Praying for Rain Page 18

  The rumble of the road and the emotional exhaustion of the past few days have me fighting to keep my eyes open. I nod off I don’t know how many times as we crawl along behind the bulldozer, jerking awake the moment I feel that first twitch of sleep.

  Wes slows to a stop so that he can turn to face me. A lock of hair falls over one cheek, but the rest is pushed straight back and tangled from the wind. His pale green eyes are almost the only feature I can make out in the dark. And they don’t look too happy.

  “You’re scaring the shit out of me. You’ve got to try to stay awake, okay?” Wes shouts over the sound of metal scraping asphalt up ahead.

  I glance past him and see the headlights of the bulldozer shining on the roof of an overturned eighteen-wheeler. It’s blocking the entire highway, but Quint and Lamar are hard at work, trying to push it out of our path.

  I pull the helmet off my head and feel my mother disappear along with her scent. It’s replaced with the smell of spring pollen, pine trees, and gasoline.

  “I know,” I shout back with a guilty nod. “I’m trying.”

  A burst of sparks flies behind Wes as the bulldozer gives the tractor-trailer another good shove.

  Wes puts the kickstand down and gets off the bike. “This is gonna take them a while. Maybe you should stand up and walk around a little. Might help you wake up.”

  He’s just a silhouette, backlit by the haze from the headlight, but he’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—tall and strong and smart and here, even after everything he just saw. As I place my palm in his, the tiny orange sparkles of light glittering in the background match the ones dancing across my skin, giving me goose bumps, even under my hoodie.

  I can’t see his expression, but I feel Wes smiling down at me. Then, suddenly, his energy shifts. As I slide off the bike, he grips my hand tighter, lifting his head and inhaling so deeply that I can hear it, even over the grinding, crunching sounds coming from the bulldozer.

  “Shit.” The profile of his perfect face comes into view as he turns his head to look over his shoulder. “I think I smell—”

  Before the word can even leave Wes’s lips, the eighteen-wheeler explodes in a ball of fire. White-hot light fills my eyes and scorches my face as Wes tackles me to the ground.

  I don’t feel the impact. I don’t hear the debris landing all around us. I don’t even hear my own voice as I shout my friends’ names. All I can hear are the thoughts in my head, telling me to get up. To run. To help.

  Wes is looking down at me now. His lips are moving, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Another explosion goes off, and I cover my face. When I lower my hands, he’s gone.

  I sit up and see Wes’s silhouette running toward the bulldozer.

  Which is now engulfed in flames.

  “Quint!” I scream, taking off in a sprint toward the passenger side as Wes heads toward the driver’s side. “Lamar!”

  I climb up onto the track, thanking God that the fire hasn’t made it through the blown-out windshield yet, and pull the door open. Inside, Quint and Lamar are slumped over in their seats, covered in broken glass. Wes is unbuckling Quint’s seat belt.

  Wes’s head snaps up when I open the door, and his dark eyebrows pull together. “I told you to stay the fuck there!”

  “I couldn’t hear you!” I lean into the cab, struggling to move Lamar’s body so that I can unbuckle his seat belt.

  “Rain, stop!” Wes snaps at me as he lifts Quint’s lifeless body into his arms.

  “I can help!” I get the belt off and give Lamar’s lifeless body a hard shake. His eyes flutter open as something begins to hiss and pop under the flaming hood. “Come on, buddy. We gotta go.”

  Lamar twists in his seat to try to climb out, but he winces and pulls his eyes shut again.

  “Lamar,” I shout, tugging on his shoulders. “I need you to walk. Right now.”

  His head rolls toward me, and the light from the flames illuminates a deep gash across his forehead. The dark red blood glistens against his dark brown skin. I pull on his arms harder, but he’s so heavy.

  “Lamar! Wake up! Please!”

  Two hands clamp around my waist and pull me out of the cabin just before a blur of Hawaiian print breezes past me to take my place.

  “Go!” Wes shouts as he pulls Lamar from the bulldozer. “Now!”

  I jump off the track to get out of his way and run toward the motorcycle. As I get closer, I notice Quint’s body lying on the ground next to it.

  It isn’t moving.

  As I rush to him, my mind goes back to the day we met. We were in the same preschool class, and I found Quint off by himself on the first day of school, quietly eating Play-Doh behind Ms. Gibson’s desk. He begged me not to tell on him. I didn’t, of course. I sat and ate some with him just to see what all the fuss was about.

  I found out years later that his daddy used to beat him whenever he got in trouble, so he got real good at not getting caught. His little brother, Lamar, didn’t seem to learn the same lesson. He got caught all the time, but Quint always took the blame.

  I kneel next to my very first friend and reach for his throat, hoping to find a pulse, but I don’t get that far. I find a shard of glass sticking out of his neck instead.

  “Oh my God.” The words fall from my mouth as I grab his wrist, pushing and prodding and praying for a heartbeat.

  Wes sets Lamar down next to me as another explosion rattles the ground below us. I scream and cover my head as the hood of the bulldozer lands with a clang about thirty feet away and skids to a stop.

  Wes leans over and puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “He okay?” he asks, gesturing to Quint with a flick of his head.

  “He’s alive, but …” I drop my eyes to the glass sticking out of his neck and shake my head. “I don’t know what to do.”

  God, I wish my mom were here. She would know. She was an ER nurse.

  Was.

  Now, she’s dead.

  Just like we’re going to be if we don’t get the hell out of here before that gas tank explodes.

  I look around and realize that, with the light from the flames, I can actually see where we are now. The sides of the highway are cluttered with all the cars and trucks that Quint and Lamar pushed out of our way, but the faded green exit sign on the side of the road says it all.

  PRITCHARD PARK MALL

  NEXT RIGHT

  My eyes meet Wes’s, and without saying a word, we get to work. He stashes the motorcycle in the woods, I drag the hood of the bulldozer over to make a stretcher for Quint, and Lamar shakes off his daze enough to stand and help carry his brother past the wreckage.

  When we get to the exit ramp, Pritchard Park Mall sits at the bottom, shining in the moonlight like a worthless mountain of crumbling concrete. It’s been rotting away ever since the last store closed up shop about ten years ago, but the land isn’t valuable enough for anyone to even bother tearing it down.

  “Fuck. Look at that place,” Wes groans. He’s holding one side of the makeshift stretcher while Lamar and I struggle with the other. “You sure about this?”

  “I don’t know where else to go,” I huff, shifting my grip on the corner of the yellow hood. “We can’t put Quint on the bike, we can’t leave him here, and we can’t sleep in the woods because the dogs will sniff out the food in our pack.”

  A howl rises over the sound of burning metal, pushing us to move faster.

  “You okay, man?” Wes asks Lamar, changing the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about what we might find inside this place any more than I do.

  Lamar just nods, staring straight ahead. Quint’s smart-ass little brother hasn’t said a word since he came to, but at least he can walk. And follow directions. That’s actually an improvement for him.

  When we get to the bottom of the ramp, we find a chain-link fence circling the perimeter of the mall property. The sounds of gunshots, terrified screams, and revving engines fill the air—probably Pritchard City rioters, b
ased on the direction of the noise—but they obviously don’t care about looting the mall.

  They’re smart enough to know there’s nothing left to loot.

  We walk along the fence until we find a spot that’s been flattened. Then, we cross the parking lot and head toward what used to be the main entrance.

  We pass a few cars with For Sale signs in their broken windows, kick a few hypodermic needles along the way, and eventually make it to a row of tinted glass doors. One has been broken out already, which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  We’re not the first ones here.

  The bulldozer hood won’t fit through the door, so we set it down on the sidewalk and stare at each other.

  “I’ll go first,” Wes says, pulling the gun from his holster.

  “I’m going with you,” I announce before glancing over at Lamar. “You stay with him.”

  But Lamar’s not listening. He’s staring at his big brother like he hung the moon.

  And then fell from it.

  “Don’t you dare touch that glass,” I add, pointing to Quint’s neck. “He’ll bleed out. Do you hear me?”

  Lamar nods once but still doesn’t look up.

  When I turn back toward Wes, I expect him to argue with me about coming with him, but he doesn’t. He simply offers his elbow for me to take and gives me a sad, exhausted, exquisite smile.

  “No fight?” I ask, wrapping my hand around his tattooed bicep.

  Wes kisses the top of my head. “No fight,” he whispers. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  Something in his words makes my cheeks flush. I should be afraid of walking into an abandoned mall with no electricity at night in the middle of a fake apocalypse, but as Wes tucks me behind his back and pulls the broken door open, the only thing I feel is a giddy, girlie sense of belonging. I would follow this man to the ends of the earth, and the fact that he’s willing to let me only makes me love him more.

  Wes guides us through the open door and eases it closed with the tiniest click. We tiptoe over the broken glass like professionals, and Wes leads the way with his gun stretched out in front of us. The shopping mall is pitch-black inside, but the sound of people talking in the distance has me gripping his arm even tighter.

  I tug on his good shoulder and push up to my tiptoes so that my mouth is level with his ear. “Do you hear that?” I whisper. “It sounds like they’re in the food court. Maybe, if we hide out in that first store by the entrance, they won’t know we’re—”

  “Freeze!” a man shouts from the end of the hall.

  Instinctively, I hold my hands up and step in front of Wes. “Please,” I shout back even though I can’t see who I’m speaking to. “Our friends outside are hurt. We just need a place to spend the night.”

  “Rainbow?” His voice softens, and I recognize it instantly.

  It’s one I’ve heard say my name a thousand different times in a thousand different ways. It’s one I never thought I’d hear again, and after I met Wes, never wanted to. It’s the voice of the boy who left me behind.

  “Carter?”

  I thought April twenty-fourth was going to be a new beginning.

  Turns out, it’s just the beginning of the end.

  Fighting for Rain is available now.

  PLAYLIST

  This playlist is a collection of songs that I either mentioned in Praying for Rain or that I felt illustrated a feeling or a scene from the book. I am grateful to each and every one of the brilliant artists listed below. Their creativity fuels mine.

  You can stream the playlist for free on Spotify here.

  “400 Lux” by Lorde

  “Alone Together” by Fall Out Boy

  “Baby” by Bishop Briggs

  “Black Wave” by K. Flay

  “Cut Yr Teeth” by Kississippi

  “Dark Blue” by Jack’s Mannequin

  “Eurotrash Girl” by Cracker

  “Guns for Hands” by Twenty One Pilots

  “Hard Times (Acoustic)” by Guster

  “Hold On” by Flor

  “Heavydirtysoul” by Twenty One Pilots

  “I Know Places” by Taylor Swift

  “I’m With You” by Vance Joy

  “Little Heaven” by Toad the Wet Sprocket

  “Love Story” by G-Eazy & Halsey

  “My Blood” by Twenty One Pilots

  “On Your Porch” by The Format

  “Stolen” by Dashboard Confessional

  “Twinkle” by Whipping Boy

  “Wrestle Yü to Hüsker Dü” by The Dirty Nil

  “You Can’t Look Back” by Taking Back Sunday

  BOOKS BY BB EASTON

  STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDY

  (Hilarious. Honest. Hot as hell.)

  44 Chapters About 4 Men: A Memoir

  THE 44 CHAPTERS ABOUT 4 MEN PREQUEL SERIES

  (Darkly funny. Deeply Emotional. Shockingly sexy.)

  SKIN (Knight’s backstory, Book 1)

  SPEED (Harley’s backstory, Book 2)

  STAR (Hans’s backstory, Book 3)

  SUIT (Ken’s backstory, Book 4)

  THE RAIN TRILOGY

  (A gritty, suspenseful, apocalyptic love story.)

  Praying for Rain

  Fighting for Rain

  Dying for Rain

  FOR UPDATES ON NEW RELEASES, SALES, AND GIVEAWAYS, SIGN UP HERE.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ken, thank you for helping me name this book and for pretending to listen when I brainstormed out loud at you and for making dinner all those times I was too deep in the writing cave to emerge before sundown and for doing my taxes and making my spreadsheets and for not leaving me for Colleen Hoover (yet). You’re the best husbot a girl could have, and if the apocalypse ever comes, I know we’ll be okay, thanks to your insistence on buying everything in bulk.

  To my mother and mother-in-law—Thank you for never hesitating to watch my children so that I can traipse all over the globe, chasing this delicious dream. Your love and support know no bounds, and neither does my gratitude for you.

  To my content editors, Karla Nellenbach and Traci Finlay, and my copy editors, Jovana Shirley and Ellie McLove—This book scared the hell out of me. I felt a lot like Wes as I wrote it, fumbling through unfamiliar places in the dark, waiting for some new problem to jump out and fuck up my plans. Thank you for guiding me through it with your expert hands. I appreciate and admire you women so much.

  To my beta readers and proofreaders, Tracey Frazier, April C., Sara Snow, Sammie Lynn, Rhonda Lind, Michelle Beiger DePrima, and Sarah Plocher—Thank you for always at least pretending to be excited about my new projects and for putting your lives on hold to read them for me. I almost want to get married again so that you can all be my bridesmaids. I love you guys!

  To my publicist, Jenn Watson, and the rest of the team at Social Butterfly PR—Thank you for spreading the word about this book, keeping me organized and sane(ish), and showering me with cupcakes, Sharpies, cough drops, and Advil at my signings. You guys are absolute rock stars. (I should know—I’ve seen you do karaoke.)

  To Larry, Miles, and Jay—Thank you for another year of dreaming big. Here’s to many more!

  To Ace Gray—Thank you for inspiring me with your hatred of Tom Hanks.

  To all my author friends—Thanks to you, I don’t have competitors; I have coworkers. I’m not isolated; I’m inundated with love and support. You share with me your time, your advice, your encouragement, your resources, and often, your platforms to help me succeed in an oversaturated market where so very few do. Thank you for letting this pink-haired, foul-mouthed, new kid sit with you. I love you!

  To the girls (and a few boys) of #TeamBB—Thank you for the gorgeous Instagram teasers, the Facebook shares, the five-star reviews that never fail to make me cry, the thoughtful gifts, and the tireless pimping you’ve showered me with over the years. It is because of you, forcing your friends and book clubs and sisters and significant others to read my books, oftentimes und
er the threat of physical violence, that I’ve been able to pursue this dream at all. I’m humbled by your rabid, relentless support and proud to call you all friends. Thank you for everything. If any of you ever need a kidney, I’m your girl.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BB Easton lives in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia, with her long-suffering husband, Ken, and two adorable children. She recently quit her job as a school psychologist to write books about her punk rock past and deviant sexual history full-time. Ken is suuuper excited about that.

  Praying for Rain is her first full-length work of fiction. The idea, fittingly, came to her in a dream.

  If that sounds like the kind of person you want to go around being friends with, then by all means, feel free to drop her a line. You can find her procrastinating at all of the following places:

  Email: authorbbeaston@gmail.com

  Website: www.authorbbeaston.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/bbeaston

  Instagram: www.instagram.com/author.bb.easton

  Twitter: www.twitter.com/bb_easton

  Pinterest: www.pinterest.com/artbyeaston

  Goodreads: https://goo.gl/4hiwiR

  BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/bb-easton

  Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/bbeaston

  Selling signed books and original art on Etsy: www.etsy.com/shop/artbyeaston

  Giving stuff away in her #TeamBB Facebook group: www.facebook.com/groups/BBEaston

  And giving away a free e-book from one of her author friends each month in her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/c4OCOH