Page 33 of Finding Storm

“Fuck! Shit! That burns!”

Grabbing the coffee, I set it in the cupholder and toss all the other shit on the passenger side.

I jump back out of my car. Pulling my sunglasses off, I toss them in the car. I drag my coffee-soaked T-shirt off over my head.

Sighing, I dry my chest off with my T-shirt.

I drag my hands through my hair, looking up to see an older woman—looks to be in her late fifties, maybe early sixties—filling up her car at the next pump over, and she’s blatantly ogling me.

Well, my chest.

She catches my eye and winks at me.

I suppress a laugh, my lips curling into a grin.

She’s a total GILF. Not that I’m into fucking grannies. But she’s a looker for her age, for sure.

I go over to the trunk of my car and pop it open. Get my leather jacket out and toss my wet shirt in. I pull on my jacket, not wanting to drive around shirtless.

I’m back in my car and driving out of there.

I’m not even five minutes out of the gas station, chewing on a Twizzler—goddamn, I love these things—and trying to figure out how to get back on the highway and maybe find a hotel for the night, when my car starts making this sputtering noise. Then, it starts to chug. Really fucking loudly. It sounds like a tank.

“What the hell, girl?”

I glance at my dash. There’re no warning lights. Nothing telling me what’s wrong with her.

A glance in my rearview, and that’s when I see the black smoke pouring out the back of my car.

My heart sinks.

“What the actual fuck!”

Pulling my car to the roadside, I shut the engine off and jump out.

Jesus, it fucking stinks.

I go to the rear of my car and look down at the exhaust. There are still small trails of black smoke coming out.

Just great. This is just fucking great.

I pop the hood and have a look at the engine. Not that I know jack shit about cars, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. I mean, it’s not on fire or anything.

Leaving the hood up, I try turning the engine back on.

Same again. Black smoke pouring out of the exhaust.

I walk back to the hood, staring down at the mechanics of my car.

An almost two-hundred-thousand-dollar car that I’ve had not even six months, and this happens.

Grumbling to myself, cursing Jake, Tom, Denny, and that fucking journalist Jasper—this is their fault; I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for them—I drop the hood. Then, I reach back in my car and turn off the ignition.

I grab my cell and fire it to life.

I need to call AAA.

Do I even have AAA?