Eye of the Sh*t Storm by Jackson Ford (most romantic novels .txt) 📕

the sandwich, the glorious, crispy breast, firm bun and tangy slaw compact together into a magnificent, salty, crunchy, garlicky delicious mouthful. At that moment, I am a hundred per cent sure that there has never been a better bird.

And that’s before the burn hits you. This is Nashville hot chicken, and I like mine so spicy it burns the top three layers off my tongue.

The quake torpedoed a lot of LA’s finest restaurants. Which was a bummer, obviously. But LA’s food scene is known for its food trucks and hole-in-the-wall operations, and it didn’t take much for those spots to start up again. Ray’s was one of the first to come back. It’s in a little spot in a Chinatown food court, and even post-quake, the line is always nuts. I nearly went insane waiting for our turn.

I’m still high on the meth, although I’m no longer in super-mega-ultra-apocalypse PK mode. There’s an uncomfortable hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that’s been building for the past half hour though – a feeling I’m trying real hard to ignore. And I can’t stop clenching my muscles. My shoulders and lats and quads are tight and hard, almost vibrating.

The food court is rammed, despite it being only noon. A seething mess of noisy people, making the already-sweltering space even hotter. It’s elbow-room only at the tables, whole families jammed up against construction workers and business people in suits, the floor a mess of discarded serviettes and food splatters. Places like Ray’s have become focal points for entire sections of the city – buzzing hangouts where you’re almost certain to see somebody you know, no matter the time of day.

Once we retrieved our van – which, thank fuck, wasn’t too far from the Main Street Bridge – it took us for ever to find a place to park here. Guess not even an apocalyptic earthquake can solve LA’s parking problem. All the same, the sheer number of people out getting food gives me hope. LA’s hurting, but it isn’t dead yet.

There’s not one but two chicken sandwiches for me, a quartet of jumbo tenders for Africa, with shake fries and collard greens. Annie has a slim plate of wings. She’s barely looked at me since we left the Main Street Bridge. Africa’s attention, though, has been entirely on me. My little meth episode horrified him, even if it was accidental. He kept asking me if I’m OK, offering me water over and over again until I wanted to hit him.

The dose of meth he and Annie got wasn’t anywhere nearly as big as mine. They’re already coming down, and although neither of them look especially comfortable, and probably won’t be for a while, they’re going to make it out OK.

Not sure I can say the same for me. I am still flying.

I smash through the first sandwich in four giant bites, every cell in my body awake and screaming for sustenance. When it’s done, my tray is a mess of dribbled sauce and pickles, but I don’t care. I smack my lips, reach for the second sandwich. Annie has hardly touched her wings. She’s just sitting, shoulders tense, not looking at anything.

I tease out a hunk of pickle jammed between my teeth. “Your food OK?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Annie? Earth to Annie? If it’s bad, we can send it back. Or is it not hot enough? They’d probably give you some sauce in a cup if you want.”

I trail off when Africa gives me a minute shake of the head. He’s chewing at a tender, arms tucked in so he doesn’t jab the woman sitting next to him.

He’s right. I should leave it alone. Annie’s got a lot of shit to deal with, and if she wants to sit and stew, that’s fine.

Except: the part of my brain that understands this isn’t in control. I’m still vaguely pissed at Annie for getting angry with me, for no goddamn reason. This feeling sits alongside the joy I’m getting from my sandwich, and they are not easy roommates. It’s bringing out a weird passive-agressive vibe in me that I’m not sure I like.

“Here,” I say, offering her my second sandwich. “You should try this. It’s really fucking good.”

“I’m fine,” she mutters, not looking at me, her voice almost swallowed by the noise of the crowd.

“I don’t know what they do to it. I think it’s the marinade, but it might also be the oil? I get the feeling they fry the stuff in chilli oil. I saw a trick like that once on—”

“I’m fine.”

It’s a snarl, backed up by a flash of anger on her face, a look so harsh and sudden that I actually lean back a little.

I take a bite of my second sandwich, to stop myself saying anything else. It doesn’t taste nearly as good as the first one. The headache at the base of my skull is more insistent now, as is the yawning emptiness in the pit of my stomach. My fucking shoulders are starting to ache – I can’t relax them, no matter how much I roll my neck. I’m clenching my teeth, too, and my legs are starting to tremble. I don’t feel good any more. And I have a horrible feeling it’s about to get a lot worse.

Africa has noticed. “You are lucky. It was powder, not rocks. That means the chemicals were weak. You must keep drinking water, OK? Because you are going to crash, and much worse than Annie and I are now. And after we are done here—”

“Dude, I’m fine.”

“Maybe now. Maybe for a few more hours. But then…” He shakes his head, no doubt thinking of his girlfriend. “You think you know, but you don’t. You will want more, and Teggan, you cannot let yourself take any.”

His voice is making my headache worse. “I won’t. Can we drop this? Please?”

He looks like he wants to keep going. Instead, he goes back to his food, shaking his head. Like he doesn’t understand.

We sit