Page 13 of Praying for Rain

Wes pulls to a stop on the side of the trail and yanks his helmet off. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” I slide off the leather seat and reach for the sleeve of Wes’s shirt. The pink flower printed there is now bright red. “Let me look at it.”

Wes glares at me and nods. Once.

He mercilessly chews on the inside of his bottom lip as I carefully pinch the edge of his sleeve. Lifting the fabric, I see a deep gash across his upper arm. It’s nasty—about two inches long and half an inch wide—but not bleeding too badly. It’s as if the heat from the bullet cauterized the wound.

“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Wes raises an annoyed eyebrow at me.

“The good news is that it’s just a flesh wound. The bad news is that you ruined your pretty shirt.”

Wes pulls his shoulder away from me and yanks his sleeve back down. “I ruined it?”

“Don’t look at me! The only reason those guys came outside and shot at you was because they heard your loud-ass bike!”

“Well, my loud-ass bike wouldn’t have been there if you hadn’t run away.”

“Well, you didn’t have to come get me, did you?”

Wes purses his lips and looks at me the way he would a shelf of canned goods or a rack of tools. Like he’s considering my value. “Yes, I did.”

He props his bike on the kickstand, and my heart begins to pound as he stands up and faces me. The vehicle is in between us, like a line in the sand.

“As much as I hate to admit it”—his face softens, just a little—“you’re pretty useful when you’re not trying to get us both killed.”

I swallow and straighten my spine, forcing myself to look him in the eye. It’s hard to act tough when you’re looking at something that pretty. Hell, it’s hard to remember what I was about to say.

Wait. What was I about to say? Oh, right.

“What makes you think I wanna help you?”

“What makes you think I give a shit what you want?” Poof. Softness gone.

“Gah, Wes! You don’t have to be such a dick. You could just ask nicely, you know?”

Wes pulls my gun out of his holster and points it at my head with a smirk. “I don’t have to ask nicely. I’m the one with the gun.”

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest.

“You know what I like about Glocks?” Wes’s smirk widens into a sneer. “The safety is right here.” He taps his index finger against the trigger. Tap, tap, tap. “You don’t even have to cock the hammer back before you shoot. You just … squeeze.”

“Ugh! Fine! I’ll help you!” I throw my arms in the air. “You don’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

Wes chuckles as he shoves the gun back into his holster. It reminds me of how he looked at the playground. Dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. Perfect smile. Rusty laugh. Only this time, it doesn’t hurt to look at him.

Because this time, he wants me to stay.

“I need gas,” Wes announces, giving his gunshot wound another quick glance. It must hurt like a bitch.

“Gas stations around here are all dry. Only way to get gas now is to siphon it.”

“Cool.” Wes climbs back onto the bike and looks over at me. “Know where we can find a hose?”

“And a bandage?” I glance down at the ruined sleeve of his Hawaiian shirt.

“Yeah.”

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