Page 34 of Praying for Rain

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!”

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.

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