Page 1 of Chasing the Other Woman

One

SAM

The hook echo on my monitor makes two promises. The first is that it's going to give the team a run for its money.

The second is that, as promising as it is, the team is likely to come back with less footage than usual. Bad for us, good for any of the surrounding counties.

My hand hovers over the push-to-talk button as I lean closer to the monitor, as if I can talk to the storm through the screen. The mobile command center is just me and a couple of others who stayed back, letting the go-getters take the lead on the road.

Outside, the sky over the field office is the color of a new bruise. The storm is just beyond the horizon, far enough away not to rip the camper to shreds. Close enough that the team can get back to us easily once they've lassoed the monster.

"Rotation just south of Elk Ridge," I say into the comms. "Velocity couplet is broad for now, but keep your eyes open. This thing could drop at any time."

"Copy that, command," Brooks says.

The title grates. Command. Not Sam. Not Sammy. And not in the voice he always used when I was the one sitting in the truck beside him, watching that grin twist his face when he knew we were close.

I adjust the reflectivity loop and don't let it get to me. I can't right now. Brooks and the rest of the team depend on my ability to set aside my discomfort with, well, everything, and make sure this operation continues without a hitch.

Brooks and I built this from scratch from a love of the chase and a desire to actually make a difference. Let people know when they were under the gun. And if we got to feel alive for a little while, all the better.

We had no idea when we started The Storm Posse that it would grow into a multi-million-dollar venture that would bring sponsorships, a streaming deal, and a loyal following of millions. The success had come with a lot of advantages, but there'd been disadvantages as well.

"Lead vehicle," I say, "you're still clear if you take County Road 6 east another two miles, then drop out south.”

“Copy that,” Luci says, her voice chipper despite the danger ahead. “I see it.”

And there’s the biggest disadvantage. Lucinda “Luci” Becker. 24. Hungry, with a love of the chase just like I had at her age. She came to Storm Posse with an eagerness that dazzled Brooks. I told myself her instant hiring had nothing to do with the fact that she was twenty-one at the time, blonde, and photogenic enough that it only took two storms before she had her own fan following. She’d been watching the show for a few years by the time she found us and had a reel of amateur chasing that spoke louder than any resume could have.

And now, she’s sitting in my seat. On the stream feed, I can see her pretty face turned toward the windshield. Brooks sits beside her, looking more like a cowboy about to take on the wind than a meteorologist. Still the man I fell in love with despite everything.

“Good eyes, Luce,” Brooks says.

Luce

I close my eyes, breathing deep.

It’s just a nickname, Sam. One little syllable. Don’t make it into a thing.

He gives everyone a nickname. Hershel is sometimes Hershey Bar. Tony is Tone Loc.

Don’t let this one be different.

Hershel’s voice comes over the comms from the second vehicle. “Don’t leave us flying out here in the wind like your mama’s drawers on the clothesline, Brooks. We’re still behind you, and killin’ us ain’t gonna get you out of buying me a chicken quesadilla at El Traspatio. I’ll come back and collect.”

Brooks laughs. “If anyone’s gonna come back from the dead to collect on a food debt, I have no doubt it’s gonna be you, Hershey Bar.”

See? He gives everyone a nickname. Mine just happens to be ‘Command.’

“If I die, I’m coming back for a taco pizza at Casey’s,” Luci says.

“Well, let’s not die today, Luce,” Brooks says. “Seat belt tight?”

“Yes, Dad,” Luci says.

Brooks's low laugh comes through the comms. It’s that laugh I recognize from late nights in bed.

I look down at my left hand next to the laptop. The wedding ring on my hand is still the same one he gave me before the money, before the success. The one he brandished before me when he got down on one knee in a motel parking lot after a chase. I’d said yes before he could get the words out, Hershel saying, “‘Bout damn time,” behind us.