Page 30 of Finding Storm

Punching the Ignore button, I cut off the call and switch off the system, leaving me in complete silence.

A text buzzes in a few seconds later.

I pull my cell out of my pocket, turn it off without looking at it, and toss it on the passenger seat alongside my parking ticket.

I come up to a red light, forcing me to stop.

Impatience has me rapping my fingers against the wheel. I just want to keep driving. I need to keep driving. Keep moving.

The light changes, and I’m pedal to the metal. But before I know it, I’m stopping at another set of traffic lights.

For fuck’s sake.

My leg starts to jig restlessly.

He died because of me.

Jonny Creed died because of me.

He got in the car that night because he was coming to see me.

I scrub my hand over my face.

Sure, my rational mind tells me it’s not my fault. But rationality means fuck all right now.

I’m feeling so far from rational; I might as well be on another planet.

One of the greatest guitarists who ever lived died because of me. And I can’t even live up to his legacy.

It’s almost fucking laughable.

My chest starts to tighten.

My breaths coming in short.

This used to happen a lot after Mom died.

What did Tru used to say to me?

“Nice and slow, Storm. Deep breaths. Slow everything down.”

Tru.

Jake.

An ache lances across my chest.

I inhale a deep breath and slowly let it out. And repeat.

A horn beeping behind me shakes me out of my angst.

I lift my foot off the brake and let the car shoot forward.

I need to get out of the city. I need time to clear my mind. I just want to drive.

Dragging my hand through my hair, I catch sight of a sign for the highway. Cutting across lanes to the sounds of more blaring horns—and honestly not giving a shit right now—I take the turn to take me onto the highway.

It’s the only place I can drive with no interruptions. I just want to put as much distance between them and me as humanly possible.