The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(17)

Sighing softly, Foster tilted her head to the side. “And they were the most peaceful hours I’ve had since we met.”

“Stop the car.” Tate’s glare was almost palpable, filling the cab with thick cords of tension.

“Not until we need gas.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “And it’s a truck, actually,” she added with forced nonchalance.

“Stop the truck.” His neck flamed the same cardinal red as the old pickup.

“Not until we need gas,” Foster enunciated.

“Fine.” Tate unlatched his seat belt.

“What are you doing?” Foster asked, ping-ponging her attention from the road to him and back again.

He popped the lock. “Getting out of the truck,” Tate stated as simply as if he was recounting what he’d had for lunch that day.

Foster let out a bark of laughter. “I’m going, like, seventy.”

“Then stop the truck,” Tate said with cool determination.

Foster’s brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

With another disinterested shrug, Tate pushed open the door.

Tires screeched as Foster slammed on the brakes and careened onto the shoulder. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she spat, bolting out of the cab to meet him behind the back of the truck. “You almost got out of a moving vehicle. On the freeway! They would’ve been picking up pieces of you for days!” she shouted at him as he limped back in the direction they’d come, his thumb stuck out away from his body. “And now you’re, what? Hitchhiking? Oh, sure. That makes sense. It’s not like you look crazy or anything, all dirty and bleeding from the leg.”

Tate spun around so fast, Foster almost smacked into his chest. “I told you to stop the fucking truck!”

Thunder rumbled overhead, the sky around them darkening.

“And I told you that we need to get as far away from Bugtussle, Misery, as possible!” Rain dusted Foster’s arms and cooled the sticky hot air swirling between them.

“Why?” Tate threw his hands up. “Because some woman I don’t know said some shit I don’t understand?”

“It’s not a stretch to think that you don’t understand a lot of what people say.” A sudden gust threw bits of dirt and rock against her bare legs.

“I’m not stupid, Foster!” Tate shouted over a roar of thunder. “My life was fine before I met you. Perfect even.”

Foster couldn’t keep a wry burst of laughter from shooting from her lips. “Living in the dirty belly button of the U.S. was perfect? Your town had two stoplights! If that’s perfection, then you’re a hell of a lot dumber than I originally thought.”

“And you’re more of a bitch than I thought, and that takes some damn doing!”

Eyes wide, Foster sucked in a surprised breath. “It’s really easy to see why everyone calls you Douchehawk!” Plump raindrops splattered her shoulders, painting her new gray tee the same sooty shade as the gusting, churning sky above.

“No one calls me Douchehawk! No one! Except you! If I wanted to take the time, I could figure out a shitty nickname to call you, too! If there’s even anything shittier than being called a huge, hateful bitch.”

There it was again. The B word. And he was using it to describe her. If her hideous tourist T-shirt had sleeves, she’d roll them up in preparation to rear back and knock him on his ass. “You could figure something out? Really? Could you?” she asked, pitching her voice patronizingly high. “Well, I don’t think we have that kind of time.” She lowered her brow and balled her hands on her hips. “And I am not a huge, hateful bitch!” A blast of wind smacked against her back, and she tensed to keep from stumbling forward.

“My parents are dead,” Tate paused, biting his lower lip. “I watched them get sucked up by a tornado and then burned in an explosion. And then you come along and kidnap me so I won’t be able to plan their funeral or be there for my g-pa or help fix my town. In one evening my life has been destroyed, and I want to know why and how I can put it back together. I can’t do that driving away from my home with you. So, bitch! Move!” Tate’s gaze narrowed as lightning cracked overhead.

“Kidnap you?” Foster’s nails dug into her palms as she tightened her fists. “No one would ever kidnap you. You’re a dick! You keep saying that your parents died like this is a competition—like Cora isn’t important to me, like I didn’t just leave her body back there on a field. You don’t have to be spewed from someone’s vagina or be the result of one lucky sperm to call the people who love you your parents. Cora is a better mom than a lot of bio moms out there, and she’s dead. My mom died today, too! And thirteen years ago my birth mom and dad died in a car accident. Five years ago my adoptive dad, Cora’s husband, died when his boat capsized. So guess what? If this is a competition I win big time because apparently everyone around me dies!” Her skin felt hot and tight, like it had suddenly stretched too thin to contain her. Tears stinging her eyes, Foster’s anger fueled her as she shoved her open palms hard against his chest. “And stop calling me a bitch!”

Tate stumbled backward, landing flat on his butt in a cloud of dust. She shielded her eyes against the stinging rain. Something was … different. Tate sat on the ground looking dumbfounded as water dripped off of him, staining the parched clay brickred. Foster glanced down at her feet as the wailing wind lifted her dank, red hair. Muddy earth bubbled around her Vans as heavy rain pummeled the inch of standing water. But dust had plumed where Tate landed. His hair wasn’t flying around in the wind. There wasn’t any wind where he was, and the earth was dry and …