is going to kick in within a couple of hours.” I point through the windshield where the storm is starting to lose some of its organization despite the amount of lightning still pouring off it.
“Might get it back together when that happens.”
“If it keeps lighting up like this, we could get some great shots of the structure.” Wes is quiet for a few minutes, tapping on his phone, and then lets out a triumphant noise. “I’m about to be your favorite person. Take the next left.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Wes.”
“Sloane.”
Shooting him a dark look, I take the left.
After several miles and even more turns, I’m starting to lose my patience when we come around a large, swooping bend in the road to reveal a half-collapsed windmill, a lone tree, and a rusted-out tractor with the storm looming behind it all.
Beneath the clouds, the horizon has taken on a pale orange glow as the sun sinks lower.
“Well, shit,” I breathe out with glee. It’s perfect.
“You’re welcome,” Wes says, smug as can be, and then hurries to grab our tripods from the back. I follow with the cameras. Together we make quick work of setting up our gear and framing our shots. After that, it’s just a matter of programming the interval timer and waiting.
Capturing lightning is mostly a matter of luck and patience. I let the first few intervals go by, stop long enough to make sure my frame is in focus and I’ve got the exposure where I think I need it, and then it’s back to waiting.
Wes catches my eye, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Hey, darlin’,” he drawls, lifting his arm in invitation. “You good?”
Butterflies take up residence in my belly when he wraps one arm around my shoulders and another around my waist, my back against his chest, so we can both continue to watch the storm.
It’s good to be held, even if the intimacy of the way he’s holding me makes the questions I’ve been trying to ignore louder than ever.
“Sloane?”
“Sorry, just watching the storm.” It’s not entirely a lie, my attention on the sky as lightning splinters the clouds. We’re far enough away that thunder rolls across the plain in grumbling rumbles, only the occasional bolt close enough to produce chest-rattling booms.
And yet between me and Wes, it’s quiet. Easy. So much easier than I ever thought it could be. Maybe it’s that I’m in the eye of his storm. Maybe I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security and the chaos is soon to return worse than ever.
Or maybe I was just wrong about him.
“I like chasing with you too,” I say softly, just loud enough to make sure he hears me over the wind. Tipping my head back to rest on his shoulder, I catch his eyes before he can mask his pleased surprise, the occasional raindrop splattering on my cheek.
His arms tighten when he bends to steal a kiss. It starts sweet and quickly morphs into something else entirely, need pouring off him and pounding in every beat of my pulse.
Until a lightning bolt comes down so close we both jump from the resulting crash of thunder.
“Probably shouldn’t get too distracted.” Wes lets go with a last lingering kiss before checking on his camera. “Open field. Lightning. All that.”
“Is this the part where I call you the fun police?”
He flattens his palms over his heart, all exaggerated incredulity. “Sloane Michaels, are you suggesting something risky?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no fighting a grin.
“CGs seem to be coming down to the right of the rain.” Wes points as another brilliant streak of lightning explodes out of the clouds, illuminating the field and the underside of the storm as it slams into the ground. “I’d kill for a nice big bolt to come down behind that windmill.”
“Or a crawler above all of it.”