Chasing Storm

by Kade, Teagan

  So he can flirt.

  A hook a finger into the side of my panties and pull, bringing my knees to my chest to draw them up and over my bent legs.

  Finally, bare as the day I was born, I hold up the cotton offenders with one finger. “You were saying?”

  Dan combs his fingers through his hair. “Oh boy, I guess I’m next.”

  I nod slowly, conscious of the cool water between my legs. My nipples draw to tight cigar stubs just below the surface. I want to lift myself up slightly. I want him to see them, but I wait, lips brushing the surface.

  He splashes and fumbles around a bit removing his jocks. He’s not graceful in the slightest, but in his awkward movements there is a reserved kind of charm.

  Finally, he holds his dripping jocks up and tosses them to the growing pile of clothes on the bank.

  The patrol car’s headlights cut a swathe of light down the center of the pond, but we both stay in the shadows.

  I swim just a touch closer. “How does it feel?”

  “Fucking cold.”

  Now it’s my mouth that hangs open. I slap the water hard with both hands, sending large ripples oscillating out to the edges of the pond. “Dan Winter, did you just swear?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I believe I did.”

  I swim closer. “I told you not to call me ma’am.”

  “My apologies. How can I make it up to you?”

  Don’t you dare say it.

  “You could start by keeping me warm.”

  You did. You damn well did.

  I swim forwards until I’m pressed up against him. His body is like marble but his skin is pliant as I grip his arms. Our eyes are in stalemate above the water as my nipples brush against his chest and his erection taps against the side of my thigh.

  Our mouths come together.

  The juxtaposition between the cool waters of the pond and the heat of our mouths and tongues is exquisite. Insects dart through the air, chirping around the perimeter of the pond as the fog that wraps us swims through the light.

  He holds the back of my head, fingers moving up into my hair as he pulls me closer. I press my tongue deeper into the back of his mouth and moan. This is a different Dan. This Dan is taking control.

  I wrap my legs around his torso and run my hands down his back as we struggle to stay afloat.

  I’m fighting to catch my breath as we break away ever so slightly. I look into his obsidian eyes and it seems right.

  I make for his mouth again with greater urgency, my core clenching together with need as I press myself against the flat of his pelvic bone. I grind my clit against him, his cock rising up to nestle into my folds.

  He stops kicking and we both plunge under the water for a moment.

  I come up gasping.

  “Come on,” he says, breathless, towing me to the edge of the jetty.

  He comes behind me, hands on the pale globes of my buttocks, and pushes me up onto the jetty’s surface.

  He pulls himself up from the water beside me, the dark liquid streaming off his body in black sheets.

  I lie down, the wooden slats rough against my skin and spine as he moves over me. The jetty groans with our weight as his lips press down the side of my neck and a nipple finds its way into his mouth.

  I buck up, my back arching. I mewl and moan, completely out of my body and mind at the speed and suddenness of this encounter.

  Slowly, he moves down my body marking every ridge and raised surface with his lips, marking out his territory until he comes to the aperture between my legs.

  When his tongue presses into my slit, I inhale sharply. The sensation is overwhelming, too much to take in as I stare at the stars above.

  He pulls my clit into his mouth and sucks on it, dipping his head to press the tip of his tongue deep into my soaking hole.

  I spread my legs wider and pull him up to me, taking his mouth and tasting myself upon his lips, the earthy taste of my arousal.

  “Are you sure?” he questions, chest billowing and water continuing to spill from his body to stain the wood below.

  I quiver below him and nod.

  “Wait here.”

  He leaps up and dashes for the car. I sit up on my elbows, laughing quietly at the sight of his too-white ass cheeks bobbing through the darkness. He opens the glovebox, running back with bent cock, tearing the condom packet on the way and rolling it over his member as he hovers over me.

  I hold him firm. “You keep condoms in your patrol car?”

  “You never know.”

  He reaches down, fisting his cock and guiding it into place.

  I shift my hips to help him, but he seems confused.

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Here, let me.”

  I reach between us and take hold of his member, placing it against the hot opening of my sex. “Better?”

  “Better,” he smiles, and drives deep inside me.

  It’s been too long since I was with a man in this way. I’ve forgotten the fulfilment, the heightened sensation as Dan pulls back and thrusts forward again, hilting himself in my wetness as I claw down his back and take hold of his ass, lifting my hips to meet him, grinding and pressing myself towards him with animal urgency.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, building into a steady rhythm, hands underneath my buttocks and lifting me into him with every stroke.

  I kiss him deeper, trying to take in every bit of his body. I taste the cinnamon of his mouth, breathe in his overt masculinity as he plunges inside me. In. Out. In. Out.

  My climax comes out of nowhere, barreling through me as I jerk and spasm. My pussy squeezes him in quick contractions. He won’t last long.

  Dan thrusts into me furiously, his breath coming in short gasps. I hold him firm as my own orgasm continues to assault me.

  “Come,” I beg him.

  “Ah!” he cries, running to the end of my pussy and releasing. I let him finish, let him hold me in his arms and his body cover my own.

  Recovered, he lifts himself from me, reaching down to take my chin and pull me back to his mouth.

  He breaks away and I have never seen such satisfaction on anyone’s face.

  Ever.

  “Thank you,” he says, meaning every word.

  I kiss him again. This could be the start of something. I feel no post-coital regret, no immediate shame. “No,” I reply, “thank you.”

  Chapter Five

  The story’s not quite the same in the morning.

  I roll over in Dan’s bed to find two things: a pair of adorable dog eyes watching me over the sheets, and a note.

  Annabelle leaps onto the bed and licks up the side of my face as I struggle to sit up and read the note:

  Sorry I had to leave, but work calls. Please stay. I made you breakfast.

  Dan xx

  Simple words, but that’s Dan.

  I turn and see the breakfast tray by the bed, steam rising from the coffee mug. My nostrils flare. I lie back down.

  Bliss.

  Eventually I rouse myself to finish off the coffee and toast. Dressed only in Dan’s bed sheets, I work my way around the house.

  I was here once for his birthday party back in primary school. It’s exactly as I remember it right down to the doilies on the table and the framed photos on the wall.

  I stop by a family portrait. It’s amazing how much Dan looks like his father, but while Dan smiles in the photo, his father looks ominous, solemn.

  On the table below is another framed photo, Dan in his army uniform, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and a cute brunette by his side.

  A pang of jealously sweeps through me. It takes a while for me to register it, but I note it all the same and make a mental note to enquire further of this mystery girl.

  I make my way back to the room and dress. My bra and panties are still a little damp as I put them on. I’m reminded of the previous night’s events and the string of orgasms that followed.

  There’s a dull ache between my legs,
but it’s nice. I stroke myself down there. Still got it.

  I’m placing the breakfast tray back on the counter when my eyes fall to an official-looking document on top of a pile of bills and general paperwork.

  The letterhead reads: American Veterans Association.

  Don’t do it. Don’t you dare read it.

  It’s a list of appointments. I scan through the times before my eyes finally rest on ‘Overcoming PTSD. All vets welcome’.

  PTSD? He’s never mentioned anything about it.

  I glance back to the appointments. The last matches with the night Dan said he was busy.

  Make like Idina Menzel and let it go, Alice, seriously.

  But I can’t get it out of my head. The need to repair is strong, to take on his case, to care and comfort him.

  You’ve only just met him – again.

  Fuck. I sit down but my head continues to rattle with thoughts.

  As I drive home, I start to recall the rest of the night.

  A lingering sense of guilt begins to develop.

  As much as my thoughts rest with Dan, there was something about that singer at Dixie’s, the resigned way he let them take him away in such contrast to the joy that had been lighting his face on stage.

  An enigma, sure – a dark, attractive enigma I should probably stay the hell away from. I can hear my mom in the back of my head warning me off spending time with Tim. “Boys like that will only bring trouble, Alice. Before you know it you’ll be pregnant and destitute while he blows all your money on booze and drugs.”

  I believed, perhaps with some degree of teenage naivety, that Tim was going to become more than the sum of where he lived and who he was surrounded by. He was going to transcend his situation, and I was going to be by his side. Everyone has the capacity to be change, to be changed. I still believe that.

  Thinking about Tim brings fresh tears to my eyes. I dab them away before I step through the front door at home and “breakfast!” reverberates through the house.

  Mom and Dad seem to be sharing something when I find them in the kitchen.

  Dad holds a stack of pancakes up. “Pancakes?”

  “I’ve already had breakfast.”

  “Oh? Out late, were we?”

  The two of them giggle like schoolgirls.

  “Ha-de-ha-ha.”

  Mom: “Bit of a sleepover?”

  “I’ll be in my room.”

  Dad looks at Mom knowingly. “It’s like we’ve time-warped back to 2010!”

  It doesn’t get any better at the lunch table.

  I can’t stand their smiling faces any longer. I place my salad sandwich down. It spills out on my plate. “Okay, what is it?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” says Mom, busying herself with buttering bread. “It’s just nice to see you out and about again, that’s all.”

  “It’s nice to have you home,” Dad adds.

  “It’s nice to be back.”

  Finally, cordial conversation.

  “Any plans for today?” Dad asks.

  “I was thinking of driving around town a little, seeing what’s changed.”

  What I’m actually thinking of doing, of course, is driving to Millertown and seeing just how much of a story is there for the taking.

  “Well, don’t stay out too late now, especially by yourself. Crime’s really picked up here since…” Dad trails off.

  “Since what?”

  “Oh, you know, like Dan said, we get a lot of out-of-towners through. Best to stay inside at night if you can.”

  Mom puts on her concern face. “We heard about the trouble at Dixie’s.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m talking about,” says Dad, but Mom places a soothing hand on his shoulder.

  “Not now, Gerald.”

  I fully intended to leave right after breakfast for Millertown, but once I’ve gotten through a flurry of emails from the office in New York and an extended phone call with my editor, the day has moved on with lightning speed. Before I know it the sun that so basked the house in the morning has moved away entirely.

  I close my laptop and head out to my car. Storm clouds are looming on the horizon, but I’m not planning to stay long. I throw an umbrella in just in case and hit the road.

  Driving past that corner is always difficult, but today seems particularly painful. I can almost picture Tim again, face larger than life, waving his arm just before he was blinded away in a terrible shriek of metal.

  I didn’t even run to him. He might have been alive. I could have held his hand. My face would have been the last thing he’d seen, a memory of love before the light took him.

  Instead, I stood there like a statue, pissing my pants as the driver of the bus yelled for me to get help.

  I take the highway and head off into the distance.

  Chapter Six

  My primary research tells me Jemma is spot-on. The mill kept the town in a constant state of affluence for almost a century until a series of deaths and board fumbles forced its closure a year or two after I left Rosie. The mill accounted for almost ninety percent of the town’s employment. Without it, Millertown crumbled. Rosie has its own mill, but it was down in supply, unable to take on the massive influx of those looking for employment from Millertown.

  Crime rose, domestic violence soared, and those who couldn’t find cash in Millertown soon found their way across the tracks to their nearest neighbor, Rosie. The bars and shutters that are now a fixture of Rosie aren’t just there for good looks. The residents of Millertown are desperate. Someone needs to tell their story.

  It’s only 10 miles between Rosie and Millertown, but I’m barely five minutes off the highway when all signs of life evaporate. The road pulls out licorice-like ahead into barren fields singular and long.

  The mill’s the first thing I see. It sits on a hill above the town like a lumbering giant. Part of the roof has collapsed. Wooden beams hold up the rest.

  I pass a group of kids on my way through Millertown’s outer limits. They look at me with suspicion, sunken eyes full of despair.

  The town hasn’t fared much better. The main street is potholed and stark, every shop bordered up or broken.

  An old man steps in front of the car. I jam on the brakes. He doesn’t even flinch as my front bumper nudges his knees. He just continues to look ahead, lost.

  Houses soon past my windows. People live here, there is no doubting that, but if they do, it’s behind closed doors.

  I wind up my window as two youths run out to tap on the glass, yelling. Their cheeks are pulled tight, limbs little but bone – classic drug abusers.

  Suddenly, one of my quarter windows shatters. I scream as glass fragments shower over my lap and legs

  A rock sits in the passenger-side foot well. It could easily have hit me in the head.

  I scan the rear-view, but there’s no one there. The streets are bare again.

  I step on the gas and head back out of town just as the downpour starts.

  The window wipers struggle to keep up, rain coming straight through the area where the window was smashed beside me and turning my clothes wet. A crack of thunder shakes the roof lining. I turn the demister on. It does precious little, forcing me to squint into the windscreen while I try to follow the markers on the road.

  The rain increases and the car slips a little as I correct, fighting with the steering wheel to keep straight. Visibility is all but gone, all light seemingly sucked away by the storm.

  The questions come thick and fast into my head.

  Why did you go out in this weather? It’s storm season, you know.

  Why did you even go to Millertown?

  Why don’t you buy a better car?

  I turn the headlights on. As soon as I do there’s a defined wheeze from the engine. The car loses power. I press the accelerator again, but all I get back is a sputter. The engine dies and all I can do is steer the car to the shoulder as the rain continues to fall in great, gulping heaves.

  “Shit.”


  I look through the windscreen. Even through the blur it’s clear I’m in the middle of nowhere.

  I take out my cell and go to dial, but there’s no signal.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  It will be night soon and I can’t afford to be stuck out here. I could walk back to Millertown. It’s closer than Rosie, but I remember those guys that ran out, the look of desperation on their faces. I shiver to think what they might do me alone, cornered.

  I decide to wait five minutes to see if the rain will relent, but when it doesn’t, I make the decision. I’ll walk south, to Rosie, and hope to find someone on the way.

  I take the umbrella and step out into the rain. It hammers at the thin material above like liquid needles. Wind sweeps underneath and I have to use two hands to hold the umbrella in place, my shoes slipping in the dirt and gravel as I start my way down the road.

  An hour in and my legs are burning, my breath coming out in clouded gasps. The umbrella’s long gone, blown away by the wind. My blouse is soaked to translucency and my skirt hangs from my hips heavy with water.

  I shake, teeth chattering in the cold and regretting my decision not to stay with the car.

  At first I think it’s a trick of light, but as I round the bend it becomes clearer. There’s a light in the distance. A window.

  I head towards it and the window becomes a house, a shed, but more than that it becomes warmth. It becomes rescue.

  I cut across a field, losing a shoe in the process but forging ahead without it, sock soggy and damp.

  It’s a house alright, but the light’s coming from the shed to the side, a large, barn-like structure.

  I come around to the front, hugging myself in a vain attempt at warmth.

  I go to knock on the door of the barn, but it swings open before my hand makes contact. There’s light ahead. There’s music.

  “Hello?” I offer, but the music’s too loud. I recognize The Ramones’ Blitzkrieg Bop, a song I haven’t heard for years.

  I take my chance and step inside, thankful to be out of the wet but dripping water and accumulated muck.

  ‘Hello?” I try again, louder now but still not enough to be heard over the din.