Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(38)

“I’m sorry.” I frown, setting the pile of clothes on the edge of the tub.

I walk over and wrap my arms around the sweet, sleepy, naked man. Wes pulls me in and kisses the top of my head, and I’m reminded how warm he is. Too warm.

“I went to find you some antibiotics,” I mutter into his bare chest.

His skin is damp and smells like sweat.

“I let your bullet wound get infected.” I feel the weight of guilt settle over me, pressing me into the floor as I say the words out loud. “I’m so sorry, Wes. I’ll take better care of it, I promise. Look”—I let go of him and head toward the bathtub, eager to get away from the disappointed look that I’m sure he’s giving me right now—“I found you some medicine.”

“Is that why I feel like shit? I thought it was just the vodka.” Wes’s joke lands on me like a slap of shame.

“Yeah, that’s why you feel like shit.”

My guts twist as I gather the bottles in my hands and scan their labels. There are two prescriptions of Keflex that, together, might make close to a whole round. I walk over to the counter and busy myself with combining the pills into one container, reading the dosing instructions—anything to keep from looking at Wes.

Instead, I find myself looking into the open, lifeless eyes of the two guys who shot at him. An image of them lying on the ground flashes before me, as clear and gruesome as a crime scene photo. Their slack facial muscles, the red mess, the glass everywhere. I killed them. I killed two people less than forty-eight hours ago, and I haven’t even thought about them since. I wince and squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the counter until the vault finally does its job and swallows the memory back down.

I should be relieved, but I’m not. My heart begins to sputter, and my palms begin to sweat. That was two memories in less than ten minutes.

What if more come? What if—

I need to take another pill. I need to take two. I can’t do this …

I vaguely register the sight of Wes’s naked form coming to stand next to me as I stare through the mirror over the sink.

“You okay?”

Righting myself, I pull on a fake grin and glance up at the reflection of his pale face. “Yeah.” I shake a white tablet into my hand and offer it to him. “Just take one of these every six hours until they’re”—Wes pops the medicine into his mouth and swallows before I’ve even finished my sentence—“gone. I, uh, have some antibiotic ointment, too, and bandages, but we need to clean your wound first.”

I feel Wes staring at me as my eyes dart around the bathroom, looking for a diversion. I feel the heat radiating off his body, trying to fight the infection I caused. And I feel the question on his lips before he speaks it.

My armpits start to sweat.

Great. Now, we’re both sweating.

A shower. We need to shower.

I run over to the shower and turn on the faucet.

“I’ll just clean your wound in here,” I call over my shoulder. “It’ll be easier this way and we might as well take advantage of the hot water before the gas gets cut off and the bomb shelter probably doesn’t have running water at all …” I’m rambling. I can hear myself talking a mile a minute, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t even look at him.

He’ll know. He’ll see all my secrets, and he’ll just know. I can’t let that happen. He said it himself; people leave when they figure out how fucked up you are, and I need him to stay. I need him to distract me. I need him to get better …

I undo the top two buttons on my flannel before my hands start to shake, and I just yank the whole thing off over my head. My bra puts up even more of a fight. I can feel Wes watching me as I struggle with the clasp.

“Hey,” he says, his voice as soft and cautious as his footsteps as he crosses the bathroom to help.

Once he reaches me, I drop my hands in defeat and let him unfasten it, concentrating on the way his fingertips feel against my skin.

“Breathe, okay?” he whispers, guiding my opened bra down my arms and onto the floor at my feet. “Just breathe.”

I do as he said, inhaling the steamy air through my nose until my lungs can’t hold anymore. My whole body sags as I exhale.

Wes’s hands grip the muscles on either side of my neck and squeeze, almost to the point of pain, before releasing and moving a few inches down to my shoulders. He squeezes and releases again, moving down to my biceps. By the time his hands are at my wrists, I’m a limp noodle, leaning backward against his hot, clammy chest.

“You’re thinking about what happened at the grocery store, aren’t you?”

I nod even though that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Just a pebble tossed on top of the mountain of shit I’m trying to keep submerged.

“Well, don’t. You saved my life by taking those guys out, and now, you’re doing it all over again with this.” Wes sweeps his hand over to the cluster of orange bottles on the counter behind us.

Dropping his chapped lips to my bare shoulder, he reaches in front of me to unbutton my jeans. Wes slides my pants and panties down my legs as I splay my trembling hands on the steamy shower door and step out of them.

Standing back up, Wes wraps his arms around me from behind. His erection nuzzles into the crease of my ass, but his embrace doesn’t feel sexual. It feels like he’s trying to hold me together.