by BB Easton
“But I met you Saturday morning.”
Finally, Wes looks at me—or squints at me, thanks to the spitting, sideways rain. “Drove all night. I figured, if the world’s gonna burn, I’d better get my ass underground.”
“And here you are.”
Wes looks around and raises one dark, unimpressed eyebrow. “Yeah. Here I am.”
“You know, I’m kinda glad your house burned down.” I smile, clutching the weights even tighter.
The corner of his grumpy mouth curls upward as those liquid green eyes drop to my chest. “Whatcha got there?”
I look down. “Oh! I made metal detectors!” I hold up the large gray discs to show him my ingenious invention. I can’t quite feel my face, thanks to all the painkillers, but if I could, I’m sure it would be sore as hell from this stupid grin.
A deep laugh rumbles in Wes’s chest. I feel it vibrate through my body, causing every hair to stand at attention. The air is charged—and not just from the thunder and lightning.
Tell me I did good.
Tell me you’re proud of me.
Tell me you’ll keep me forever and ever.
Wes opens his mouth, but none of those things come out. Instead, he takes two steps toward me, reaches out, plucks the magnets from my hands like they weigh nothing, and says, “I’m kind of glad my house burned down, too.”
My smile widens into a maniacal grin. I rear back to tackle-hug him when an explosion so loud it sounds like an atom bomb causes us both to duck and cover. The lightning strike rattles what’s left of the glass out of the front doors and reverberates through the metal awning above us like a tuning fork. My ears are ringing so badly; I barely register that Wes is shouting at me. I blink at him and try to shake off my daze.
“That was the fucking roof! Come on!”
Wes spins me around and shoves the magnets into our already-overstuffed backpack. Then, he throws on his helmet and straddles the bike. The second my arms wrap around his middle, he stomps on the kick-start and plunges us face-first into the storm. I point toward a gap in the woods across the street where the trail starts. Then—clinging to Wes with my free hand—I struggle to yank the hood of my sweatshirt out from under the backpack and onto my head as we fly through what feels like a never-ending waterfall. The rain is pounding on us so hard I wonder if it’s hailing.
Once we get into the woods, the rain doesn’t hurt as much, but it’s just as heavy, flooding the trail with thick brown mud.
“Wipe my visor!” Wes shouts back to me, unable to let go of the throttle or the clutch.
I use my left hand like a windshield wiper, but the second I stop, Wes shouts at me to keep doing it.
“Just take it off!” I shout back, but Wes shakes his head in response.
Another bolt of lightning explodes about a hundred yards in front of us. I shriek as sparks fly from the pine tree it struck, followed by cracks and snaps as it crashes to earth.
Skidding sideways, Wes suddenly stops and pulls the helmet off his head. “I can’t see shit!”
“Me either,” I yell, holding on to him with both hands and pressing my forehead against his back. My hoodie is soaked through, but at least it’s keeping the rain out of my eyes.
More crashes pop and echo all around us as dead branches fall from great heights.
Wes mutters something I can’t quite hear before taking off again. I hold on tight, keeping my head down as he accelerates. The force of the rain intensifies, telling me that we’re not in the woods anymore, so I look up.
And immediately want to vomit.
Wes is barreling across an open field toward the last place I want to be right now.
The one place he knows is empty.
A yellow farmhouse with white trim.
Wes
I drive right up onto that little shit’s patio and use my helmet to break out the glass in his back door. I hope Rain wasn’t lying about his family being out of town. The only thing country folk love more than God is their goddamn guns. This could get ugly.
I reach inside and unlock the deadbolt, grateful that it’s the old-school kind that doesn’t require a key. Turning around, I find Rain standing on the porch with her hood over her head, staring at the house like it’s gonna eat her alive. I grab her by the elbow and yank her inside as another bolt of lightning drops into the woods like a bomb.
Once the door’s shut—or what’s left of it—I push the wet hair out of my face and stomp across the kitchen. I can’t fucking believe this shit. There’s a concrete fallout shelter less than a mile away, but I’m standing in a wooden tinderbox in the middle of a lightning storm.
I flip the light switch, and two fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker to life with a dull hum.
At least the power hasn’t gone out yet.
I don’t even bother checking the water. There’s enough of it dumping out of the sky right now to keep us alive forever.
The kitchen is just as countrified as I expected—beige wallpaper with roosters all over it, rooster-shaped cookie jars, little rooster salt and pepper shakers.
“Your boyfriend sure loves cocks,” I tease, but when I turn around, Rain is right where I left her, standing by the back door, staring at the puddle spreading under her feet. “You okay?”
Her shoulders are hunched, and her face is completely hidden underneath that dripping wet hood. “I … I don’t wanna be here,” she mumbles without looking up.
“Well, that makes two of us.” I open the cabinet closest to me. Dishes. Next. More dishes. Next. Mugs with motherfucking roosters on them. “You think your boyfriend left anything to eat?”
If I thought I had a chance of fucking this girl, I’d stop reminding her of the fact that she has a boyfriend who is still possibly alive, but A) I can’t remember the little shit’s name, so I have to call him “your boyfriend,” and B) based on the fact that we’re standing in his goddamn kitchen right now, I’m pretty sure sex is off the menu.
A ceramic rooster stares directly into my soul just before I slam the fourth cabinet.
Cockblocked. Literally.
I probably could have driven a little farther and taken us to Rain’s house instead, but after the way she acted last night, I know for a fact that she doesn’t want to be there either.
“I’m gonna go change,” she mutters. Her hiking boots squeak against the linoleum floor as she passes through the kitchen and into the living room.
Her mood is example number four thousand eighty-five of why it’s always better to do the leaving than to be left.
After searching the cabinets, drawers, and pantry and finding nothing but roach killer and rooster-themed bullshit, I take a chance on the fridge. I realize it’s a long shot, and I’m right. The fucker is cleaned out. The only things inside are a few ketchup packets from Burger Palace and half a stick of butter. But the freezer, I think I heard angels singing when I opened that thing. Ice cream, corn dogs, frozen waffles, sausage biscuits, steamer bags of vegetables, and the cherry on top … a frosty half-full bottle of Grey Goose vodka.
This fucker’s mom just became my new hero, rooster collection and all.
I unscrew the cap and help myself as a little rag doll appears in the doorway. Her face looks absolutely dejected as she stands there, wearing a Franklin Springs High basketball jersey and shorts and holding a sopping wet bundle of clothes out in front of her.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” I cough, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“It’s all I could find,” she snaps, a blush staining her cheeks as she glances down at the uniform hanging off her curves. Her voice is quiet and remorseful, but I don’t give a shit.
Rain is mine. I stole her. I’m using her. I made her come less than an hour ago, and I don’t appreciate her parading around in front of me with some other asshole’s jersey on.
“His fucking name is on your back.”
“It’s all I could find!” she shouts, surprising me with her sudden anger. “He took everything!”<
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I have a feeling we’re not talking about clothes anymore, so I pull open the freezer door, hoping to change the subject before things get heavy again. “Not everything.”
Rain’s eyes go wide, and her little mouth falls open. “Corn dogs?” she whispers, her gaze shifting from me to the bounty in the freezer and back.
“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.
I snort a laugh through my nose. “I had a buddy who wouldn’t let his tattoo artist go near his elbow because he heard it was the most painful place to get inked, so while he was getting some work done on his bicep, I got another artist at the shop to do a bull’s-eye right on my elbow, just to be a dick.”
Rain laughs, the smile finally reaching her eyes. “Did it hurt?”
“Like a bitch.”
Water from the clothes on the floor trickles over to my bare feet as Rain’s eyes devour the stories etched in my skin. I wanted to use my body to taunt her, punish her, but instead, she’s reading it like an open book. When her gaze slides over to the wilted lily tattoo on my ribs, I’ve never felt more exposed.
“Did that one hurt?” She touches it with a cold fingertip, tracing the stem down my side.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “Every fucking day of my life.”
Her eyebrows pull together as she searches my skin for signs of injury. Gentle fingers skate over the drooping pink petals—one for every month of her short life.
“Lily was my sister.” I don’t even know why I’m telling her. Maybe so that she’ll stop fucking touching me like that.
Rain lifts her head but not her fingers. Those she splays over my ribs, covering the ink like a bandage.
“I’m sorry.” The sincerity in her big blue eyes is so genuine, the hurt in her voice so raw, I get the sense that Rain isn’t sympathizing with me. She’s commiserating.
The microwave dings a reminder, and I couldn’t be more thankful for the interruption.
“Show’s over,” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the beeping machine.
A cloud of steam hits me in the face when I open the door. Setting the bag of cooked broccoli on the counter, I spin around to grab the rest of our dinner out of the freezer.
“You wanted a corn dog, right?”
I grab a box of corn dogs and a few individually wrapped sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits. Then, I turn toward Rain. Her mouth is open in a way that makes me want to put something inside of it. Food will do. My tongue would do better. My dick would be a fucking miracle.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I smirk.
Rain blinks the emotion off her face and scoops the bundle of clothes off the floor, inadvertently flashing me again in the process. I snicker as I watch her scamper into the laundry room on the far side of the kitchen.
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nbsp; I return my attention to the glowing microwave and try not to think about the tingling sensation left on my skin where Rain’s cold hand just was. A hollow, metallic clang and repetitive swishing sounds from the washing machine signal her return. Rain says nothing as she stands beside me, our stomachs growling in unison as we watch our processed meat products twirl under the halogen lights.
Then, one wall-rattling clap of thunder brings it all to a standstill. With a flash and a rumble, the house goes dark. The dance stops. And those once-blinking numbers on the microwave disappear for good.
“Shit.” I open the door and pull out our food. It’s still cold to the touch, but it seems thawed at least.
A gust of wind whips through the broken back door, causing Rain to shiver and cross her arms over her chest.
“Does …” I’m about to say your boyfriend but stop myself at the last minute. “Does this house have a fireplace?”
Rain nods, staring at her corn dog like it’s a beloved family member on life support.
“It’s gonna pull through,” I tease, squeezing her shoulder. Which earns me a smack on the arm.
Fuck, that hurt. I make a mental note to ask Rain to patch me up again tonight. My bullet wound is starting to throb like a motherfucker.
I grab my lighter, the broccoli, and the bottle of vodka and follow Rain out of the kitchen, focusing on her round ass instead of the name above it. The living room has a vaulted ceiling and has been decorated with plaid furniture and the heads of decapitated animals. Not exactly my taste, but the fireplace is nice. It’s big and stone and filled with actual logs. Not those fake-ass gas-burning things.
I place everything on the hearth and grab a Field & Stream magazine off the coffee table. Ripping out a few pages, I twist them into a stick and light the end on fire. Rain sits cross-legged on the carpet beside me, careful to keep the jersey tucked between her legs. She’s holding the corn dog in one hand and the biscuits in the other.