I can die a blessed and happy man.
Just not today.
Summer 1980
A FEROCIOUS BURST OF LIGHTNING flashes across the ominous Tennessee sky. Thick, swirling clouds blacken to the point it could be the middle of the night instead of early afternoon. I brace myself for the impending crash that’s never far off from Mother Nature’s incandescent bolts of fury. I squeeze my eyes shut, practice my breathing, and count slowly, waiting for the explosion.
It wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always have this fear. When I was a little girl, before I learned the terror thunderstorms could bring, my meteorologist dad made it a game. He taught me to see the beauty in lightning, enjoy the crescendo of thunder. I can’t begin to count how many nights I spent drifting off to sleep to the lullaby of raindrops. The louder, the better.
The nights with the thunderstorms became my favorite moments with Dad. We’d sit out on the covered porch, with me on his lap in his favorite old rocking chair. On occasion, Mom would grab her camera and it became a family affair. After each luminous streak across the sky, he’d tell me to hold my breath and count, just waiting for the beautiful melody thunderstorms designed.
Bonding over storms brought us together.
The same thing tore us apart.
The answering rumble comes on the count of seven, informing me that the storm is approaching. Rather than sit on the side of the road, I need to carry on and get to the lake house before the worst of it arrives. Yet I find it hard to move.
Clammy fingers clutch the steering wheel. I press my forehead to the leather, appreciating the coolness and forcing myself to take deep breaths, keeping the panic at bay.
This too shall pass.
I can practically hear my grandmother’s old adage of a promise, feel the way her soft hand rubbed my back after we left the cemetery. Part of me hated that she felt the need to provide comfort when she’d just buried her son. The other part of me? The daddy’s little girl? I reveled in my need for it.
Brilliant gold flashes flood my vision, barely muted by closed eyes.
Once again, I count.
One…two…three…
BOOM!
The sound is so close, so powerful, that I jump with a shriek, my head jerking up and my eyes popping open. I try to catch my breath when I realize that the sound wasn’t from thunder, but from a man standing at my driver’s-side window.
A fresh wave of terror chills me to the bone.
He’s yelling at me through the window, but with the wind howling and the rain pounding, I can’t hear him through the glass. I could—and probably should—gather my courage, turn the car back on, and put pedal to the metal, but the threat of hydroplaning is enough to give me pause.
At the same time, I’m reminded of the serial killer, that Bundy guy, who wreaked havoc on young, single woman driving alone, and I’m torn.
The man appears to be about my age, with an amiable grin and keen, vibrant brown eyes that watch me curiously. I’m immediately drawn to handsome features that appear kind, helpful.
That’s what they said about Bundy.
Five miles and a thunderstorm lie between me and my grandmother’s lake house. Only five inches and a thin sliver of glass protect me from this stranger.
So, with a whispered prayer, I put my dad’s 1975 Mustang Cobra into gear and take off, hoping I don’t run over the stranger’s toes.
With a quick glance in my rearview mirror, I see the man gaping after me. Though the raindrops on the back window make it nearly impossible to make out his features, a shiver runs down my spine from his intense stare.
If my dad could see me now, creeping his prized possession down a wet road at 15 miles per hour, no doubt he’d roll his eyes, tell me to everything’s fine, and not worry about a little rain. This car, however, is all I have left of him, so fifteen minutes later when I pull into the driveway of my home for the next three months, my fingers are tight with tension. It’s not until I place the baby-blue beauty into park that I rest back against my seat and heave a sigh of relief.
The moment is short lived. Just as another rumble of thunder echoes in the air, the sound of knuckles against the passenger’s-side window accompanies it. Expecting to see my best friend, I nearly jump out of my seat when a hulking figure opens the door and quickly enters my car.
It’s the same man.
In all my worry about the storm, I didn’t even realize he was following me. Shit, shit, shit.
At this precise moment, lighting cuts a jagged line across the dark sky, illuminating his face and casting a menacing glow around him. Ominous thunder rumbles in the not so far distance. I take hold of my keys, just like Dad taught me, ready to puncture his skin or gouge out an eye if I have to.
Backing up against my door, I watch him closely. “Who the hell are you and why did you follow me?”
The guy has the audacity to smile. And my brain has the gall to recognize handsome sitting in front of it rather than send warning bells like it should be doing at stranger danger.
He shakes out his hair, and I flinch as water droplets hit my bare arms.
I glower.
He smirks.
“Do you mind?”
“Nah, babe. Don’t mind at all.” He casts what I presume he thinks is a charming grin.
I hate to admit it, but I’m slightly charmed. And still pretty damn freaked out. I’m not sure if it’s his brawny good looks or the fact that he’s a complete and total stranger breaking into my car that has my heart pounding like a battle drum and my hands clammier than the first time Zach Street held my hand in the fifth grade. Either way, I position my keys in my hand the way Grams showed me if I ever have to attack someone with them.
Sure, it’d be a shame to scar that magnificent face, but it beats him wearing mine.
“Look, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he offers, and I notice a slight Southern drawl. “You just seemed spooked back there. I wouldn’t be the Southern gentleman my momma raised if I didn’t make sure you got home safely.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he holds his palms up, resting his back against the passenger’s door as if he’s settling in for frickin’ teatime. “You thought to follow me home.”
His jaw twitches. “Now that you mention it, perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea.”
“Ya think? Was it also your bright idea to get into the passenger’s side of a stranger’s car? You saw I made my destination. What’s with the intrusion?”
“Well, I was about to drive away, but then you just sat here. So I got curious.”
“You got curious.”
“Yeah, babe,” he drawls.
“Don’t call me that.”
He grins. Of course. “Why not? It’s the truth. Not sure what you see when you look in the mirror, but you’re a babe. Long, blond hair that I bet is smooth as silk if I run my fingers through it. Green eyes that are so damn gorgeous I’m still turned on when they’re tossing daggers in my direction.” His own dark eyes flick down to my lips, and the nerves in my belly awaken. “And those pretty, pouty lips? Well…I won’t tell you what I think about those.”
“Is this the part where you tell me your friends call you Leatherface and you’ve been looking for a face like mine?”
The man roars his head back with resounding laughter. I place my hand on the door handle, ready to make my escape by the time he sits forward.