Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(29)

“And ice cream … if you eat your veggies.” I pull out a steamer bag of frozen broccoli and pop it into the microwave across from the fridge. My stomach growls louder than the thunder outside at the prospect of eating a hot meal. I don’t know if it’s closer to lunch or dinnertime, but I’m pretty sure the protein bar I shoved into my face this morning was the only thing I’ve eaten all day.

“Oh my God, a real dinner.” The awe in her voice makes me want to puff up my chest with pride even though all I’m doing is pressing buttons on a microwave.

“I’m, uh … gonna do some laundry. You want me to wash that?” Rain’s gaze slides down my body, reminding me that my clothes are dripping wet and splattered with mud.

“Sure.” I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to smirk. If this bitch wants my clothes, she can have them.

Unlacing my boots, I step out of each one and leave them in a muddy heap in the middle of the kitchen. Then, I pull my shirt off, nice and slow, and try not to wince when my sopping wet bandage comes off with it. Rain doesn’t notice though. In fact, she’s not looking at my face or my shoulder at all. She’s staring directly at my abs. My white tank top is glued to my chest like I’m in a wet T-shirt contest, so I flex shamelessly as I take off my holster and set it on the counter, followed by everything in my pockets.

I’m not stupid. I know I look like every girl’s wet dream, and I use it to my advantage whenever possible. My looks and my resourcefulness are the only tools I’ve been given in this life. Everything else I’ve had to beg for, borrow, or fucking steal. Including the little black-haired tool drooling in front of me.

Unbuttoning my jeans, I hear Rain giggle. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I look up to find her beaming—eye makeup ruined from the rain, hair towel-dried and shaggy. She’s a mess and a mindfuck, but when she smiles, it steals the air from my lungs.

“More flowers?” She chuckles, her eyes glued to my crotch.

Glancing back down, I realize that I’m wearing my floral-print boxer shorts, the ones my asshole roommate gave me as a joke for Christmas.

“They came with the uniform.” I smirk, pushing my jeans the rest of the way down. That shuts her up.

Rain’s eyes go wider as she drinks in the outline of my semi-hard cock, plastered down by the clinging fabric of my wet boxers.

His name might be emblazoned across her back, but her nipples are straining against the fabric because of me.

I step out of my jeans and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my boxers. Just as I’m about to slide them down, Rain squeezes her eyes shut and squeals. Dropping the bundle in her hands to the floor, she suddenly grabs the sides of her basketball shorts and yanks them down. The jersey is long enough to cover her ass, but I still get a clean shot of those full, perfect tits when she bends over to step out of the shorts.

“Here!” she chirps, holding the shiny blue fabric out toward me with her eyes still closed. “Put these on!”

I chuckle as I toss my wet clothes onto the pile at her feet. As I stalk toward Rain, wearing nothing but a self-satisfied grin, I’m one hundred percent confident that she’s forgotten all about What’s-his-face. At least, for now. Hell, the way she’s blushing and biting that plump bottom lip as I approach, she might have forgotten her own name.

I take the shorts from her hand and step into them, taking my sweet-ass time. Once they’re on, I clear my throat, prompting Rain to open her eyes. I’m crowding her space, so close she has to crane her neck back to look up at me. The microwave dings, but neither of us pays it any attention.

“Thanks.”

Her eyes drop to my chest. I know without looking what she’s staring at. I can see her counting.

“Thirteen?”

It was the first tattoo I ever got. Thirteen jagged tally marks, right above my heart. Usually, when girls ask about it, I just make some shit up. Thirteen is my lucky number. Or, My mom’s birthday was August thirteenth. Or, It’s the number of touchdown passes I threw to win the state championship back in high school.

But Rain isn’t going to fuck me, no matter what I say—at least, not in this house—so I tell her the truth.

“It’s the number of foster homes I was in.”

She doesn’t bat an eye at my admission. She just lets them roam over my flesh. “What about this one?”

She’s staring at the rose and dagger on my right shoulder, just above my bullet wound. I laugh. “Have you ever heard that song ‘Eurotrash Girl’?”

Rain nods and looks up at me.

“Well, there’s a part where he talks about getting a tattoo of a rose and a dagger in Berlin, so one weekend, when some friends and I took the train to Berlin for Oktoberfest, we all got rose and dagger tattoos.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure he talks about getting crabs in Berlin, too.” Rain wrinkles her nose and gives me the side-eye. “Or was that Amsterdam?”

“No, I think Amsterdam’s where he sold his plasma.”

“Right.” She grins. “And spent all the money on a guy in drag.”

“It happens to the best of us.” I shrug, eliciting another giggle from Rain.

“What’s the story behind this one?” Her eyes drift down to my elbow.

I roll my arm over, showing the whole thing.