Chapter One
Ozrik
If I kept my phone face down on the table, I could pretend the barrage of messages didn’t exist. Each was a mini battalion, sent forth to break my resolve, until I eventually crumbled under the assault and waved the white flag of defeat.
God help me, I loved her, but some days, I had terrible, terrible thoughts unbefitting a son.
She knew that between the beginning of March and June/July-ish, I never silenced the device. Not even at night. Hence, the persistent disturbance. She was nothing if not tenacious. The window of time was excessive, but I refused to miss an alert, which meant that for several months every year, my mother and I were at war. I couldn’t avoid her, and she knew it.
Stella Devereaux did everything in her power to keep me locked in a sterile, padded room, and I did everything in my power to outrun her suffocating idea of love.
Burly Bobby Bakerman, owner, manager, and full-time bartender of the Salty Orange, delivered my third sweating glass of Coke, decorated with its mandatory lime wedge. He removed the empty I’d consumed earlier and set the fresh drink on the soggy cardboard coaster before wiping a few drips of condensation from the waxy wood table surface with a dirty rag.
“Do you know how much bacteria you’re spreading with that cloth?” My gaze never left the YouTube video playing on my iPad.
“What do you care? That shit you’re drinking is battery acid. Do you know what it’s doing to your organs?”
And this from the man whose throat was destroyed from decades of smoking.
Defiantly, I drew the fresh glass of Coke forward and drank deeply from the straw before smacking my lips. “The levels of phosphoric acid in Coke are in no way comparable to battery acid, my friend.”
“I ain’t your friend, Devereaux.”
“In fact, my overconsumption of Coke is more apt to lead to weight gain, heart disease, type two diabetes, tooth decay, fatty liver disease, and kidney stones. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Better yet. Ask my mother. She needs someone to talk to. You remember Stella. Didn’t you two date in high school? Maybe you’re my dad.”
I slid my incessantly buzzing cell to the edge of the table as another text landed. “While you’re at it, tell her I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m licking the bacteria off the tables at the bar.”
Bobby huffed, muttered obscenities, flung the ratty towel over his shoulder, and sauntered to another table and better-paying customers. His real issue had nothing to do with my health. The guy made a living serving alcohol to a bunch of country bumpkins and hated that I spent my days camped out in a booth, “taking up space,” especially when I never ordered more than watery fountain pop for a buck twenty-five a glass—a buck thirty if I demanded a lime wedge, and I did.
It was Bobby’s opinion, and he’d stated it many times, that if I wanted to warm a seat at his fucking bar, I should drink beer like the rest of the drunks—at five fifty a glass. If I consented to a splash of rum in my Coke—six bucks—he’d toss in the lime wedge for free. How generous.
I didn’t object to the price of the beverages, and Bobby knew that. What I needed was to keep my wits about me. Since I was a paying customer, he had no reason to throw me out. Besides, it was all an act. The guy didn’t hate me like he pretended. In fact, he went out of his way to help me out, offering me hours as a bartender on busier weekends so I could earn a few bucks.
So I sat.
For hours at a time.
And drank Coke.
Another buzz sounded from my phone. It jittered against the table, firing arrows at my weakening heart. My resolve to ignore my mother’s patronizing concern thinned with each new text. I didn’t need to read them. I could predict the content of the messages with ninety percent accuracy.
Since I’d slipped out of the house before she was back from church, she would want to know what time I got up, how many hours I slept, had I taken my temperature, my pills, my vitamins, and eaten something nutritious? What was I wearing? Did I apply sunscreen? Where was I going? When would I be home? Who was I with? And please call when you get there. Then, as panic set in, Sweetie, why aren’t you answering my texts?
For the record, I was twenty-four, not fifteen.
Regardless, if I ignored her for too long, she would call the sheriff’s station and the hospitals, convinced I was lying dead in a ditch—a turn of phrase she used often.
Then, to top off the humiliation, Sheriff Barclay, driving at high speed, would pull his cruiser into the Salty Orange, march his arrogant ass inside, and tell me to call my fucking mother already. In case I was unaware, playing messenger wasn’t in his job description. After delivering a reprimand, he would tear out of the parking lot so fast that his tires would spin and spit gravel against the front windows of the bar and leave deep ruts in the parking lot that Bobby would spend the rest of the afternoon bitching about.
This was my life. I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge. That or convince my mother to see a shrink.
Checking the time on the battered wall clock hanging behind the bar, I determined there would be three to four more texts before the inevitable happened. So, instead of responding, I stopped the video I’d been watching and scanned Olivia’s YouTube channel for something I hadn’t seen a hundred times. To say I was obsessed was an understatement.
If comparison was the thief of joy, then Olivia Windrow and her Wind Riders—such a stupid name—were my joy thieves. Her rival team of storm chasers was stealing my literal thunder, despite having been in the industry for less than three years. Their YouTube channel had exploded, and they weren’t even that good. I hated them. They were an industry joke, but I was the only one laughing. Everybody and their fucking dog loved them.
“It’s not a competition,” Noah said when I broached the subject. Except it was.
When the Wind Riders dropped their YouTube channel last year and gained thousands of followers practically overnight, I couldn’t figure it out. Twisted Fates had been at it for far longer, and our following was decent, but it had taken time to build.
They were an instant success.
I watched their videos on repeat, virtually riding along and experiencing every chase they’d gone on the previous year, looking for a reason. They chased the same storms my team chased, and we got better results.
What the Wind Riders had going for them wasn’t skill—they never got within a mile of a tornado, something my team did often. No, what the Wind Riders had was charisma and a leader with a pretty face.
Olivia Windrow was only girl-next-door pretty. She was by no means a knockout, but something about her was fucking mesmerizing. Gun to my head, I couldn’t have told anyone what exactly captured my attention, but it was in every video. Her energy. Her confidence. Her assertiveness. I didn’t often crush on girls—I was about a seventy-thirty in favor of guys in the bi department—but this one had hijacked my hypothalamus for the better part of eleven fucking months, and I hated her.
“Jesus Christ, do you ever answer your phone?”
The crash of the door against the inner wall and the booming voice made me jump. I scrambled to darken the iPad screen as my best friend Vern marched to the booth and dropped into the seat across from me.
“Hey. I was just—”
“Drooling over Liv again? Yeah, I saw. You ever gonna do something about that?” He wiggled his brows.
“Not interested.”
“Sure. Whatever. I don’t have the energy to fight with you.”
A sleek ball of black fur landed on the table and meowed in my face. “Slick!”
“Shit,” Vern hissed, dashing a glance at the bar. “You stupid cat. You can’t sneak in like that. You’ll get me in trouble.”
As Vern spoke, Bobby hollered, “Hey, she can’t be in here. You want me shut down? Get that fucking animal out of my bar.”
“Come here, pretty girl.” I cradled the cat in my arms and kissed her furry face.
Oil Slick was a stray who followed me everywhere. She earned her name not only because of her glossy black coat but also for her ability to sneak into places she wasn’t supposed to be.
Nuzzling her, I returned her outside, knowing she wouldn’t venture far. She was my shadow. Whenever I decided to leave, she would be there waiting. Wherever I went, she would follow. I would adopt and take her home if I wasn’t convinced my mother would have a coronary.
As I dropped back into my seat, Vern rapped the table and raised his voice, “Hey, Bobby. Pint of your finest IPA, and put it on Oz’s tab.”
“I’m not buying your beer.”
“You are, you cheap motherfucker, because we’ve got shit to discuss that’s going to put you in a fabulous mood.”
“Doubtful.”
“Why are you ignoring my texts?”
“I’m ignoring all texts. I’ll give you two guesses why, and the second one doesn’t count.”
With an all-knowing smirk, Vern picked up my abandoned phone. “Stella, I presume?”
Since I was the only person on the planet without password protection, he got his answer the instant he hit the power button and the screen lit up.
Vern let out a low whistle as he shook his head, eyes glimmering with humor. “Duuude. Call Guinness. I think this is a record.” He glanced out the Salty Orange’s deeply tinted front window, scanning the parking lot. “I’m surprised the sheriff hasn’t hunted you down yet.”
Bobby delivered Vern’s drink as I wearily scrubbed my face. “Is it that bad?”
“Twenty-seven, my friend.”
“Fuck my life. I’ve only been here an hour.”
“Try three and forty-five,” Bobby corrected. “If the sheriff chips my front window again, you’re paying for damages.” To Vern, he said, “You want food? Chucky’s cooking.”
“Not today, brother.”
“Suit yourself.” Bobby left us alone.
Vern sipped the foam off his beer as he hovered his finger over the envelope icon on my phone’s homepage. “Can I do the honors?”
“No… Fuck. Fine. I don’t care. Lay it on me.” I braced for impact.
Vern cleared his throat and tapped the icon, then dramatically scrolled to the first missed text from my mother. It took several swipes before he found it. Adopting a horrible imitation of Stella Devereaux—the metric ton of motherly concern included—he read.
“Sweetie, I’m home from church, and you aren’t here. You know I don’t like it when you forget to leave a note. What if something happens?
“Sweetie, what time did you get up this morning? I spoke to Fred next door, and he said he saw you leave the house around eight. I’m sure I heard you milling about in the middle of the night. If you don’t get a full eight hours, your body doesn’t repair itself properly, and you can be more prone to illness. I don’t want you to compromise your already weak immune system.”
“Fred needs to mind his business.” I closed my eyes and sank lower in the booth, the vinyl squeaking under my ass, punctuating my slow descent into madness.
“Oh god.” Vern snorted. “This one’s epic. Sweetie, did you have a bowel movement this morning? I noticed you aren’t eating the bran cereal I bought. I hate for you to risk constipation or, god forbid, colon cancer. Remember what Dr. Evans said? I would appreciate it if you filled in the chart I left in your room. It saves me from having to ask all the time. Dude, dude, duuude. What chart?”
I buried my face in my palms. “Please don’t ask.”
“Is it a poop chart? Oh my god, it’s a poop chart. You have a poop chart. I have to call Lex.”
“Fuck off.”
“Do you have to tell her the size and consistency, too?”
I shot my former best friend the finger, which only encouraged more laughter and indirectly—unintentionally—answered his question.
“Give me my phone back. The humiliation has gone on long enough.”
Vern disagreed and held the device out of my reach. I didn’t have the willpower to fight. What did it matter? The stigma that was Stella Devereaux had belonged to me and me alone since a crisp winter night in 2001, when I came screaming into the world. Living in Elk City, Oklahoma, with its population a smidge over eleven thousand, meant everyone knew paranoid, slightly unhinged Stella Devereaux.
“I’m not finished, sweetie,” Vern mocked, using my mother’s favored term of endearment. “I’ll skip to the good ones.” He skimmed the messages and cleared his throat. “Sweetie, please turn on the fan when you shower. I noticed an excess of condensation around the mirror. Condensation grows mold, and mold aggravates your asthma. Plus, you know your lungs are sensitive to drastic changes in humidity. You don’t want to end up with pneumonia again.”
Another scroll. Vern sipped his beer with a smug grin. It was only funny because it wasn’t him suffering. “Here’s a good one. Sweetie, I don’t see any dishes from your breakfast. Did you eat this morning? Is your appetite off? I thought you looked a little peaked yesterday. Did you take your temperature when you got up?”
I groaned. “She’s going downhill.”
Vern snorted. “I’m pretty sure she went downhill years ago.”
“Shut your fucking mouth and give me my phone.”
“No.” He scrolled and sipped and scrolled and sipped, then almost choked on his ale when he found an especially good one. “Oh my god. Your mother gives me life.”
“Try living with her.”
“She wants to know what color your urine was first thing when you got up and suggests you increase your fluids today. In case you’re coming down with something.”
“Yep. On it.” I drained my Coke via the straw, slurping the dregs around the melted ice cubes at the bottom of the glass. “Another one down. Are you almost finished?”
“I—” At a noise from outside, Vern glanced over my shoulder to the window. Cringing, he laid the device face down and slid it across the table. “You be fucked, my friend.”
“Nooo.” I spun to see what he was looking at, but I knew.
The sound of crunching gravel was familiar. Swirling lights reflected against the glass as Sheriff Barclay screamed into the parking lot and swung his Ford F-250 cruiser around, halting when he was parallel to the building and in perfect view of every patron inside the bar.
“Fuck my life.”
Vern dissolved into laughter.
“You’re batting a hundred, kid,” Bobby called from behind the bar. “What did I tell you?”
Sheriff Barclay tumbled from his vehicle and scarcely spared a moment to adjust his pants before barreling through the door. He didn’t seem to notice Slick on his heels. She was sneaky like that.
The midday sun pierced the gloomy interior, blinding patrons and backlighting the officer as he scanned the minimal crowd. The moment he laid eyes on me, he pointed. “Devereaux, I swear to god.”
I held up my phone, an unspoken promise that I was calling my mother right away.
It wasn’t good enough. Even as I hit connect on her number, the sheriff barked, “I shouldn’t have to drive over here every goddamn time she needs you.”
“Then don’t. No one’s making you.”
Except my mother was not one to be ignored. Not everyone had my stamina, and when Stella Devereaux decided she required police intervention because her son was ignoring her texts, it was easier to perform a courtesy call to Salty’s than suffer her wrath.
No one could figure out why she didn’t call the bar directly. I had few haunts in town, but the Salty Orange was my main squeeze—pun intended—but for whatever reason, Bobby’s phone never rang. I suspected he’d contacted the phone company and had her number blocked years ago.
My mother answered on the first ring, breathless, like she’d been racing from one corner of the county to the other trying to find me.
“Ozrik, is that you?”
Oil Slick landed on the table again, earning a wrathful glare from Bobby.
“Mother, you have caller ID. You know it’s me.”
I pointed at Slick, and Vern took care of the cat.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours. You know how worried I get. I thought you’d died in a ditch. Are you feeling okay? Does your head hurt?”
Yes, I thought.
“No, Mom. My head’s fine.” I locked gazes with Sheriff Barclay.
Seemingly satisfied, he spun on his heels and stormed out, nearly colliding with Vern, who was returning inside after depositing Oil Slick in the parking lot again. A moment later, gravel pelted the window as the sheriff peeled out of the lot, enunciating his fury with a heavy foot on the gas.
“Are you fevered?”
“No. Never felt better.” Twenty-four years living with a mother whom I, in my amateur Google research, had diagnosed as having Munchausen syndrome by proxy had taught me that whatever I claimed didn’t matter. She was the ultimate authority on how I felt, not the other way around.
We spoke for fifteen minutes under the humiliating stares of my best friend, who treated my suffering like it was manufactured for his enjoyment. I answered all her nagging questions, about my temperature, my morning bowel movement, my urine, my fiber intake, and more. Only when I agreed to come home right away so she could look at me, only when I promised to drink a minimum of seventy ounces of water before supper, and only when I assured her that I would provide a pee sample in the morning for her to take to the lab did she relent and let me off the phone.
Vern’s beer was gone, my Coke was empty, and Bobby didn’t seem interested in serving us any longer.
Suddenly exhausted, I shoved my empty glass to the edge of the table. “I gotta go.”
“Not yet. I have news. It’s why I hunted you down.”
“Unless you’ve won the lottery and plan to share the windfall so I can move to another planet, it will have to wait. Stella needs to look at me and touch my forehead and prod my liver.”
I moved to stand, but Vern’s next words stopped me in my tracks. “Not a windfall, but your dreams are about to come true.”
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.
Need more?