The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(15)

Sure enough, Tate was zonked out—sleeping so deeply that his hands twitched with a dream.

Did I really do that, too?

Lost in her thoughts, the Quickie Mart seemed to pop up out of nowhere and Foster made a sharp turn into the gravel parking lot.

Tate’s head shot up and he grunted disapprovingly.

“Sorry.” Foster left the truck running and slid out of the cab. “Any requests?”

Half asleep, or possibly half passed out, Tate mumbled something unintelligible and shooed her away.

“Hey, don’t be upset when I don’t bring you back anything,” Foster said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder and scratching the base of her disgustingly matted bun. Her head itched. Her face itched. Hell, any exposed skin grew more and more itchy and uncomfortable as the mud dried, tightened, and turned into gross dirt scabs. Foster reached behind the seat, grabbed a dusty Spartan hat, and smashed it down over her tangled hair. With a sigh, she brushed away the dirt she could from her damp top, closed the door, and trudged toward the Quickie Mart, head down against the endless rain.

Thwack! Foster tensed as she opened the dingy, rain-streaked door. Thwack! Thwack, thwack!

“Dagnabit, piece a crap television. Work!” He reared back a pale, pudgy hand and smacked the side of the clunky box. Thwack!

“Umm,” Foster cleared her throat, and let the door swing shut behind her as she wiped water and who knew what else from her face. “Excuse me?”

The attendant hopped from his step stool, wincing when his feet hit the ground. “Caught out in that storm, huh?” He wiped a yellowing handkerchief down his cheeks, pink with exertion. “Not even an umbrella will save you from the rain now. Not no more.” He felt behind his ear and pulled out a toothpick. “It’s like them storms suddenly got minds of they own.” He grunted, shoving the toothpick between his lips while scratching at his bulging stomach.

“Yeah.” The air conditioner kicked on and Foster shivered in the cool breeze. “I just need a few things, Band-Aids, water…” She bit her bottom lip to keep her teeth from clacking.

“Over by the headache pills and all of them feminine lady things.” He winked and motioned to the back of the store.

“Thanks.” Foster attempted a polite smile, but felt her lips twist into a disgusted grimace. No matter how hard she tried, being polite didn’t come easily, especially not to bumpkin Neanderthals. And, well, maybe she wasn’t trying that hard.

Foster’s shoes squeaked on the sticky tile as she turned down the first aisle, the steady thwack thwack echoing behind her. With practiced expertise she plucked her favorite snacks from the shelves as she wound her way to the back of the store. She had made enough stops at enough stores like this to know exactly which, out of all of the gross processed foods, would stay in your stomach and which would leave you sprinting from the car to the nearest roadside ditch. Her stomach grumbled as if in remembrance. She’d made that mistake a few times.

Staying as far away from the cold air of the reach-in as possible, she grabbed enough bottles of water to not only stay hydrated, but also to rinse Tate’s wound and some of the grime from her own hands and face.

She tucked a box of large Band-Aids and gauze under her chin, snagged a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a tube of triple antibiotic goo and waddled, arms full, to the checkout counter.

“And I’ll take a couple of these.” She pulled two SOMEBODY IN MISSOURI LOVES ME Tshirts off the rack by the register and threw them onto the pile.

The man grunted, taking the chewed toothpick from his mouth and pointing it at the TV. “Always gotta be at least two people out there in them damn storms.”

The flickering image cleared, and her pulse quickened.

It was her.

“One idgit out there like this one filming with one of them smart phones,” he continued. “And at least one other out there in the thick of it. Dumb ass rednecks.”

No, it was them. She watched Tate join her as both of them lifted their hands and actually paused the tornado.

“Well I’ll be…” His hand fell to his side and the toothpick made a hollow clink as it bounced off the counter and onto the floor.

Her mouth went dry and she swallowed hard as she watched Tate stretch his arm back and … Static swallowed the image.

Foster lowered the cap over her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to hide the rip across the front of her soaked sweatshirt. “Just this stuff.” Her hands trembled as she dug through the bag for Cora’s wallet.

“Hey, that’s you in the middle of that ball field,” his gaze swept over her, pausing at her dirt-caked hands, the rip in her shirt, and finally on the long tail of muddy hair draped across her shoulder. “Ain’t it?”

“Me?” Her attempt at a casual laugh sounded more like the bray of a strangled goat. “Nah,” she shrugged. “No way. That’s not me. I don’t like sports. At all. Football’s even at the top of my sports I hate list.” She bit the inside of her cheeks to silence her nervous bleating.

“No, no, that was you.” His wisps of hair fluttered as he bobbed his head up and down. “Same Panther’s sweatshirt. Same red hair. What’d you do to that tornado? I’ve seen my share of ’em out here, what with ’em poppin’ up every other week here in the past few months, and I ain’t never seen one stop. Not like that. Not like it was listenin’ to you tellin’ it to.” His twang deepened as his words came out in a rush of excitement. “Oh, man. I gotta call my cousin Bobby. He works up there at the news station. Be willin’ to pay at least fifty bucks for a real-life tornado tamin’,” he paused, yanking his phone from his pocket. “Whatever you are.”