Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(11)

Rain shakes a pill into her mouth. Then she caps the bottle and shoves it down the neck of her sweatshirt, tucking it into her bra. I smirk, remembering how that same bottle practically fell out of her hoodie pocket and into my hand when I threw her over my shoulder earlier.

She’s learning.

Shaking my head, I stomp down on the kick-start.

Rain got what she came for. Now, it’s my turn.

I pull out from behind the bread truck, expecting Rain to spin around with a smile on her face at the sound of my approaching engine.

Instead, she spins around, holding homeboy’s Uzi.

It’s still strapped to his massive body, but she keeps the barrel trained on me as she struggles to free it. By the time I pull up to the curb next to her, her cheeks are pink from exertion. I sit and wait with a smug smile under my helmet, knowing good and goddamn well that this girl isn’t going to shoot m—

Br-r-r-r-r-r-ap!

The crescendo of a machine gun sounds at the exact same time that a white-hot pain slashes through my shoulder. I look to Rain in disbelief that the bitch actually pulled the trigger, but she isn’t facing me anymore. She’s facing the main entrance where two more of society’s red bandana rejects are lying on the ground, bleeding all over a bed of broken glass.

Rain’s startled eyes dart over to me before she drops the Uzi and leaps to her feet. She hesitates, then makes a mad dash for my bike, stopping to pick up one of the fallen gangbanger’s pistols along the way.

Supplies, shelter, and self-defense, I recite in my head as Rain wraps her soft little body around mine.

Two down, one to go.





Rain


I just killed a guy.

Two guys. I think I just killed two guys.

As I bounce up and down on the back of Wes’s speeding dirt bike, I replay what just happened in my head. I don’t relive it. I simply watch it, like a bad TV show, while I wait for the hydrocodone to kick in and make it all go away.

I see the reflection of the sliding glass doors opening in Wes’s shiny black helmet. I see red bandanas coming out of that door. I see guns pointed at Wes. Then, I see the men holding those guns fall down as the sliding glass doors explode behind them. It looks like sparkly crystal confetti in the air. Everything is so loud. I can’t believe Wes actually shot those guys. I turn back around and look at him.

But he isn’t holding a gun.

I close my eyes and smoosh my cheek against Wes’s shoulder blade a little harder. Then, I throw that instant replay clip into the fortress of Shit I’m Not Going to Think About Ever Again Because None of This Matters and We’re All Going to Die.

Wes’s body begins to twist and flex in my arms like he’s trying to do something while he drives, so I sit up and peek over his shoulder. He has one hand on the handlebars while the other is messing around with his holster. I wonder if he needs my help, but before I can offer, Wes draws his gun and tosses it into the woods.

I turn my head, following the revolver with my eyes as it disappears into the underbrush. Then, I gasp as the pistol I forgot I was even holding is pulled free from my hand. Wes holsters his new gun—my gun—and I feel his body shake with laughter.

Asshole.

I smack him on the shoulder and hear him yelp, even over the roar of the engine.

When I look down, there’s blood on my hand.

Oh my God.

Wes pulls to a stop on the side of the trail and yanks his helmet off. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” I slide off the leather seat and reach for the sleeve of Wes’s shirt. The pink flower printed there is now bright red. “Let me look at it.”

Wes glares at me and nods. Once.

He mercilessly chews on the inside of his bottom lip as I carefully pinch the edge of his sleeve. Lifting the fabric, I see a deep gash across his upper arm. It’s nasty—about two inches long and half an inch wide—but not bleeding too badly. It’s as if the heat from the bullet cauterized the wound.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Wes raises an annoyed eyebrow at me.

“The good news is that it’s just a flesh wound. The bad news is that you ruined your pretty shirt.”

Wes pulls his shoulder away from me and yanks his sleeve back down. “I ruined it?”

“Don’t look at me! The only reason those guys came outside and shot at you was because they heard your loud-ass bike!”

“Well, my loud-ass bike wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t run away.”

“Well, you didn’t have to come get me, did you?”

Wes purses his lips and looks at me the way he would a shelf of canned goods or a rack of tools. Like he’s considering my value. “Yes, I did.”

He props his bike on the kickstand, and my heart begins to pound as he stands up and faces me. The vehicle is in between us, like a line in the sand.

“As much as I hate to admit it”—his face softens, just a little—“you’re pretty useful when you’re not trying to get us both killed.”

I swallow and straighten my spine, forcing myself to look him in the eye. It’s hard to act tough when you’re looking at something that pretty. Hell, it’s hard to remember what I was about to say.

Wait. What was I about to say? Oh, right.

“What makes you think I wanna help you?”