Page 29 of Haunted By the Storm
The main floor is half-full, with brothers playing pool or watching a baseball game on the large TV. A few nod in greeting as I enter but no one approaches, seeming to sense my desire for space. I find an empty corner and settle in with a book Iborrowed from the clubhouse's modest library, though I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over as thunder grows louder outside.
"Not a fan of storms, are you?"
I look up to find a prospect, not Blaze but another young man, with a closely shaved head and friendly eyes.
"Is it that obvious?" I ask wryly.
He shrugs. "You flinch every time it thunders. Most people don't even notice it."
I close my book, resigned to conversation rather than reading. "I was just wondering when the others might be back."
"Should be soon," he says, glancing at the clock on the wall. "They've been gone a while."
As if on cue, the rumble of motorcycles cuts through the sound of the storm. Through the window, I see headlights cutting through the rain as several bikes pull into the compound.
Relief washes over me, followed immediately by anxiety. Will Storm come and find me? Will he tell me what happened? Hell, do I even want to know?
The prospect excuses himself as the returning brothers enter, shaking rain from their leather and heading straight for the bar. Storm is among them, his expression unreadable as he accepts a glass of amber liquid from the prospect tending the bar.
Our eyes meet across the room, and something in his gaze shifts. Without acknowledging me further, he downs his drink in one go and heads for the stairs, disappearing from view.
The dismissal stings more than it should. I tell myself it's for the best. Whatever happened today, I probably don't want to know the details. But as thunder crashes overhead and the storm intensifies, I find myself wanting the comfort of his presence despite my better judgment.
Another crash of thunder, closer this time, and I'm on my feet before I can second-guess myself. I return the book to itsshelf and head for the stairs, telling myself I'm just checking on Emily, not seeking out Storm.
The hallway is dimly lit, most doors closed for the night. I pause outside my room, hand on the doorknob, but I don't turn it. Instead, I find myself walking further down the hall, toward Storm's room.
I stand outside his door for a long moment, questioning my motives. What am I doing here? What do I want from him?
Before I can answer my own questions, another deafening crash of thunder makes the decision for me. I knock softly, half-hoping he won't hear.
The door opens almost immediately, revealing Storm in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair loose around his shoulders, damp from a recent shower. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of me.
"Camryn," he says, my name a rough whisper on his lips.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I shouldn't have... I just... The storm..."
Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Come in," he says, stepping back to allow me entry.
His room is sparsely furnished, much like mine, but with a few personal touches: a worn leather jacket hung on the wall, a stack of well-read books on the nightstand, a silver chain with a pendant draped over a small framed photo I can't quite make out.
"Is Emily okay?" he asks, closing the door behind me.
"She's asleep," I say, suddenly aware of how foolish this impulse visit was. "I should probably go and check on her."
"Camryn," he says again, the word stopping me in my tracks, "why are you here?"
I turn to face him, finding him closer than I expected. "I saw you come back. I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought."
"You want to know what happened today," he guesses.
I nod hesitantly. "Yes. And no. I'm not sure I want details but... I needed to see you. To know you're okay."
Something softens in his expression. "I'm okay."
"And Eric?"
"Has been warned," he says simply. "In terms he won't misunderstand."
