Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(4)
I expected my captor to be some middle-aged, beer-gutted, gray-bearded, bald guy, not … this. This guy is perfect. It’s like his parents were so rich that they went to the doctor and selected his DNA from a menu before he was conceived—high cheekbones, straight nose, soft eyes, strong eyebrows, and full lips that he’s chewing on absentmindedly.
But the rest of him doesn’t look rich at all. He’s wearing a white ribbed tank top under a blue floral Hawaiian shirt, his jeans have holes in them, and the disheveled brown hair tucked behind his ear looks like it hasn’t seen a pair of scissors in years.
Mine, on the other hand …
I run my fingers through my hacked-off locks, suddenly feeling super self-conscious about my frumpalicious appearance.
My captor raises his dark eyebrows a little higher, indicating that he’s still waiting for me to tell him what’s so funny.
I think about the painkillers that made me giggle, which causes me to remember all the other stuff I pulled out of my pocket along with that little orange bottle. “Shit!” I gasp, frantically patting my lower belly, feeling for the contents of my hoodie pocket. “I left all my money on the counter in there! And my keys!” I grimace and pinch the bridge of my nose. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
“You still got those pills?” The boy pulls back one side of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and shoves his handgun into a brown leather holster.
“Uh … yeah …” I wrap my fist a little tighter around the plastic bottle.
“Good.” He flicks his chin toward the dirt bike behind me. “Get on.”
“Where are we going?”
He lets his shirt fall back into place and pins me with a look that I can’t quite read. It’s been so long since I’ve seen somebody display anything other than the swollen red eyes of despair, the gnashing teeth of mob rage, the panicked twitchiness of fear, or the distant stare of sweet, drug-induced numbness that his calm, focused demeanor confuses the hell out of me.
“Shopping.”
I pull my eyebrows together as he strides past me.
“Shopping?”
The stranger stops next to the dirt bike and shoves a black helmet onto his head, ignoring my question.
“A helmet. Really?” I snort. “We only have three days to live, and you’re worried about safety regulations. You’re not one of those lifers, are you?”
Lifer is a term the media coined months ago to describe those disgustingly optimistic members of our society who simply refused to believe that the end was near. You used to be able to tell them apart by their stupid, smiling faces and cheerful greetings. But, now, they look just like the rest of us—mad, sad, scared, or numb.
“I’m not a lifer. I just have shit to do, and it’s not gonna get done if my head is splattered all over the asphalt.” The boy straddles the black-and-orange machine and turns his masked face toward me. “Get on.”
I consider my options. I can’t exactly run back into the restaurant and ask for help. I’m in no condition to fight. I might be able to toss the painkillers in one direction and run as fast as my beat-up legs will go in the other, which could work if all he wants is the pills. But then what? Limp home and survive on pancake-syrup soup until the four horsemen of the apocalypse come to get me?
Yeah, I think I’d rather be kidnapped.
Rain
I climb on behind my captor and wrap my arms around his waist like girls do in the movies. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before or a dirt bike or whatever this thing is, but I like that it gives me an excuse to hug this boy. I sigh and rest my cheek on a yellow hibiscus on the back of his Hawaiian shirt. I know it’s not a real hug, but it still feels pretty damn good. I guess I haven’t hugged anybody since …
A memory gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It must be a sad one—I can tell by the way it gets harder to breathe—so I push it back down with all the others.
If I can just keep them locked up until April 23, I won’t ever have to feel them again.
The lifer stomps down on some kind of lever, and we take off like a rocket. I squeal as we round the building, holding on to him tighter with my right hand so that I can use my left to give Burger Palace the middle finger.
I smile with my cheek still pressed against his back and wonder what he smells like. All I can smell is spilled gasoline from the wrecked and abandoned cars we’re weaving through at top speed. That, and the occasional overflowing dumpster.
Left, right, left, left, right.
The fluid movement and throaty roar of the engine are exhilarating and soothing, all at the same time. I want it to last forever, but a few moments later, my chauffeur slows down and turns right, pulling into the Huckabee Foods parking lot.
Somebody spray painted an F over the H on the sign so that it says Fuckabee Foods now, but I’m too busy freaking out to admire my handiwork.
The grocery store? No, no, no, no, no. Is this why he took me? To whore me out for food? Shit!
The parking lot is almost empty, except for a handful of motorcycles and a few delivery trucks that either got stranded or hijacked. We pull up next to a bread truck, and I feel the blood begin to pulse through my body.
I’m gonna do it. Now or never. Here we—
The second we’re parked, I throw my leg over the side of the dirt bike and take off running toward the highway. At least, I thought I was going to take off running. As soon as I try, I remember that I just got the shit kicked out of me and can’t manage much more than a hobble.