The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,27

and her neighbors’ and—

She was gone.

7 “Drizzle is such a limp dick,” Lucy bitched, opening up the driver’s side of the cab parked in front of the club and nudging the driver over onto the passenger side. “Either rain or not!”

“What are you doing?” The club was a regular pickup for him. He’d seen her come and go. He’d heard stories. He knew.

“Driving!” She slammed the door and peeled away. Tires spinning and squealing over the slickened DUMBO cobblestones toward Furman Street and Atlantic Avenue. At first all he could see was the anger in her eyes, but now the liquor on her breath was making its presence known as well.

“Miss, I can gladly take you home.”

“I don’t want to go home. There is nothing there for me but my laptop, and I can’t face it. You understand?”

“But it’s very late and the storm is coming.”

“You have anything better to do?” Lucy slurred, licking her lips seductively. It was just a tease, more tactical than sexual, but enough to keep him in line, as she knew it would be.

The mist was coalescing now into fine droplets, obscuring her view of the road ahead just enough to irritate but not enough to give her pause.

“God’s tears, they say,” the cabbie said without missing a beat.

“What?”

“The drizzle,” he said, looking Lucy up and down, focusing on her exposed long legs.

“Who says that, exactly? I forgot to vote in that online poll.”

“People say, I guess.”

“Well, I say, maybe they’re right.”

“Where are we going?” he asked, clicking the meter and then sliding his hand over to her knee. She didn’t have a car in the city, and so when she needed to get somewhere, she would just drive herself by taking over someone’s cab. Usually it worked out because of her strong sense of entitlement, her looks, and the domination fantasies held by the perverted cabbies, most of whom had religious statues on their dashes.

“I’ll know when I get there.” Lucy sped on down the increasingly slickened Henry Street, drunkenly weaving around potholes like a bat out of hell, oblivious until now to the urgent weather alert blaring every eleven minutes from the talk radio station. According to the warning, this storm was going to be biblical.

A massive nor’easter, which has already been named the Three Days of Darkness, is brewing along the North Carolina coast and bearing down on the entire tristate area. A severe storm warning is in effect for the next seventy-two hours. Expect dangerous periods of gale-force winds, torrential rain, hail, dangerous lightning, and street flooding. A tornado warning is also in effect for portions of Brooklyn and Queens through late Saturday night. NYPD is imposing a midnight curfew with widespread power outages from wind and water damage expected. Subway and bus service has been canceled. Coastal evacuations and widespread road closings are possible. Check flashlight batteries, charge all electrical devices, stock bottled water, and wherever you are, plan on staying for at least three days. Travel will be treacherous.

“What day is it?” Lucy asked.

“Thursday night,” he answered, then quickly corrected himself after checking his watch. “It’s Friday now, actually.”

“Three days. There goes my weekend.”

“A lot can happen in three days.”

“It better.”

Police, fire, and emergency services have been reassigned from regular duties. Expect 911 response time to be delayed. Stay tuned to this station for updates. . . .

“Storm of the Century. Three Days of Darkness. Blah, blah . . . ,” Lucy whined. “That’s not a weather report, it’s a prophecy.”

She reached blindly for the power button on the car radio and pressed it, silencing for the moment the panic merchants that passed for journalists.

“This shit doesn’t happen in Brooklyn,” Lucy said. “So inconvenient.”

The driver was aghast at her self-centeredness. “I’m not sure who you call for an apology, miss.”

“Why do storms always ‘brew’ anyway?” Lucy ranted, more for her own benefit than the jittery cab driver’s. “Can’t they just say, “It’s going to rain. Stay inside’? It all has to be so mysterious . . . so goddamn witchy.”

“Ratings,” the cabbie said in a thick eastern European accent that made his Hollywood Insider analysis both funny and sad all at once. “Storms sell.”

“Uck,” Lucy groaned, disgusted how far showbiz trickled down into the culture, right into the seat next to her, in fact. Trickled like warm pee down the side of a building. Just like drizzle.

Lucy hit the gas, suddenly in an imagined race with not just the storm but her life. It was fair, she felt, since