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March
“Shit- Cow! We got cows!”
Jo’s frantic voice barely reaches you over the wind. You turn away from the twister to look at her, project temporarily forgotten as you let your camera arm drop and try to make sense of her words. Cow? Where?
There’s a deafening crash from behind, and as you’re turning your head to investigate the sound, your feet are swept out from under you. Someone shouts your name through the storm- whoever it is is closer to you than Jo. Your hand reflexively tightens around your camera as you brace for impact only to land on something warm instead of the hard, wet ground you’re expecting. Strong arms wrap around your waist, and then, you’re tumbling off of the road. You tuck your camera against your chest and grab a fistful of fabric while the world spins, bits of fencing and uprooted plants raining down around you. Something collides with your back hard enough to pop something, and you let out a winded groan against your savior’s chest. The two of you come to a stop at the bottom of a steep ditch, your left side and their right landing in a shallow stream of runoff that quickly soaks through your shirt and leaves you shivering. Something passes by you, dangerously close. The wind becomes a deafening howl in your ears, and the stream is suddenly kicked up in a spray that wets the rest of your clothing. Mud, twigs, and other debris whip past you, tearing at your arms and legs, and then the storm turns South. The wind dies down, and with it, the rain. The arms around your waist tug you into a sitting position.
“You alright?” A familiar voice inquires.
You lean back to look at your companion, and your heart stutters in your chest. Bill is right there, and he’s completely soaked. There’s a chunk of mud on his right cheek from where he landed in the stream and rainwater dripping from the end of his nose. He frowns at you when you don’t immediately respond, blue eyes shining with concern. Two cold hands frame your jaw and tilt your head this way and that while he searches you for signs of a concussion.
“Fine,” You dazedly mumble, “I’m fine.”
“Don’t look like it.” He mutters, thumbs sweeping in a slow arc across your cheeks.
It’s difficult to form a reply when you’re so focused on staring at the rain that’s catching on his eyelashes. You settle for nodding and repeating yourself, and the storm chaser fixes you with an amused grin that dimples his cheeks.
“Yeah, you’re doin’ great. Let’s get Beltzer to look at ya.”
You nod sluggishly, still staring, and gather just enough of your wits to say, “Sounds like a good idea.”
Bill’s grin widens, and you find yourself smiling to match it. His eyes flick to your lips for a split second before he hauls himself to his feet and offers you a hand up.
April
The gash runs from his temple to his jaw, and the left side of his face is a horrid mask of blood and dirt, but Bill insists that he doesn’t need any help as you take him by the hand and drag him out of the passenger seat of his own truck. He lags behind you like a stubborn dog while you pull him toward a drugstore.
“Come on- I’ve had worse!” He whines, grimacing when he tries to smile and only succeeds in agitating the wound.
Someone calls out, “Need a hand?” while the rest of the team heads toward the nearest diner, and you glance over your shoulder to see Dusty anxiously trailing after you, both hands nervously wringing the cuffs of his sweatshirt. You shake your head and give him a reassuring smile.
“Cool! I mean, not cool that the Extreme got beat up, but cool that you don’t need any help ‘cause you’re, y’know, capable like that. Hey, if there’s any gummy worms in there-”
“We’ve got it.” Bill drawls, snapping Dusty a mock salute with his free hand.
“Sick!”
You force Bill to sit on a bench outside of the store’s wide front windows while you run in and buy what you need (which includes Dusty’s gummy worms). In less than five minutes, you’re perched cross-legged on the bench and facing down Bill with a lapful of medical supplies. He jolts and hisses at the first touch of an alcohol wipe on his skin, and you put a steadying hand on his jaw to keep him from moving again as you wipe away the blood and dirt.
“You just got sideswiped by a fencepost and now you’re shying away from a wet wipe?” You scoff, “What kind of Extreme are you?”
“That was different!” He grouses, the tips of his ears turning red under your watchful gaze, “There was adrenaline pumpin’ through me, and it was a life or death situation, it didn’t hurt so damned much-”
“Oh, so I’m a terrible medic?” You joke, patting down the now-clean wound with a dry cotton ball.
“Hey now- I never said you weren’t good at your job.” He argues with a weak chuckle.
“Mhmm,” You muse, “I get it. This was all just a grand scheme to get me to patch you up.”
Bill sputters, “I did not change the course of a tornado just to arrange an impromptu doctor’s appointment with you!” and tries to glare at you, but your hold on his chin prevents him from turning his head toward you. He settles for glowering at the sidewalk while you carefully apply butterfly tape to the widest parts of the gash.
“Not that I don’t like your methods.” He mutters, the redness on his ears quickly spreading to his cheeks.
You snort at the comment, but internally, a horde of butterflies has taken up residence in your stomach. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, and your hands start to tremble as you try to place the last two bandages on his cheek. You crumple the discarded paper backings in one hand and clutch Dusty’s bag of gummy worms a bit too tightly in the other, chirping, “Alright- that’s done!” in a voice that’s much too shaky.
The walk to the diner seems to stretch on forever. You make idle chit chat with Bill as you go, but your mind keeps returning to that loaded compliment and his nervous blush. Every brush of his shoulder against yours sends a shock down your arm. Bill holds the diner’s front door open for you, and you’re quick to speed over to the grad students’ booth as soon as you enter. Dusty gives you a sunny grin when he sees the bag of treats in your hand. Bill sidles up to you while Dusty digs in his sweatshirt for cash to pay you back with, and Haynes peers over your shoulder to get a look at the boss’ injury.
“Hey- that doesn’t look so bad now.” She comments, jerking her chin at your handiwork.
“Well, I had a good doctor lookin’ after me.”
You look over your shoulder just in time to catch Bill’s eye as he turns away from the table to head toward the counter, and the conspiratorial wink that he gives you shakes you to your core.
May
“Why don’t you ride with Bill for the rest of the season?” Jo suggests, eyes shining like she’s in on a joke that you don’t understand.
“Well… Well, I-”
“You should! I think it would be good for him.”
She gives you a heavy-handed pat on the back, and you look over her shoulder just in time to meet Dusty and Joey’s eyes before the two boys snort and hastily look down at their plates. They feign ignorance when you wander toward Meg’s dining table and ask about what they know.
“Oh, nothin’,” Joey drawls through a mouthful of pancakes, flapping a dismissive hand at you, “You’re just gettin’ put in the danger zone, is all.”
“What does Dusty call it?” Rabbit muses, brow furrowing in a look of mock confusion, “The Suck Zone?”
Joey’s answering hacking laughter launches bits of chewed up breakfast across the table, and that seems to mark the official end of your line of inquiry. You roll your eyes at the pair and meander through the old house, floorboards creaking underfoot. Raucous laughter drifts through the doorway to the T.V. room, but you bypass the din in search of a quiet corner to spend the evening in. Eventually, you pass through the empty sun room at the rear of the house and spot Bill through one of the windows. Meg’s yard is a kind of controlled chaos- native plants and long grass with a well-beaten dirt path that shoots out from the back door and cuts through the flora toward a long-unused garden shed. Half-buried in the explosion of spring wildflowers is a set of rusty steel lawn chairs. Bill has planted himself in one and set a cooler next to the other as a makeshift table. His untouched dinner is steaming away on a paper plate while he stares out at the darkening sky. You push the back door open as gently as you can, but it still squeals on its hinges and startles the weatherman. He jolts and twists around to look at the house, and his initial frown is quickly replaced by a faint smile when his eyes land on you. You whisper an apology and let the door fall shut behind you as you tromp through the yard, knee-high grass whipping around your legs.
Bill takes his plate off of the cooler and lifts the lid with his free hand, nodding toward the contents as you approach, “It’s nothin’ fancy, but it’s cold.”
You’re expecting to find that the cooler is full of beer, but to your surprise, it’s packed with glass bottles of soda. You mention this to Bill, and the storm chaser lets out a self-conscious chuckle, “Gave up drinkin’ after I earned my nickname.”
“I thought you said that story wasn’t true.” You poke as you snag a drink and plop into the empty lawn chair.
“It wasn’t entirely true,” He clarifies, setting his plate on the cooler and pointing an accusatory finger at you, “I wasn’t butt naked- I was in my skivvies.”
You sputter for a moment before breaking into a fit of laughter. Bill maintains his solemn expression for all of ten seconds before his lips quirk into an unwilling smile and he begins to laugh with you.
“So what you’re saying is I can put that on national television as long as I tell the right version?”
“Hell, no-”
“Maybe Dusty has some video of it somewhere-”
“I’ll sue,” Bill insists, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter, “I’ll sue the whole damned station if I have to.”
The giggling lapses into comfortable silence for the better part of twenty minutes- just the two of you sitting amid the rustling grass, watching the sky change from blue to purple. Your bottle is mostly empty by the time you speak again. You keep your voice low in an attempt to maintain the peaceful atmosphere.
“Jo wants us to ride together for the rest of the season.”
Bill looks down at the ground and snorts. His answering smile seems almost self-conscious as he mutters, “She does, does she?”
“She said something about it being good for you.”
He takes a swig of his drink and chuckles, “I bet,” over the rim of the bottle.
“O-Only if it’s not a bother,” You hastily backpedal, “I can always-”
“No, no!” Bill exclaims, giving you a concerned frown, “I was hopin’- I mean, I’d like- Well… If ya don’t mind learnin’ how to set up Dorothy, it’d be nice to have your company. Your help, I mean...”
His voice trails off into an embarrassed huff, and he fiddles with his watchband with his free hand while he looks everywhere but at you. You’re not faring any better, heart beating double-time at the implication behind his ramble. Your voice comes out shakier than you’d like when you start to answer, so you clear your throat and try again.
“I’d love to ride with you. Like to learn more about… about how Dorothy works.”
The learning process was oddly long, and not every day is a success. You spend many hours dropping your camera to help gather up Dorothy’s sensors after she’d fall out of the truck or, worse, become airborne for a minute and then be dumped into a wheat field some 200 feet away from the road. It is dangerous being the frontman, it is reckless and inherently insane, but when you get to see Dorothy fly for the first time under your watch- get to hear the excited screams of your new friends over the howl of the twister while the wind whips your face and the rain soaks through your shirt- you finally understand what Bill had told you during your first interview with him.
“Makes you feel alive,” He’d insisted, holding his hands up and clenching them into fists for emphasis, “Reminds you of how small you are- how precious your life is.”
June
It’s Wednesday, and while the rest of the world is off to school or the office, you’re hanging halfway out of Bill’s passenger window, camera in hand, as he speeds down a dirt road that’s littered with deep potholes. The first tornado of the day is small, but it’s the first time in a week that you’ll be able to track a cyclone for longer than three minutes. Aside from the road you’re currently on, there’s nothing in its path but a wide, flat expanse of BLM land. Nothing to break it up- no obstacles for miles. The opening notes of Fortunate Son blast forth from Dusty’s loudspeakers, barely audible over the roar of the truck engine and the whistle of the wind in your ears. You grin in spite of yourself, a delirious laugh slipping from your lips, and Bill chuckles along with you.
“Now I know you’re really part of the team,” He shouts over the chaos, “Over there gigglin’ in the face of Mother Nature.”
You keep the camera rolling and pull yourself back into the cab with a grunt, pointing the lens at your driver and announcing, “According to some, that’s the least crazy thing that’s ever been done to a tornado, and you, of all people, should know that.”
The former weatherman’s cheeks go dark, and he rolls his eyes, the corners of his mouth tucking into an exasperated smirk. He glances toward you and points an accusatory finger at the camera, the vehicle veering to the right while his eyes are off of the road, and yells, “For the record, that story has never been proved, and you are not putting it on national television.”
“I won’t even be able to put it on my computer for processing if you keep us on our current trajectory.” You snort, turning the camera toward the windshield to show your future audience that the truck is no longer on the road.
There’s a garbled string of curses from the driver’s seat before Bill jerks the wheel to the left. You come out of your seat multiple times as the truck jolts and bounces its way back up the shoulder, and you have to abandon your camera in one of the cupholders in favor of planting both hands on the roof liner.
“Taking a shortcut, there, boss?” Rabbit’s smug voice inquires over the radio.
Bill snags the mic and sarcastically chirps, “Just breakin’ in the new tires!” and the answering laughter of the crew is music to your ears.
“How long have you been doin’ this, again?” You shout, mouth quirking into an incredulous smile.
His answering laugh is a low, indulgent chuckle that makes something flutter in your stomach, and you find your mind drifting with thoughts of that laugh in a different, more domestic context, the sounds of the storm falling into the background as you get lost in a daydream. You’re torn away from your thoughts by Bill’s urgent shouts, and with a shake of your head, you come back to reality. He’s looking at you expectantly, and your body jolts into action without any conscious decision from you, throwing the rear window open so you can wriggle out into the truck bed and prep Dorothy. Rain instantly soaks through your shirt and runs down your face in icy rivulets. You have to squint to keep it out of your eyes while you flick switches and push buttons with numb fingers.
Your partner shouts, “Hang on to somethin’!” through the back window, and you have just enough time to grab hold of Dorothy’s windspeed gauge before Bill yanks the handbrake and whips the truck around. The world spins, tires squeal on wet pavement, and the ratchet straps anchoring Dorothy to the bed creak dangerously as the machine tries to tilt to one side. You plant both hands on her lid and press downward with all of your strength, and to your relief, she settles just as the truck comes to a stop. Bill springs from the cab and rushes to open the tailgate while you release the straps one at a time.
“You really have to make a better system for this!” You scream over the wind, wet fingers slipping on the release for the last strap.
Bill’s maniacal cackle fills the air, “Wouldn’t be any fun without a challenge!”
The wind picks up until you can’t hear anything over it. Your hair whips at your face and stings your skin while you tug on the strap with no success, and your heart starts to race at the telltale sound of the cyclone barreling toward you. Bill lets you struggle for another three seconds before vaulting up into the bed and hunkering down next to you. Cold hands settle over yours, and the two of you manage to wrench the strap’s rusted clamp open with your combined strength. You push Dorothy toward the tailgate while Bill pulls, and with a bit of awkward maneuvering, you manage to get the device on the ground. Wheatgrass and clods of dirt start to rain down on you as you prepare to hop out of the bed, and to your horror, the tornado is less than half a mile off of the road and speeding toward you with all haste. Bill doesn’t bother with the tailgate- just sprints toward the cab and hauls himself into the truck without closing his door. You step back into the bed and pull the tailgate closed as the engine roars to life, tucking yourself against it and shielding your head with your arms while more debris lands on and around you.
Bill mashes the accelerator, and you’re pinned against the tailgate while the truck fishtails down the road. Jo’s excited voice shouts, “It’s turning West!” over the radio, and you’re thrown backward as the truck skids to a stop. You land on your back, head smacking against the bed, and curl in on yourself with a pained groan. You barely hear Bill’s boot heels clock on the pavement as he rounds the back of the truck. He peers over the side of the bed and mutters a concerned, “Oh, hell-” when he sees your current state, hastily dropping the tailgate and hopping into the bed with you. He settles near your left shoulder. Warm, calloused hands trace your jaw and cradle the base of your skull, searching for injuries.
“Did we get it?” You mutter, head throbbing from the impact and heart pounding at the feeling of his skin against yours.
“Yeah,” He breathes, “Yeah, we got it.”
You try to get up, intent on watching the twister make its way across the plains, but something in your neck screams in protest when you try to lift your head. One of the hands on your head drifts downward to plant itself between your shoulder blades, and Bill moves with you while he helps you ease into a sitting position. You can finally see over the lip of the bed and are just in time to watch Dorothy’s lid pop open before she disappears into the twister. Hundreds of sensors take to the sky, their dim LEDs flying in a wide spiral as the wind carries them upward. Your lips part around an awed scoff.
“This is probably… What- my hundredth time watching her fly? It’s just as beautiful as the first.”
The hand on your back moves slowly up and down your spine once, twice, and then settles at your waist. You glance to the left, taken aback by such a forward gesture, but Bill’s looking at the tornado with a dazed smile. The wind lessens as the storm moves Southward, and all that’s left is a warm, pleasant breeze that carries the smell of ripped grass and wet soil.
“It just gets better every time.” He muses.
“It’s amazing.” You breathe, leaning into his side and soaking up some of his warmth while you still have the chance.
He lets you rest against him, and the hand on your waist gives a comforting squeeze before the weatherman freezes and seems to snap back to reality. He clears his throat and jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned, gaze snapping toward you as he bashfully mutters, “Probably should get you to a doctor or somethin’, huh? Sorry for the whiplash.”
July
You hook your laptop up to Dusty’s gigantic computer system and prepare for a long night of editing in the back of his converted camper. Warm light filters in through the windshield, and you can just hear the sounds of the team as they celebrate the tail end of another successful storm season. You smile to yourself while you listen to the revelry, happy for the group but glad to have some time to yourself. You settle into the well-worn desk chair and plug your camcorder into your computer, taking one last look through Meg’s front windows before you dive into your project.
All in all, you spend the next three hours splicing clips together and replaying the memories associated with them. The lights in the main house are still on, but it sounds like the party has died down. You scroll back to the beginning of your movie and freeze halfway through rewinding. Uh oh. You go back to the end of your project and scrub backward slowly, methodically. Your stomach does a nervous little flip when you realize that most of your footage contains shots of Bill. Him silhouetted against the sunset in Meg’s backyard, Mose sitting faithfully at his side; his sunny grin and excited whoops after the two of you successfully launch Dorothy; rolling his eyes at you as you film him with that gash on the side of his face for your “risks” segment; a long, uncut clip of your opening interview, full of smiles and quiet laughter.
Your heart sinks at the memory of all of those intimate moments. Every time he’d laugh at your jokes or give you that sunny smile, you’d have to remind yourself that you’re not special- you’re not even interesting to someone like him. He’d bring you coffee when you stayed up late editing, but it was just because you were the first stop before he delivered drinks to the rest of the crew. He’d pay for your lunch sometimes, but he also bought extra cheeseburgers for Dusty when the grad was a dollar short. You’d foolishly allowed hope to settle in your heart when you learned about his and Jo’s divorce the year before, but it was quickly snuffed out upon hearing the reasoning behind it.
“Oh, it was the adrenaline,” Preacher had murmured to you, loose-lipped after a night of cold beer and hot steak in Meg’s backyard, “Happens to all of us at least once. You almost die together and suddenly you think they’re the one, but it’s just the hormones talking. Once you come down from the rush, you realize you’ve got nothin’ in common.”
“What about Beltzer and Haynes?”
“They were together before we started our little suicide mission,” The bespectacled analyst divulged, “Adrenaline just made ‘em stronger.”
But, is this just adrenaline? What about the arm he put around you after he gave you a concussion? The kiss on your forehead that he’d tried to explain away as excitement after you’d finished your first successful launch of Dorothy? You shake your head, annoyed with yourself for looking too hard into everything, and turn toward the front of the camper, intent on snagging your long-cold cup of coffee from the center console. Your arm only extends about halfway before running into something warm, and you look up to see just the person you were hoping not to run into again tonight.
“How’s it comin’ along?” Bill softly inquires, seemingly unfazed by the fact that you almost elbowed him in the stomach.
“I-It- Uh- It’s going… great!” You sputter, leaning around him to continue your quest for your coffee.
Gentle fingers catch your wrist, and he places a fresh mug into your hand.
“Figured you’d need more since you’ve been out here for so long,” He murmurs, letting you go and moving to lean against the map counter just behind your chair.
You nod, throat feeling suddenly dry as you turn back to your screen to see it playing a different clip of Bill. This time, he’s wandering down the center line of a highway somewhere in the northeastern part of the state, shadow trailing long behind him while the sun dips below the horizon. You clear your throat and skip past the film only to land on yet another candid shot, and you give up on the spot, head hanging as you stare down at your mug and try to ignore the heat blooming on your cheeks. Bill lets out a breathy laugh and murmurs, “Didn’t get any footage of the tornadoes. Looks like you’re gonna have to stay.”
“I bet everyone would love that.” You sarcastically titter, ceramic creaking under your fingertips as you grip your mug a little tighter.
Bill’s answer is so quiet that you don’t understand him the first time he speaks. You swivel around in your borrowed chair and mutter, “What?” into the scant space between you, peering up at him in the light cast by your monitor. He picks at his nails, blue eyes flicking upward to meet yours, and mumbles, “I would.”
All you can do is breathe out a quiet, “Oh,” as you stare at each other in the half-light, heart beating double time.
“I thought-”
“I kept chickening out,” Bill interrupts with an awkward chuckle, “I guess I was a little gun shy after last year.”
“And I kept brushing it off ‘cause I thought I was reading into it too much,” You scoff, “Still do.”
Bill starts to lean forward, eyes trailing down to your lips, and mutters, “Should quit that. Overthinkin’, I mean.”
You mirror him, breath mingling with his, and joke, “So should you.”
The first brush of his lips over yours is light, tentative. You scoot your chair forward to gain better access to him, and he pulls away for a moment. Looks into your eyes like he’s seeing you for the first time, committing the sight of you to memory. A calloused hand frames your jaw- not pulling or guiding, but grounding- and Bill kisses you again, this time with more confidence. He lets out a soft sigh through his nose, dazed and content, and you find yourself grinning into the kiss, the motion causing your teeth to clack against his. You pull away from each other with a shared, breathless laugh, and his thumb strokes your cheek in a slow, comfortable arc.
“I would like it if you came back next season,” He reiterates, mouth quirking into a toothy smile, “For research, y’know.”