Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(5)

I get maybe ten feet away when a pair of large hands clamps down on my waist and a head of shiny brown hair appears under my arm. With one motion, the lifer stands up straight, scooping me off the ground with his shoulder in my lower back.

I scream and cling to his head with both hands as my world is turned upside down.

“No!” I shriek. “Put me down!” I thrash. “Fuck you!” I kick and pull at his hair with both hands.

The lifer suddenly bends his knees, causing his shoulder to jam into my kidney. “Fucking. Stop.” He punctuates each word with a heavy breath as he struggles to keep a grasp on my flailing body.

“I’m not going in there,” I pant. “You can’t make me. I’d rather starve than—ugh! Ahh! Oof!”

The bastard is walking back toward the dirt bike now, and every step sends his shoulder a little deeper into my back.

He sets me on my feet between his bike and the bread truck, and then he turns me around to face him. His viselike grip has moved from my waist to my shoulders, his hair is in his face, and his eyes are narrowed in frustration.

“I need food,” he spits through his clenched teeth. “They have it. And you’re gonna help me get it. Now, if you will just shut the fuck up and listen to me, I’ll make sure you get out of there with your precious little virtue intact.”

I roll my eyes. “Virtue? Pssh. That shit’s been gone since eighth grade.”

Captain Serious completely ignores my perfectly timed joke and stares at the yellow Twenty One Pilots logo on my black hoodie. “Do you have a shirt on under that?”

“Uh … yeah.”

“Tuck it in.”

I sneer at him, but the witty comeback turns to dust in my mouth as the boy strips off his Hawaiian shirt. Where I expect to see the birdcage chest and spindly arms of a teenager, I find the rippled, muscular torso of a man. A grown-ass man with actual biceps … and tattoos on those biceps … and abs that I can count even through his ribbed tank top.

I feel myself physically pull away from him. Guys are fun. Guys are my friends. Guys I can handle. But men …

Men scare the shit out of me.

Especially the ones in this town.

I watch as he takes off his brown leather shoulder holster next. The gun inside must be heavy, judging by the way the veins on his arm pop out as he wraps the straps around the weapon and tucks it into the wheel well of the bread truck. Unarmed, the man shrugs his blue floral shirt back on, and I quickly go back to the business of shirt-tucking.

“You ready?” His eyes fall to the drawstring waistband of my plaid pajama pants, which I’m tying in a tight knot to keep my shirt in.

“No,” I sass, peeking up at him through my lashes.

He rolls his eyes before tucking his disheveled brown hair behind his ears. The motion is so sweet that I almost forget about all the tattoos and muscles. He becomes a guy again.

And a guy is much easier to trust than a man.

“Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead, okay? We’re gonna be in and out.”

I bite my tongue and nod, letting him guide me toward the entrance of Fuckabee Foods with a hand on the small of my back. A neckless meathead with facial tattoos is sitting in a folding lawn chair out front. He’s holding an Uzi and staring at a glowing device on his lap. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t look up until we’re almost standing right in front of him.

“You got service?” my abductor asks, glancing at the episode of American Chopper playing on the guy’s tablet.

“Fuck no,” he snaps, furrowing his unibrow. “But I downloaded some shit before the cell towers went down.” He taps the side of his head with a thick index finger. “You gotta be smart, man.” The redneck who looks like he just escaped death row cuts his eyes to me and sneers, “Looks like you payin’ with a dime today, huh?”

I have to fight back a wave of panic as his gaze slides down the length of my body.

“This?” He chuckles, giving me the side-eye. “This, unfortunately, is my sister. I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy, man.” He leans forward and whispers loud enough for me to hear him, “She’s a biter.”

I cross my arms and cock my head to one side, trying to play the part of the bratty younger sister as the ogre eyes me suspiciously.

“If you ain’t sharin’ the pussy, you better come correct, boy. My men ain’t gonna be real happy about not gettin’ a taste of that”—he licks his lips as I try not to dry-heave under his stare—“unless you got somethin’ even better for ’em.”

“Your men like the taste of Hydro?”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until that asshole reaches into his pocket and produces an orange canister full of little white pills.

My hands fly to my stomach, squeezing and patting my now-empty hoodie pocket. “No!” I shriek, reaching out to snatch my pills back, but Human Shrek grabs them first.

With a victorious grin, he pops the cap off and shakes a handful into his mouth. “These better be real,” he mumbles, crunching them to paste between his yellowed teeth. “If I ain’t feeling somethin’ by the time y’all leave, y’all motherfuckers is dead.”

Um, you just crushed, like, five extended-release hydrocodone. I think you might be the one who’s dead, dumbass.