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Chris knocked his hand away. “No.”
“Liar.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not in any rush to get my ass handed to me again.” Chris gave him a shove. “Go ask Nick.”
“Forget it.” His brother backed off and stepped toward the door.
Chris sat up and rubbed at his eyes. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d been recruited for trouble. “Wait.”
Gabriel waited.
“Why are you asking me?”
Gabriel smiled, sensing—correctly—that Chris was starting to waver. “Thought you might like a little vengeance.”
“You mean Nick said no.”
“Does it matter?”
Chris hesitated. Did it matter?
Thunder rolled outside, and Gabriel glanced at the window. “It seemed like your kind of night.”
It felt like his kind of night. The rain liked this idea. Chris felt it pulling him, drawing his focus.
He hated Tyler. He hated them all.
But he hated his own fear more.
He nodded. “All right.”
“Get dressed. Think you can rile the storm if I help?”
Chris threw back his blankets. Rain whipped against the screen, already willing. “Sure,” he said, reaching for today’s jeans from the pile in the corner. “Why?”
Lightning lit up the room. Gabriel smiled. “Because we need Mike’s truck.”
Michael’s work truck sounded like an orchestra of chainsaws when Gabriel fired up the diesel engine. As soon as the rain touched his skin, Chris called to it, urging it faster, driving drops against the house until the rattle on the siding would be louder than the engine.
He kept the window of the cab open, his hand on the door. Storms liked adventure. Or maybe they liked panic. Whatever, he kept up a litany in his head, begging the rain to mask their departure.
Gabriel called lightning from the sky. Chris felt every surge, every strike, the electricity racing through his storm to find something to burn. It hit close now, as if the lightning sought his brother the way the rain looked for him.
A tree down the street took a bolt. Wood cracked and split, sounding like gunfire.
Chris glanced at the house, watching the dark upstairs windows for any sign of movement. They were rolling down the driveway in neutral, the headlights off, but any moment the porch lights could flare to life and Michael would come flying out of the house.
Chris swallowed.
Gabriel punched him in the shoulder. “Relax.”
“Try not to strike the truck. We might not be able to explain that away.”
Lightning struck the road at the base of the driveway, not five feet in front of them. Chris jumped a mile.
Gabriel laughed. “Now that was just lucky.”
Chris scowled. “Do we have a plan or anything? Why did we need all the fertilizer?”
