Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(27)
“What makes you think that?”
“Because I drove through at least twenty other shitty little towns just like this one on my way here from Charleston, and they were all burning. Including Charleston. That’s why I left.”
“Oh.”
I’m such a fucking idiot. Wes arrived in Franklin Springs without so much as a toothbrush, and I never even wondered why.
Thanks, hydrocodone.
“You had to leave because of the fires?”
“Yep,” Wes replies in a clipped tone, squeezing the tire to test its fullness. “I was living on Folly Island and waiting tables at this little tiki bar.” He’s not looking at me, but at least he’s talking. “The owners were good people. They let me play guitar on the weekends so I could earn extra tips.”
Wes talked about playing guitar in Rome, too. I don’t know why, but I have such a hard time picturing him as a musician. I mean, sure, he looks like he just walked offstage with that grunge rock hair and effortlessly cool outfit—not to mention, his stupefyingly gorgeous face—but all the artists and musicians I know are sweet and sensitive. Wes isn’t even in the same zip code as sweet and sensitive.
“After everything started shutting down,” he continued, giving the tire a few more pumps of air, “they said they’d keep serving ‘til they ran out of food. I didn’t have shit else to do, so I volunteered to help ’em out.”
I smile to myself, picturing Wes grouchily waiting tables by the beach in jeans, combat boots, and a Hawaiian shirt—his half-assed attempt at beachwear.
“On Friday night, some locals came barging in, screaming about fires. The phone lines were already down, so by the time word got to us, half the island had already burned … including the house I’d been living in.” Wes screws the cap back on the tire nozzle as the wind changes direction and begins spraying us with sideways rain.
I shield my face with my forearm. “Oh my God, Wes. I’m so sorry. Did anybody get hurt?”
He stands and wipes his dirty hands on his jeans. “My roommate got out with minor burns, but I didn’t wait around to find out about anyone else. I traded my wallet and everything in it with my buddy down the street in exchange for his dirt bike, stole a gun and holster out of his closet before I left, and got the fuck out of town.” Right on cue, the wind blows Wes’s lightweight shirt like a beautiful floral curtain, exposing the deadly weapon he keeps tucked away underneath.
“But I met you Saturday morning.”
Finally, Wes looks at me—or squints at me, thanks to the spitting, sideways rain. “Drove all night. I figured, if the world’s gonna burn, I’d better get my ass underground.”
“And here you are.”
Wes looks around and raises one dark, unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah. Here I am.”
“You know, I’m kinda glad your house burned down.” I smile, clutching the weights even tighter.
The corner of his grumpy mouth curls upward as those liquid green eyes drop to my chest. “Whatcha got there?”
I look down. “Oh! I made metal detectors!” I hold up the large gray discs to show him my ingenious invention. I can’t quite feel my face, thanks to all the painkillers, but if I could, I’m sure it would be sore as hell from this stupid grin.
A deep laugh rumbles in Wes’s chest. I feel it vibrate through my body, causing every hair to stand at attention. The air is charged—and not just from the thunder and lightning.
Tell me I did good.
Tell me you’re proud of me.
Tell me you’ll keep me forever and ever.
Wes opens his mouth, but none of those things come out. Instead, he takes two steps toward me, reaches out, plucks the magnets from my hands like they weigh nothing, and says, “I’m kind of glad my house burned down, too.”
My smile widens into a maniacal grin. I rear back to tackle-hug him when an explosion so loud it sounds like an atom bomb causes us both to duck and cover. The lightning strike rattles what’s left of the glass out of the front doors and reverberates through the metal awning above us like a tuning fork. My ears are ringing so badly; I barely register that Wes is shouting at me. I blink at him and try to shake off my daze.
“That was the fucking roof! Come on!”
Wes spins me around and shoves the magnets into our already-overstuffed backpack. Then, he throws on his helmet and straddles the bike. The second my arms wrap around his middle, he stomps on the kick-start and plunges us face-first into the storm. I point toward a gap in the woods across the street where the trail starts. Then—clinging to Wes with my free hand—I struggle to yank the hood of my sweatshirt out from under the backpack and onto my head as we fly through what feels like a never-ending waterfall. The rain is pounding on us so hard I wonder if it’s hailing.
Once we get into the woods, the rain doesn’t hurt as much, but it’s just as heavy, flooding the trail with thick brown mud.
“Wipe my visor!” Wes shouts back to me, unable to let go of the throttle or the clutch.
I use my left hand like a windshield wiper, but the second I stop, Wes shouts at me to keep doing it.
“Just take it off!” I shout back, but Wes shakes his head in response.
Another bolt of lightning explodes about a hundred yards in front of us. I shriek as sparks fly from the pine tree it struck, followed by cracks and snaps as it crashes to earth.