The Revenge of the Radioactive Lady - Elizabeth Stuckey-French [124]
“Sick is the least of what Buffy ought to be,” Vic said. “Prison’s too good for the son of a bitch.”
Maude’s mouth gaped open and Vic backed away from her.
Time to go.
He found Ava and Travis in the sunroom on the back of the house, sitting side by side in beach chairs, holding hands and watching the storm between strips of duct tape somebody had crisscrossed over the windows.
Vic crossed the sunroom, over to a large red cooler on the floor. He opened the cooler and dug out a bottle of Beck’s, then he kicked aside the beach towels lined up against the space under the door. Here was his chance to really be in a hurricane.
“Where are you going?” Ava asked him.
“Sir, it’s not safe out there. The wind is gusting at fifty knots.”
Vic promised them he’d be careful and be right back and stepped out onto the patio, stung by wind-whipped sand and rain. His T-shirt and shorts instantly soaked through. He turned to his right, backing underneath the eaves, so that the wind and sand weren’t coming right into his face, and gulped down the cold beer. This house stood level to the beach, a row of protective dunes in front of it, sea oats on the dunes blown flat. In between the dunes he could see the water, waves coming fast, right up to the dunes. Slap, slap, slap. Shingles on the roof above him flapped, and the mast of a nearby Hobie Cat, which nobody had seen fit to secure, clanged and whanged. Here he was, in a hurricane. Not as thrilling as he’d hoped it would be.
The patio door groaned open. “Mr. May-ture!” It was Gigi, stepping out onto the patio behind him. “I been looking for you!” She was carrying a bottle of Miller Lite. Her soaking-wet hair whipped wildly around her face. Eyes squinted against the wind, she tipped toward him, arms outstretched, beer breath and soft lips coming closer, but he quickly turned his head so she’d kiss his cheek. People were watching. Ava and Travis were watching.
Vic drained his beer and set the bottle down on the flagstones. It clunked over and rattled away.
She was leaning against him, staring out into the Gulf. “No birds out today! I love pelicans!” she said, yelling over the racket. “Aren’t they cute?”
“You should’ve told me that your brother’s a pervert.”
Gigi just stood there, staring out at the Gulf, one hand shielding her eyes. “I swear to God there’s a boat out there.”
Vic peered out at the horizon but didn’t see any boats.
Gigi took another slug from her bottle. “I hope they send the fucker up the river for good. Then Mama will realize she has a daughter and not just a fucked-up crazy-ass son.”
“Go back inside,” he said. “You’re ruining my storm experience.” He meant this as a joke, sort of.
“You’re a dick,” Gigi said. “You always tried to act so together, but I knew. I knew about you and old what’s-her-name. After Larry’s party.”
“How’d you know?” He never wanted to remember old what’s-her-name.
“Everybody knows, Duckie. We called her Radio Station, ’cause anybody could pick her up, ’specially at night.” She reached over and pinched Vic’s lips together. “Your mouth looks like a duck’s. I always wanted to say that. Hey! Duckie! Let’s go ride us some dolphins!” She spun around and began maneuvering her way, barefoot, across the slick patio and then up the wooden boardwalk toward the water, wind and rain blowing her sideways, her hair like an inside-out umbrella. She disappeared between the dunes.
What could he do but follow? On the boardwalk the wind was much worse, sand burning his bare legs and arms. He cupped his face to keep the sand out of his eyes. It was worse than being out in a blizzard. It was hard to walk straight. He felt like one of those show-off reporters on