Finding Storm

by Samantha Towle

  I stand too, taking my plate with me. “That’s code for, you’re going to have a cigarette?”

  He grins. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Nah, I’m just that smart.” I smirk. “You know … unless you snuck a cigarette in when I wasn’t looking, you haven’t smoked since I picked you up from the side of the road this afternoon.”

  “Yeah. And I’m about to die if I don’t have one soon.”

  “Smoking kills,” I remind him, grinning.

  He shakes his head, laughing. “I won’t be long.”

  I watch him go out through the door, and I help Gran collect up the rest of the plates and take them into the kitchen.

  I’m just wiping down the countertops, and Gran is drying off the big pans that won’t fit in the dishwasher when Nick appears in the doorway, closest to me.

  I get a faint whiff of cigarette smoke and mint from him.

  And the smell weirdly doesn’t repulse me like it normally does.

  It just makes me think of him.

  Huh. Interesting.

  I wonder if I’ll always associate the smell with him now.

  He smiles when his eyes meet mine. “I just thought I’d let you know, I’m gonna head to bed.” He stifles a yawn with his hand at his mouth. “It’s been a hell of a long day.”

  Nick. Bed.

  I wonder if he bought any pajamas from the store today or if he actually does sleep naked like he said earlier.

  Sweet Lawd.

  “Good night, Nick,” Gran calls to him. “See you in the morning. Breakfast is between eight and nine.”

  “Eight and nine. Got it. Night, Stella.” His eyes come to rest on me again. “So, I’ll see you at breakfast then?” It’s a definite question.

  And it makes butterflies storm into my stomach.

  I nod, holding his stare. “I’ll be here.”

  His smile reaches all the way up to his eyes. “Great. Okay. So, I’ll see you then. Sleep well, Stevie.”

  “You too.”

  He gives me one last smile before disappearing back through the door.

  I’m still staring at said door when Gran speaks from behind me, “That boy likes you.”

  “Huh?” I turn to look at her.

  “Nick likes you,” she reiterates.

  “No, he doesn’t,” is my response with a laugh. It sounds awkward.

  And now, my heart is going ba-boom! in my chest with excitement at the mere prospect of Nick liking me.

  “You mark my words, he does. I saw the way he kept looking at you at dinner. And just then. That boy has the hots for you.”

  “Gran, please never say ‘hots’ again.”

  She laughs. Drying her hands on the tea towel, she walks over to me. “He likes you. And why wouldn’t he?” She cups my chin in her hand, staring me in the eyes. “You’re as pretty as the sun at rise. You’re smart, funny. And you have the kindest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. I know that little asshole hurt you bad—”

  “Gran …” I cut her off.

  “Just let me say my piece, and I’m done. I know he hurt you. But don’t let his past actions get in the way of your future happiness.”

  “Gran, I barely know Nick. And he’s just passing through town. He’s not here to stay.”

  “He doesn’t need to stay, honey. He just has to put a smile back on your face. And from what I’ve seen, he’s done that already. I’m not saying, marry the boy. I’m saying, he’s hot as blazes. He thinks you’re hot, and you should … make use of that fact. There’s a bottle of whipped cream in the refrigerator, its expiration coming up. Make use of it before it goes bad.”

  “Gran!” I exclaim, nearly choking.

  Gran isn’t ever shy about saying stuff, but there are some words you never want to hear come out of your gran’s mouth, and those are words involving hot boys and whipped cream.

  “What? Your grandpa used to love it when—”

  “And let’s just stop right there,” I cut her off with a groan.

  She chuckles and gives my chin a gentle squeeze. “Just think about it.”

  “I’ll never think of whipped cream the same ever again. You’ve ruined it for me.”

  She laughs again. “I meant, Nick. Enjoy yourself while you’re young. You don’t want to look back when you’re old and have any regrets about missed opportunities.” She kisses my cheek. “I’ll go lock up. You get yourself to bed … or Nick’s.” She winks before breezing out of the kitchen.

  And I’m left standing here, my heart beating quickly, wondering if she could actually be right—that Nick does like me. And whether I should actually be brave and go up to his room.

  Sans whipped cream, of course, because … gross.

  I didn’t go to Nick’s room last night.

  Because I’m not that brave.

  I mean, what if I had gone up there, knocked on his door, and I had read things totally wrong and he didn’t like me in that way?

  I’d have looked like a total idiot.

  Looking like an idiot and being rejected are two of my least favorite things in life.

  So, I went to my own bed and stared at the ceiling for most of the night.

  Fun times.

  “Stevie?” I hear Nick’s voice calling from the dining room. “You around?”

  Christ, just the sound of his voice gives me goose bumps. I’m so screwed.

  “Coming,” I call back.

  If only.

  “He probably wants breakfast,” I say to Gran, who’s just washing up the dishes from our breakfast.

  We ate early with Dad and Beck, who were up and out so they could get a start on Nick’s car.

  I walk through to the dining room, and he’s standing there in the middle of the room, looking like a dream.

  I’m pretty sure he’s gotten even better-looking since I saw him last night.

  “Hey.” He smiles, and it reaches all the way to his eyes.

  “Hi.” I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, giving him what I’m pretty sure is the goofiest smile known to man. “Did you sleep okay?” I ask through my cotton mouth.

  “Better than okay. That bed is seriously comfy.”

  Nick. Bed.

  Dirty thoughts incoming.

  “Good. Great,” I croak. I clear my throat. “Glad to hear it.”

  He’s staring at me, and I’m staring at him, right into those blue eyes of his. And I’m starting to feel all hot and giddy and turned on.

  Sweet Jesus. Pull yourself together, Stevie.

  “Breakfast,” I blurt.

  “What?” is his response.

  “Breakfast,” I repeat. “What can I get you?”

  “Oh. Right. Sure. Well, what’s on the menu?”

  Me.

  “Waffles, pancakes, bacon, eggs any way you want them, fruit, toast, cereal …” I reel off.

  He thinks for a moment. “Can I get waffles topped with fruit?”

  “Sure. Any particular fruit?”

  “Strawberries.”

  “Whipped cream?” The words are out before I even register them.

  Then, I do.

  Gran’s suggestion …

  I can feel my chest and face going red.

  “No. No whipped cream.”

  Thank God.

  “So, just waffles topped with strawberries. You want coffee too?”

  “Absolutely.” He nods.

  “Black?” I say, remembering his order at Starbucks yesterday.

  He smiles at me again. “Yep.”

  “Cool.” I take a step back toward the kitchen door. “Well, sit yourself down, and I’ll bring it through—when it’s ready, of course. Which will be in about five minutes. Ten at the most.”

  Christ, Stevie, stop jabbering on.

  I turn on my heel and hightail it out of there, my heart beating out of my chest.

  God, the effect he has on me is nuts.

  No man has ever affected me in this way before.

  I’m practically panting by the time I rea
ch the kitchen.

  “What does Nick want for breakfast?” Gran asks me.

  “Waffles with strawberries. And coffee.”

  “You make the coffee. I’ll do the waffles.”

  I walk over to the cupboard and get a fresh filter. Take the old one out of the machine, throw it in the trash. Put the new one in and fill it with coffee. I’ve just filled the machine with water when Pen comes walking in through the back door.

  “Hey,” I say to her.

  “Don’t you hey me. I’ve been calling you since last night.” She points an accusing finger at me.

  “I know.” I smile.

  “Morning, Penny,” Gran says.

  “Sorry. Morning, Gran.” Her eyes briefly go to Gran before coming back to me. Her gaze narrows. Her hands go to her hips. “What do you mean, you know? Why didn’t you answer?”

  I stick a cup under the coffee machine and get it going. “Because I knew how much it would annoy you.”

  Her mouth pops into an O.

  I laugh. “You were just calling to grill me about Nick, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell.” Except I want to kiss his face off of him. And do other things. To his hot body. Possibly lick his abs.

  “Well, see, if you’d bothered to answer your phone, you’d know that I wasn’t going to grill you about him. Actually, I have oodles to tell you about Nick.” There she goes, saying his name in that way again.

  Although I am distracted by her word choice. I cock my head to the side, grinning. “Oodles?”

  “Yes, oodles,” she says primly, flipping me the bird, making me laugh.

  “Oh, I’m here for the gossip,” Gran says, leaving the waffle mixing in the KitchenAid and coming over to us.

  Pen takes a deep breath, like she’s about to deliver a speech in front of the entire nation. The hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle. I don’t have a good feeling about this.

  “Nick-is-Storm-Slater,” she blurts out.

  I glance at Gran, who shrugs.

  “Pen, I got none of that. Nick is what?”

  “Nick, the Hottie McTottie you brought into Starbucks yesterday, is the one and only Storm Slater. Lead guitarist in Slater Raze. Only child of Jonny Creed. I friggin’ knew I recognized him yesterday, but I just couldn’t put my finger on where from. Then, it came to me when I was making Mrs. MacIntosh’s hot chocolate. Bam! Hit me like lightning. I was like, That dude is Storm Slater!” She slams her hand on the kitchen counter.

  I glance at Gran again, but she’s looking at Pen with interest. At least one of us knows what she’s going on about.

  “Pen, all I got from that was Nick. Guitarist. Something about a storm and lightning and Mrs. Mackintosh’s hot chocolate.” And now, I want a hot chocolate.

  Pen lets out a sound of exasperation. She looks at Gran helplessly. “You’re her DNA. Maybe she’ll get it, coming from you.”

  Gran turns to me. “Honey, what Penny’s trying to tell us is that Nick isn’t Nick. He’s actually Storm Slater.”

  My brow furrows. “Who’s Storm Slater?”

  “Storm Slater,” Pen says, “is the lead guitarist in Slater Raze, one of the hottest bands around. Total celeb! He’s Jonny Creed’s son. He was raised by Jake Wethers. He comes from music royalty.”

  “Dude, you’re throwing all these names at me, but I still don’t have a friggin’ clue what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m literally going to cry right now,” Pen says to Gran, who consolingly pats her on the arm. “I’m seriously questioning our whole friendship.”

  Pen reaches in her bag and pulls out her cell. She taps the screen and then hands it to me. “Read that. If you don’t get it after this, then I give up.”

  I take her phone from her. It’s a Wikipedia page. The name at the top says Storm Slater.

  Storm Slater (born September 30, 1994) is an American musician, singer, and songwriter. He is the lead guitarist of the American hard rock band Slater Raze, with whom he has achieved worldwide success. He is the only son of the late Jonny Creed.

  I scroll to the picture beneath, studying it.

  It’s Nick.

  So, Nick’s real name is Storm Slater. He’s a guitarist in a rock band.

  Huh. Go figure.

  I hand the phone to Gran, so she can read it.

  “Well?” Pen says to me.

  “Well … I don’t know.” I shrug.

  I go and turn off the KitchenAid because the sound is driving me nuts.

  “Dude, you have a bona fide rock star in the house, and you don’t know!”

  “Will you keep it down?” I whisper-hiss. “He’s right in there.” I point in the direction of the door leading to the dining room.

  Pen’s eyes go to the door. “He’s in there? Right now?”

  I move in front of her path to the door. “Yes. And no, you are not going in there.”

  “Ugh. You’re a total buzzkill, you know. We have a celebrity in our midst. And not even a B-lister. We are talking A-lister here!”

  “We’re talking about a person, Pen. A person who lied about his real name. He did that for a reason.” No reason I can think of right now.

  “Oh, I maybe know why.” Gran raises her hand likes she’s in class.

  “Me too!” Pen bounces on her toes. “That was my next bit of gossip!”

  Gran hands the phone back over to me. I take it. The screen is now showing a news website.

  BREAKING NEWS!

  THERE’S ONE HELL OF A STORM HAPPENING!

  Storm Slater was captured on film in an apparent physical altercation with journalist Jasper Marsh. Marsh had allegedly revealed to Storm during an interview that Storm’s father, the late Jonny Creed, was heading to the airport the night he died to meet the son he hadn’t known he had.

  Now, as we all knew, before his death, Creed was supposedly unaware that he had a son.

  But it’s been exclusively revealed that Creed had received a call from an anonymous source hours before his death, revealing Storm’s paternity. It is said that Creed was in his car on his way to the airport to go meet his son.

  A meeting he tragically never made.

  As you all remember, Jonny Creed died when his car crashed into a ravine late at night. His blood toxicology was later revealed to have been through the roof, leading many to believe that Creed might have actually committed suicide. Something the TMS clan vehemently denied. We now know it’s because they knew the real reason that Creed was in his car that night.

  And it wasn’t just us they kept the truth from.

  Storm too.

  Shame on them!

  Storm was last seen fleeing TMS Records in downtown LA after a confrontation over the death of his father with Jake Wethers, Tom Carter, and Denny Daley.

  We’ve contacted all representatives. But no word back at the time of publication.

  I stare down at the screen, my heart hurting for him.

  Jesus. Poor Nick—I mean, Storm. His dad died before he ever met him. And he thought his father never knew of his existence for all those years.

  And then hearing it from a journalist and having the intimate details of his life splashed all over the news like this? I can’t even imagine how that feels.

  Christ, no wonder he didn’t tell me his real name. Probably wanted to hide for a bit. Pretend to be someone else. Can’t say I blame him.

  “Crazy, huh?” Pen says to me.

  I hand the phone back to Pen. “No. It’s sad,” I say, my chest tight with emotion for him.

  “I remember that young man dying,” Gran tells us. “It was all over the news. You were around four or five at the time, Stevie. And that boy in there is his son.” Her eyes go to the dining room door. “So sad.”

  “But exciting!” Pen says way too loudly.

  I hush her again, my eyes darting to the door.

  “Come on, you have Storm Slater sitting in your dining room,” Pen says, exasperated.

  “Waiting for his breakfast.” My eyes flash to Gra
n, who leaps into action.

  “On it!” She grabs the batter and pours it into the heated waffle maker.

  “Are you not even a little bit excited?” Pen asks me as I take the coffee-filled cup from the machine.

  Well, I was excited because Nick was sitting in there. And I like him. More than anyone should after a day of knowing a guy.

  But now, I don’t know. I guess … I still am excited.

  I mean, he’s still him. Even if his name isn’t what I thought it was.

  Storm Slater.

  Which is a really cool name.

  “Am I excited about Nick—I mean, Storm being a rock star? Nope.” I shake my head. “But you clearly are.”

  Pen’s hands go to her hips. “So, you mean to tell me that if Jim Kerr from Simple Minds was sitting in your dining room right now, you wouldn’t freak out? Or the one from A-ha who’s still hot.”

  “Morten Harket.”

  “That’s the one.” She clicks her fingers. “Total DILF.”

  “True dat. And yeah, I might freak a little. But that’s different.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “It just is.”

  Her gaze narrows. “It isn’t, and you know it.”

  She’s totally right. It isn’t different at all. And now, I feel like a total douchecanoe and a massive hypocrite because I would freak if it were Jim Kerr or Morten Harket sitting in there.

  And that makes me no different to Penny and how she’s reacting now.

  But he’s just … Nick. I mean, Storm. Damn it!

  “Fine, you’re right. It isn’t any different. But at the end of the day, he’s just a guy, Pen. A really nice guy from what I know of him.” Really fucking nice and hot and gorgeous and everything in between. “Who’s had a shitty time of it. And yeah, he’s famous, but knowing that doesn’t mean I’m going to treat him any differently. And neither are you.” I point at her. “Or you.” My finger travels to Gran, who laughs.

  “Stevie, I have far better things to do with my time than go giddy over a rock star. Penny’s the one you need to worry about.”

  “Hey!” she says indignantly. “I have some self-control. Well, okay, I don’t,” she says at my and Gran’s expressions. “But I can be cool. And anyway, I think Raze Rawlins is hotter,” she adds with a toss of hair.

  “Who’s Raze Rawlins?” I ask.