Praying for Rain Read online

I watch the glow of anger in everyone’s eyes cloud over with despair as they take in the meaning of his words.

  Today is April twentieth. Nothing matters anymore.

  I don’t struggle. I don’t even turn around and look at him. I let him drag me behind the building and pray that, whatever he does, he does it quick.

  So much for not drawing attention.

  I realize along the way that I’m limping, but I can’t seem to pin down the location of my injury. And my mouth tastes like blood, but it doesn’t hurt. And my body feels all floaty and light even though I just got jumped by half the town.

  Damn, this hydrocodone is some powerful shit.

  I giggle at the absurdity of my situation as the gunman behind me guides me toward a parked dirt bike with the heel of his palm on my shoulder.

  “What’s so funny?” His voice is soft, just like his touch as we come to a stop.

  I turn to answer him and almost choke on my own spit. The words dry up in my mouth as I stare into the mossy-green eyes of a guy not much older than me. A tall, gorgeous guy who should be on a poster in my bedroom, not kidnapping me from Burger Palace.

  I expected my captor to be some middle-aged, beer-gutted, gray-bearded, bald guy, not … this. This guy is perfect. It’s like his parents were so rich that they went to the doctor and selected his DNA from a menu before he was conceived—high cheekbones, straight nose, soft eyes, strong eyebrows, and full lips that he’s chewing on absentmindedly.

  But the rest of him doesn’t look rich at all. He’s wearing a white ribbed tank top under a blue floral Hawaiian shirt, his jeans have holes in them, and the disheveled brown hair tucked behind his ear looks like it hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in years.

  Mine, on the other hand …

  I run my fingers through my hacked-off locks, suddenly feeling super self-conscious about my frumpalicious appearance.

  My captor raises his dark eyebrows a little higher, indicating that he’s still waiting for me to tell him what’s so funny.

  I think about the painkillers that made me giggle, which causes me to remember all the other stuff I pulled out of my pocket along with that little orange bottle. “Shit!” I gasp, frantically patting my lower belly, feeling for the contents of my hoodie pocket. “I left all my money on the counter in there! And my keys!” I grimace and pinch the bridge of my nose. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

  “You still got those pills?” The boy pulls back one side of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and shoves his handgun into a brown leather holster.

  “Uh … yeah …” I wrap my fist a little tighter around the plastic bottle.

  “Good.” He flicks his chin toward the dirt bike behind me. “Get on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He lets his shirt fall back into place and pins me with a look that I can’t quite read. It’s been so long since I’ve seen somebody display anything other than the swollen red eyes of despair, the gnashing teeth of mob rage, the panicked twitchiness of fear, or the distant stare of sweet, drug-induced numbness that his calm, focused demeanor confuses the hell out of me.

  “Shopping.”

  I pull my eyebrows together as he strides past me.

  “Shopping?”

  The stranger stops next to the dirt bike and shoves a black helmet onto his head, ignoring my question.

  “A helmet. Really?” I snort. “We only have three days to live, and you’re worried about safety regulations. You’re not one of those lifers, are you?”

  Lifer is a term the media coined months ago to describe those disgustingly optimistic members of our society who simply refused to believe that the end was near. You used to be able to tell them apart by their stupid, smiling faces and cheerful greetings. But, now, they look just like the rest of us—mad, sad, scared, or numb.

  “I’m not a lifer. I just have shit to do, and it’s not gonna get done if my head is splattered all over the asphalt.” The boy straddles the black-and-orange machine and turns his masked face toward me. “Get on.”

  I consider my options. I can’t exactly run back into the restaurant and ask for help. I’m in no condition to fight. I might be able to toss the painkillers in one direction and run as fast as my beat-up legs will go in the other, which could work if all he wants is the pills. But then what? Limp home and survive on pancake-syrup soup until the four horsemen of the apocalypse come to get me?

  Yeah, I think I’d rather be kidnapped.

  Rain

  I climb on behind my captor and wrap my arms around his waist like girls do in the movies. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before or a dirt bike or whatever this thing is, but I like that it gives me an excuse to hug this boy. I sigh and rest my cheek on a yellow hibiscus on the back of his Hawaiian shirt. I know it’s not a real hug, but it still feels pretty damn good. I guess I haven’t hugged anybody since …

  A memory gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It must be a sad one—I can tell by the way it gets harder to breathe—so I push it back down with all the others.

  If I can just keep them locked up until April 23, I won’t ever have to feel them again.

  The lifer stomps down on some kind of lever, and we take off like a rocket. I squeal as we round the building, holding on to him tighter with my right hand so that I can use my left to give Burger Palace the middle finger.

  I smile with my cheek still pressed against his back and wonder what he smells like. All I can smell is spilled gasoline from the wrecked and abandoned cars we’re weaving through at top speed. That, and the occasional overflowing dumpster.

  Left, right, left, left, right.

  The fluid movement and throaty roar of the engine are exhilarating and soothing, all at the same time. I want it to last forever, but a few moments later, my chauffeur slows down and turns right, pulling into the Huckabee Foods parking lot.

  Somebody spray painted an F over the H on the sign so that it says Fuckabee Foods now, but I’m too busy freaking out to admire my handiwork.

  The grocery store? No, no, no, no, no. Is this why he took me? To whore me out for food? Shit!

  The parking lot is almost empty, except for a handful of motorcycles and a few delivery trucks that either got stranded or hijacked. We pull up next to a bread truck, and I feel the blood begin to pulse through my body.

  I’m gonna do it. Now or never. Here we—

  The second we’re parked, I throw my leg over the side of the dirt bike and take off running toward the highway. At least, I thought I was going to take off running. As soon as I try, I remember that I just got the shit kicked out of me and can’t manage much more than a hobble.

  I get maybe ten feet away when a pair of large hands clamps down on my waist and a head of shiny brown hair appears under my arm. With one motion, the lifer stands up straight, scooping me off the ground with his shoulder in my lower back.

  I scream and cling to his head with both hands as my world is turned upside down.

  “No!” I shriek. “Put me down!” I thrash. “Fuck you!” I kick and pull at his hair with both hands.

  The lifer suddenly bends his knees, causing his shoulder to jam into my kidney. “Fucking. Stop.” He punctuates each word with a heavy breath as he struggles to keep a grasp on my flailing body.

  “I’m not going in there,” I pant. “You can’t make me. I’d rather starve than—ugh! Ahh! Oof!”

  The bastard is walking back toward the dirt bike now, and every step sends his shoulder a little deeper into my back.

  He sets me on my feet between his bike and the bread truck, and then he turns me around to face him. His viselike grip has moved from my waist to my shoulders, his hair is in his face, and his eyes are narrowed in frustration.

  “I need food,” he spits through his clenched teeth. “They have it. And you’re gonna help me get it. Now, if you will just shut the fuck up and listen to me, I’ll make sure you get out of there with your precious little virtue intact.”

  I roll my eyes. “Virtue? Pssh. That shit�
�s been gone since eighth grade.”

  Captain Serious completely ignores my perfectly timed joke and stares at the yellow Twenty One Pilots logo on my black hoodie. “Do you have a shirt on under that?”

  “Uh … yeah.”

  “Tuck it in.”

  I sneer at him, but the witty comeback turns to dust in my mouth as the boy strips off his Hawaiian shirt. Where I expect to see the birdcage chest and spindly arms of a teenager, I find the rippled, muscular torso of a man. A grown-ass man with actual biceps … and tattoos on those biceps … and abs that I can count even through his ribbed tank top.

  I feel myself physically pull away from him. Guys are fun. Guys are my friends. Guys I can handle. But men …

  Men scare the shit out of me.

  Especially the ones in this town.

  I watch as he takes off his brown leather shoulder holster next. The gun inside must be heavy, judging by the way the veins on his arm pop out as he wraps the straps around the weapon and tucks it into the wheel well of the bread truck. Unarmed, the man shrugs his blue floral shirt back on, and I quickly go back to the business of shirt-tucking.

  “You ready?” His eyes fall to the drawstring waistband of my plaid pajama pants, which I’m tying in a tight knot to keep my shirt in.

  “No,” I sass, peeking up at him through my lashes.

  He rolls his eyes before tucking his disheveled brown hair behind his ears. The motion is so sweet that I almost forget about all the tattoos and muscles. He becomes a guy again.

  And a guy is much easier to trust than a man.

  “Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead, okay? We’re gonna be in and out.”

  I bite my tongue and nod, letting him guide me toward the entrance of Fuckabee Foods with a hand on the small of my back. A neckless meathead with facial tattoos is sitting in a folding lawn chair out front. He’s holding an Uzi and staring at a glowing device on his lap. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t look up until we’re almost standing right in front of him.

  “You got service?” my abductor asks, glancing at the episode of American Chopper playing on the guy’s tablet.

  “Fuck no,” he snaps, furrowing his unibrow. “But I downloaded some shit before the cell towers went down.” He taps the side of his head with a thick index finger. “You gotta be smart, man.” The redneck who looks like he just escaped death row cuts his eyes to me and sneers, “Looks like you payin’ with a dime today, huh?”

  I have to fight back a wave of panic as his gaze slides down the length of my body.

  “This?” He chuckles, giving me the side-eye. “This, unfortunately, is my sister. I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy, man.” He leans forward and whispers loud enough for me to hear him, “She’s a biter.”

  I cross my arms and cock my head to one side, trying to play the part of the bratty younger sister as the ogre eyes me suspiciously.

  “If you ain’t sharin’ the pussy, you better come correct, boy. My men ain’t gonna be real happy about not gettin’ a taste of that”—he licks his lips as I try not to dry-heave under his stare—“unless you got somethin’ even better for ’em.”

  “Your men like the taste of Hydro?”

  I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until that asshole reaches into his pocket and produces an orange canister full of little white pills.

  My hands fly to my stomach, squeezing and patting my now-empty hoodie pocket. “No!” I shriek, reaching out to snatch my pills back, but Human Shrek grabs them first.

  With a victorious grin, he pops the cap off and shakes a handful into his mouth. “These better be real,” he mumbles, crunching them to paste between his yellowed teeth. “If I ain’t feeling somethin’ by the time y’all leave, y’all motherfuckers is dead.”

  Um, you just crushed, like, five extended-release hydrocodone. I think you might be the one who’s dead, dumbass.

  Standing, he pats us down with the hand not holding the semiautomatic weapon and then hands us two plastic grocery bags from the stash hanging off the back of his chair. “Fill ’em up and get the fuck out. Twenty minutes.”

  As soon as the sliding glass doors close behind us, I turn and punch my captor in the stomach. “What the hell?” I hiss. “Those were mine—”

  Before my temper tantrum has a chance to get started, I’m up against a wall with a hand clamped over my mouth.

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” Hawaii Five-O’s pupils bore into mine like lasers, but his voice is nothing more than a whisper. “I don’t care what you need. I’m here to get what I need. And what I need is food, supplies, and for you to shut the fuck up.” He glances out the front door where our new friend is sitting with his back to us. “Unless, of course, you want homeboy’s buddies to hear you. I’m sure they’d love to see the hot piece of ass he just let in here.”

  My eyes go wide as his palm disappears from my face. I should be upset, enraged even, but as I stare up at the grumpiest asshole I’ve ever met—other than my dad, of course—my stupid mouth pulls into a sideways smile.

  Did he just call me hot?

  My captor doesn’t smile back. He simply shakes his head in a way that says, This bitch is crazy, and then taps an invisible watch on his exposed wrist. “Nineteen minutes. Let’s go.”

  My smile disappears.

  I hustle to keep up with him as he heads toward the center aisles. The deeper into the store we go, the louder the voices of the new occupants become and the stronger the stench of rotting food. Of course, the center aisles house all the nonperishables, which is exactly what he appears to be stocking up on. Protein bars, squeezie pouches filled with pureed fruits and vegetables, beef jerky, trail mix …

  “What’s your name?” I whisper as he bends over and reaches one long arm all the way to the back of a shelf to grab the last can of beef stew. The place has been ransacked.

  He looks up at me with that same flat expression. Then, he stands and drops the can into one of the bags, ignoring my question.

  “You’re not gonna tell me?” I whisper-pout.

  Mr. Grumpy raises one eyebrow in response, then turns away from me and continues browsing the looted aisles.

  “I have to call you something,” I whisper-whine as he reads the nutrition label on a packet of ramen noodles. He puts them back. “If I guess it, will you at least nod?”

  His jaw clenches, and his eyes cut to mine. “If I tell you, will you shut the fuck up?” His voice is a barely audible hiss.

  I grin and nod, pretending to lock my lips shut with an invisible key.

  “It’s Wes.”

  I open my mouth to reply, then snap it shut again when his eyebrows shoot up in a silent warning.

  Sorry, I mouth, holding my hands up. I’ll be quiet.

  I follow him to the cereal aisle where cornflakes and colorful, dried marshmallows crunch beneath our feet like autumn leaves, no matter how lightly we tread. As we near the end, a chorus of deep laughter bursts into the building and bounces off the rafters. Wes pushes me behind him and peers around the corner. Turning back to me, he places a finger to his lips, then points it in the direction of the next aisle over. The voices, too loud and rowdy to belong to sober men, travel away from us, down a path of what sounds like broken glass and sticky soda.

  With tender feet, we turn left and tiptoe down aisle twelve. Hardware.

  Wes stops in front of a wall of hanging tools, and I watch him with my mind occupied by two very different thoughts. Part of me can’t stop thinking about his name—Wes. I wonder what it’s short for. Wesley probably. Or Wesson, like that big-ass gun he was carrying. Or maybe it’s something fancy, like Westchester—while the other part of me wonders how in the hell he’s going to fit anything else into those bags. Sharp corners bulge in every direction, threatening to slice the thin plastic to shreds, yet he keeps pulling items off the wall—a flashlight, a pocketknife, a pack of lighters, and a can opener.

  Then, he turns his gaze on me.

  Suddenly, I know
what it feels like to be a flashlight or a pocketknife or a pack of lighters or a can opener. It feels good, being looked at like that. Being chosen by this man. But also scary. And exhilarating. Especially when he begins walking toward me.

  I hold his stare as he approaches and hold my breath when he stops right in front of me … and spreads his arms.

  I don’t question the invitation. I don’t hesitate for a second. I step forward, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek on the hard plane of muscle above his heart. Mine thunders in my chest as I wait for his embrace, but my captor doesn’t hug me back. Instead, he reaches around me, pulls the neck of my baggy sweatshirt out, and drops the packaged supplies down the back of my tucked-in tank top.

  My cheeks blaze with mortification as the items slide down my bare skin, one by one.

  Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk.

  God, I feel stupid.

  The second the last one drops, I’m gone. I don’t care about the cereal crunching under my boots or the laughing, slurring men nearby or the ogre with the Uzi waiting for us outside. All I care about is getting the fuck away from that asshole before he sees my stupid red face.

  I’m almost to the exit when a trio of guys who look like they just crawled out from under a meth lab step between me and the sliding glass doors. The red bandanas showing off their redneck gang affiliation are the only colorful thing about their otherwise drab, unwashed appearances. There’s a gross, predatory look in their bloodshot eyes that would send me running … if it wasn’t for the handguns sticking out of their waistbands.

  “What’s the rush, pretty girl? You just got here.”

  I recognize one of them from school. He was in the grade above me, I think. At least, he was until he stopped going.

  “Well, goddamn.” His pale face splits into a grin, revealing a set of blackened teeth. “If it isn’t little Rainbow Williams.” He clicks his tongue and violates me with his cloudy eyes. “Look at you … all grown up.”

  I want to act cool and pal around with him like we’re old friends, but I can’t even remember his damn name.

  I can’t remember anything anymore.