Page 34 of Finding Storm

My cell starts to go crazy in my hand with incoming messages.

Growling with irritation, I ignore them all.

I pull up Google, search for AAA’s number, and put a call into them.

Okay, so it turns out, I don’t have AAA. And the woman on the phone wasn’t exactly helpful.

For fuck’s sake.

What do I do now?

I glance around like the answer is going to come walking over to me.

It doesn’t.

Well, I ain’t calling anyone for help.

I mean, I could call Raze, but I’m four hours out, and I’m not standing around here for that long.

Think, Slater. Think. I tap my cell against my head.

A garage. I need a garage.

I look around again, but nothing nearby looks like a garage.

I could go back to the gas station. Or …

Google one, ya dumb fuck.

I open up another Google search and type in garages in my area. God bless the internet and its location tracking shit.

Only one garage pops up. It’s a mile away, according to Google. And it’s open. Thank Christ for that.

I need something to go my way right now because, so far, my day has gone to complete and utter shit.

I press my thumb down on the number for the garage, select Call, and then put my cell to my ear as it starts to ring.

I’ve got my hand down one of the guest bathroom toilets when Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” blares out of my cell, letting me know someone is calling.

Why do you have your hand down the toilet? you ask.

Because the last guest who stayed, who left this morning, decided it would be a good idea to flush baby wipes down the toilet.

It wasn’t.

Firstly, gross.

And hello, pollution.

So, now, I have a blocked toilet.

And I’m the one who has to unblock it.

The downside of running a B&B.

A rubber glove on my hand and said hand in the toilet, I try to get all these frigging wipes out that have clogged up the toilet.

I glance over at my cell sitting on the bath edge, where I left it, and it tells me it’s Beck, my annoying older brother.