Write Your Own Song

Chapter 21

Jack always hated storms. The crashing thunder and flashing lightning made him think of a terrible fight, fists flying in every direction, blocking out the light in bursts of fury, descending upon him like a hail of bullets.

The weird thing was that even though he knew it was a memory, he never could remember the actual event he flashed back to whenever a storm took him by surprise. He couldn't even tell how old he was – just that he felt very small. All he saw were fists, no faces. Everything was backlit, like he was huddled in the dark corner of a room, maybe a closet, trying to avoid the brunt of the attack.

He tried to steady his breathing, he could feel Bobby's eyes on him, could tell he was watching him as he drove. Jack wanted to yell at him to keep his eyes on the fucking road, not on him, but it was hard to talk as he fought to keep from hyperventilating. It hadn't been this bad in a long time, not by a long shot, but it felt like the last few months were rolling right over him, wrapped up in those dark clouds, the sheets of rain, and the ominous rumbling.

And because they were in the middle of nowhere, there was no place to stop. Nothing. They'd taken a bathroom break on the side of the road a couple of hours ago, pissing into the wind, sharing a spot with a gopher or two and not much else.

The rain that enveloped them had come out of nowhere; it was like a carwash from hell but Jack was actually kind of glad that it was so hard to see out the window. The way their luck was going, a tornado was probably headed straight for them, ready to sweep them up and then drop a fucking house on them. He'd rather just not see that one coming.

XxXxXxXxXx

Remy kicked off her shoes as she fell back onto the unmade bed, a sigh escaping her throat as she settled back against the pillows, ready to sleep for a month. It had been a long couple of days. Between Bobby's return, having to shoot a bad guy in the head, and her roommate entertaining what looked like half the Chicago Bears football team in their apartment, Remy needed a vacation – shit, she'd fucking earned one. She didn't hesitate for a second when Tim suggested she beat it for a couple of days, unplug her phone and disappear.

She'd had great plans for that first night off in what felt like a year – a long soak in a bubble bath, a romance novel she'd put down months ago and had yet to finish, a couple of bottles of red wine, some soulful tunes on her iPod and the world could disappear for an hour or twenty.

Those plans were pretty much toast when she got home and found her roommate entertaining a couple of guys. Things seemed tame at the moment, but she wasn't stupid. Anne may look all sweet and innocent, but anyone who could take their clothes off like she could was well practiced in the art of taking them off more places than just a stage.

She was so tired of the revolving door of strippers she shared rent with. She did it as a favor to Bobby, of course. Girl came to town, got a job at the club, no place to stay – hey, Remy's got a free room. Yet another thing the jackass owed her for. She mentally added it to her list – it was a long list and getting longer by the second. At this rate, she was going to be joined at the hip with Bobby Mercer in the afterlife as he spent all eternity making up for all the shit he kept dumping on her.

She looked up at the ceiling and grimaced. Sticking out her tongue, she flipped the bird, pretending it was Bobby staring down at her from the mirror above the bed. She knew he'd lied when he told her he was getting rid of it. Tacky as hell.

Shifting slightly, the bed started to rock and ripple and she threw her arms out to steady herself. She'd forgotten about the waterbed. Well, truthfully, the few times she'd been in Bobby's apartment, she'd been too preoccupied to care if the mattress made it feel like they were on the deck of the Titanic.