Racing Storms Excerpts
Want to let you know Rory at Texas Motor Speedway Next Weekend.
She wondered if anyone heard her gasp, but no one came to investigate within the confines of one of Dallas’s less glamorous office buildings. The occupant of the cubicle next to hers was out with stomach flu, and Decoursey was in a rather isolated corner of the floor anyway, still being the “new girl” after less than a year with the ad agency. This cubicle was certainly a far cry from the office she’d enjoyed at her previous advertising job back in North Carolina. That office hadn’t been the posh corner space, but at least it had featured a blessed door to block sounds like gasps and crying. Until the awful day Rory had kicked that door in. The last time she’d talked with her ex-husband, he’d sworn to kill her. In the back of her mind, she knew it was possible he’d be in the Dallas area sooner or later, because logic held that a member of a NASCAR pit crew would come to nearby Texas Motor Speedway.
I've had it.
The malignant odor wasn’t nearly as bad as the bickering. Kennan closed his eyes in the back seat and tried to shut out the sniping of his friends. It wasn’t working. The day had been a complete disaster, and they were taking it way too seriously. “Can’t you just accept that you’re not always right?” Zane practically yelled. “Right back atcha, a-hole. We shouldn’t even be out here. The semester ends in four weeks. I should be home studying, even if it is Friday.” Travis fumed from the driver’s seat. “Just drive the fucking van. Goddammit.” Zane got in the last obscene word. Blue-sky bust. That’s what storm chasers call it when a layer of warm air in the atmosphere—the “cap”—stays firmly in place, quashing any severe-weather development and, along with it, the camaraderie of a storm-chasing team. Travis and Zane were meteorology graduate students at the University of Oklahoma. This wasn’t just a hobby for them, as it was for Kennan; this was their balls on the line. And what really rubbed salt into their wounds were videos of massive tornadoes well to their north that other chasers had already uploaded for the whole world to see.
Decoursey flinched as her phone rang.
She looked up from an inch-thick fashion magazine and saw the image of a pixieish, red-haired young woman on the cell screen. Settle down. It was only her friend Abby. She tapped the screen to answer. “Hey, Abby, what’s going on? How was work?” “All I can say is TGIF. You’ll find out Monday when you’re back.” “That bad?” “It’s the Simmons account. They’ve named their new home-organization product line ‘HomeOrg,’ which I pointed out sounds like ‘home morgue.’ Who’s going to buy anything called that?” Decoursey laughed nervously. “No one but workaholic forensic pathologists, I guess.” A morgue was the last thing she needed on her mind. “You’re hilarious. I wish I could have ignored the whole mess all day. I need to forget about corporate hell and enjoy my weekend. Speaking of which, what are you doing for supper? Jayesh is coming over, and you’re welcome to join us.” “You’re sweet, but you two invite me over far too often. I think I’m just going to stay in tonight and not intrude.”