Gale Beaufort, #20 Hauler
"Let's go," says Storm.
"Jackson, if you need someone to - " Gale starts.
"Go," Storm repeats.
And Gale goes. She goes for miles and miles, until Storm says stop, exit, turn left in 300 feet. He's reading directions off the Internet. He manages to sound authoritative and completely befuddled all at once. He's never personally driven on an off-ramp before.
They wind up on a dark highway with a neon sign glowing BBBQBKCB.
By the time they arrive, Ray Reverham has been dead for approximately twelve hours and forty-seven minutes.
"This isn't your fault. There isn't anything anyone could have done," Gale says, when she parks and Storm exits his trailer. He moves to help her unhitch - Ray's job. He doesn't know how to do it. "There's a lever," Gale supplies.
"Why would I think any of this was my fault?" Storm glowers at her. He can't find the lever.
"It wasn't," Gale reminds him again. "I just thought - you were supposed to check in with him this morning. I thought you might think - "
"Well, I didn't think that," says Storm. He finds the lever. There's a pneumatic hiss, then a clank. "Until just now."
He doesn't wait for her.
Gale bites her tongue.
Once she's got the trailer sorted, she joins Storm at a table, even though Gale's a liquitarian and she knows Storm doesn't want anything on the menu. He orders something anyway.
"Ray's favorite," he says.
Gale orders a Dinowine, because Gale won't drink and drive, even after just one glass, which means she and Storm will have to wait. They'll have to talk.
The TVs are playing footage from this afternoon's race, the World Series of Poker live, and an endless loop of Tank Coat infomercials. Gale can't say that seems like the best choice of advertising when you're in a dive like this. Her wine tastes like the box it came in.
"He likes the sauce," Storm says, when their waitress returns and suddenly there's a pile of burnt ends doused in Kansas City's finest. It's clear Storm does not like the sauce. He stares down the meal like there's something on the other side of it that he's daring to show itself.
"Jackson," Gale says. "About Ray."
"Liked," Storm self-corrects. "Fine. He liked the sauce. You don't have to get pedantic about it."
He continues to stare at the barbecue plate.
So he's not in denial, then. This isn't some kind of traumatic break, where Storm refuses to believe that Ray is dead, and they're forced to eat dinner with a ghost. Maybe this is just Storm's way of mourning: He stares at barbecue. Gale tells herself that this is a good thing.
But see, Ray's dead. And that means there aren't good things.
"Jackson," Gale starts, because he's not giving her anything at all. She'd waited until after the race to pull him aside. The first thing he'd asked her was How long have you been sitting on this? Then, immediately, Did they tell you to wait until after we were done here?
When she tells him what's happened, Storm's first response is anger.
"I wanted to tell you face to face," Gale explains, edging closer. She extends a tire, but Storm backs away. "And I didn't want that on the radio, where everyone could - "
"Well, they're going to," snaps Storm. "It's only a matter of time."
Now Storm's not much of anything at all. He's still staring at the barbecue before him, cold now and congealing. But his expression is flinty enough to set it blaze again, turn it into a pyre. Beyond that, Gale can't begin to fathom where Storm's at with this. She can't tell what he needs, though what she wants most in the world right now is to give it to him.
She should ask Ray, she thinks, before logic has a chance to catch up to the impulse. Ray would know.
He would have known, she corrects. Somehow he always had, though if Storm had noticed something working he'd always gone out of his way to pretend it wasn't. Maybe it seems silly, but she'd found it endearing. But she just - she doesn't know how to do what Ray does. What Ray used to do. Storm doesn't pretend she can.
The news blares to life. Breaking announcement on the furthest TV.
Maybe this, in the end, was what Storm's been waiting for all along.
The poker and the infomercials continue, their worlds utterly undisrupted.
"We've just heard reports," says Shannon Spokes, gaze flitting between the camera and the techie idling next to her, whispering urgently. He's not camera-ready - wasn't supposed to be there. This segment wasn't supposed to be happening. "A few hours ago, a Blue Ridge tabloid reported - "
"IGNTR's now confirming - "
"Ray Reverham of the Piston Cup racing series - "
"He's the crew chief for the 20 team - He was found - "