Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(28)

Skidding sideways, Wes suddenly stops and pulls the helmet off his head. “I can’t see shit!”

“Me either,” I yell, holding on to him with both hands and pressing my forehead against his back. My hoodie is soaked through, but at least it’s keeping the rain out of my eyes.

More crashes pop and echo all around us as dead branches fall from great heights.

Wes mutters something I can’t quite hear before taking off again. I hold on tight, keeping my head down as he accelerates. The force of the rain intensifies, telling me that we’re not in the woods anymore, so I look up.

And immediately want to vomit.

Wes is barreling across an open field toward the last place I want to be right now.

The one place he knows is empty.

A yellow farmhouse with white trim.





Wes


I drive right up onto that little shit’s patio and use my helmet to break out the glass in his back door. I hope Rain wasn’t lying about his family being out of town. The only thing country folk love more than God is their goddamn guns. This could get ugly.

I reach inside and unlock the deadbolt, grateful that it’s the old-school kind that doesn’t require a key. Turning around, I find Rain standing on the porch with her hood over her head, staring at the house like it’s gonna eat her alive. I grab her by the elbow and yank her inside as another bolt of lightning drops into the woods like a bomb.

Once the door’s shut—or what’s left of it—I push the wet hair out of my face and stomp across the kitchen. I can’t fucking believe this shit. There’s a concrete fallout shelter less than a mile away, but I’m standing in a wooden tinderbox in the middle of a lightning storm.

I flip the light switch, and two fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker to life with a dull hum.

At least the power hasn’t gone out yet.

I don’t even bother checking the water. There’s enough of it dumping out of the sky right now to keep us alive forever.

The kitchen is just as countrified as I expected—beige wallpaper with roosters all over it, rooster-shaped cookie jars, little rooster salt and pepper shakers.

“Your boyfriend sure loves cocks,” I tease, but when I turn around, Rain is right where I left her, standing by the back door, staring at the puddle spreading under her feet. “You okay?”

Her shoulders are hunched, and her face is completely hidden underneath that dripping wet hood. “I … I don’t wanna be here,” she mumbles without looking up.

“Well, that makes two of us.” I open the cabinet closest to me. Dishes. Next. More dishes. Next. Mugs with motherfucking roosters on them. “You think your boyfriend left anything to eat?”

If I thought I had a chance of fucking this girl, I’d stop reminding her of the fact that she has a boyfriend who is still possibly alive, but A) I can’t remember the little shit’s name, so I have to call him “your boyfriend,” and B) based on the fact that we’re standing in his goddamn kitchen right now, I’m pretty sure sex is off the menu.

A ceramic rooster stares directly into my soul just before I slam the fourth cabinet.

Cockblocked. Literally.

I probably could have driven a little farther and taken us to Rain’s house instead, but after the way she acted last night, I know for a fact that she doesn’t want to be there either.

“I’m gonna go change,” she mutters. Her hiking boots squeak against the linoleum floor as she passes through the kitchen and into the living room.

Her mood is example number four thousand eighty-five of why it’s always better to do the leaving than to be left.

After searching the cabinets, drawers, and pantry and finding nothing but roach killer and rooster-themed bullshit, I take a chance on the fridge. I realize it’s a long shot, and I’m right. The fucker is cleaned out. The only things inside are a few ketchup packets from Burger Palace and half a stick of butter. But the freezer, I think I heard angels singing when I opened that thing. Ice cream, corn dogs, frozen waffles, sausage biscuits, steamer bags of vegetables, and the cherry on top … a frosty half-full bottle of Grey Goose vodka.

This fucker’s mom just became my new hero, rooster collection and all.

I unscrew the cap and help myself as a little rag doll appears in the doorway. Her face looks absolutely dejected as she stands there, wearing a Franklin Springs High basketball jersey and shorts and holding a sopping wet bundle of clothes out in front of her.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” I cough, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“It’s all I could find,” she snaps, a blush staining her cheeks as she glances down at the uniform hanging off her curves. Her voice is quiet and remorseful, but I don’t give a shit.

Rain is mine. I stole her. I’m using her. I made her come less than an hour ago, and I don’t appreciate her parading around in front of me with some other asshole’s jersey on.

“His fucking name is on your back.”

“It’s all I could find!” she shouts, surprising me with her sudden anger. “He took everything!”

I have a feeling we’re not talking about clothes anymore, so I pull open the freezer door, hoping to change the subject before things get heavy again. “Not everything.”

Rain’s eyes go wide, and her little mouth falls open. “Corn dogs?” she whispers, her gaze shifting from me to the bounty in the freezer and back.