Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(6)
Standing, he pats us down with the hand not holding the semiautomatic weapon and then hands us two plastic grocery bags from the stash hanging off the back of his chair. “Fill ’em up and get the fuck out. Twenty minutes.”
As soon as the sliding glass doors close behind us, I turn and punch my captor in the stomach. “What the hell?” I hiss. “Those were mine—”
Before my temper tantrum has a chance to get started, I’m up against a wall with a hand clamped over my mouth.
“Let’s get one thing straight.” Hawaii Five-O’s pupils bore into mine like lasers, but his voice is nothing more than a whisper. “I don’t care what you need. I’m here to get what I need. And what I need is food, supplies, and for you to shut the fuck up.” He glances out the front door where our new friend is sitting with his back to us. “Unless, of course, you want homeboy’s buddies to hear you. I’m sure they’d love to see the hot piece of ass he just let in here.”
My eyes go wide as his palm disappears from my face. I should be upset, enraged even, but as I stare up at the grumpiest asshole I’ve ever met—other than my dad, of course—my stupid mouth pulls into a sideways smile.
Did he just call me hot?
My captor doesn’t smile back. He simply shakes his head in a way that says, This bitch is crazy, and then taps an invisible watch on his exposed wrist. “Nineteen minutes. Let’s go.”
My smile disappears.
I hustle to keep up with him as he heads toward the center aisles. The deeper into the store we go, the louder the voices of the new occupants become and the stronger the stench of rotting food. Of course, the center aisles house all the nonperishables, which is exactly what he appears to be stocking up on. Protein bars, squeezie pouches filled with pureed fruits and vegetables, beef jerky, trail mix …
“What’s your name?” I whisper as he bends over and reaches one long arm all the way to the back of a shelf to grab the last can of beef stew. The place has been ransacked.
He looks up at me with that same flat expression. Then, he stands and drops the can into one of the bags, ignoring my question.
“You’re not gonna tell me?” I whisper-pout.
Mr. Grumpy raises one eyebrow in response, then turns away from me and continues browsing the looted aisles.
“I have to call you something,” I whisper-whine as he reads the nutrition label on a packet of ramen noodles. He puts them back. “If I guess it, will you at least nod?”
His jaw clenches, and his eyes cut to mine. “If I tell you, will you shut the fuck up?” His voice is a barely audible hiss.
I grin and nod, pretending to lock my lips shut with an invisible key.
“It’s Wes.”
I open my mouth to reply, then snap it shut again when his eyebrows shoot up in a silent warning.
Sorry, I mouth, holding my hands up. I’ll be quiet.
I follow him to the cereal aisle where cornflakes and colorful, dried marshmallows crunch beneath our feet like autumn leaves, no matter how lightly we tread. As we near the end, a chorus of deep laughter bursts into the building and bounces off the rafters. Wes pushes me behind him and peers around the corner. Turning back to me, he places a finger to his lips, then points it in the direction of the next aisle over. The voices, too loud and rowdy to belong to sober men, travel away from us, down a path of what sounds like broken glass and sticky soda.
With tender feet, we turn left and tiptoe down aisle twelve. Hardware.
Wes stops in front of a wall of hanging tools, and I watch him with my mind occupied by two very different thoughts. Part of me can’t stop thinking about his name—Wes. I wonder what it’s short for. Wesley probably. Or Wesson, like that big-ass gun he was carrying. Or maybe it’s something fancy, like Westchester—while the other part of me wonders how in the hell he’s going to fit anything else into those bags. Sharp corners bulge in every direction, threatening to slice the thin plastic to shreds, yet he keeps pulling items off the wall—a flashlight, a pocketknife, a pack of lighters, and a can opener.
Then, he turns his gaze on me.
Suddenly, I know what it feels like to be a flashlight or a pocketknife or a pack of lighters or a can opener. It feels good, being looked at like that. Being chosen by this man. But also scary. And exhilarating. Especially when he begins walking toward me.
I hold his stare as he approaches and hold my breath when he stops right in front of me … and spreads his arms.
I don’t question the invitation. I don’t hesitate for a second. I step forward, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my cheek on the hard plane of muscle above his heart. Mine thunders in my chest as I wait for his embrace, but my captor doesn’t hug me back. Instead, he reaches around me, pulls the neck of my baggy sweatshirt out, and drops the packaged supplies down the back of my tucked-in tank top.
My cheeks blaze with mortification as the items slide down my bare skin, one by one.
Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk.
God, I feel stupid.
The second the last one drops, I’m gone. I don’t care about the cereal crunching under my boots or the laughing, slurring men nearby or the ogre with the Uzi waiting for us outside. All I care about is getting the fuck away from that asshole before he sees my stupid red face.
I’m almost to the exit when a trio of guys who look like they just crawled out from under a meth lab step between me and the sliding glass doors. The red bandanas showing off their redneck gang affiliation are the only colorful thing about their otherwise drab, unwashed appearances. There’s a gross, predatory look in their bloodshot eyes that would send me running … if it wasn’t for the handguns sticking out of their waistbands.