Page 39 of Praying for Rain

“Rain …”

She clamps her hands over her mouth and nose, and I know any minute the rocking and hair-pulling are going to begin.

Oh shit.

“Hey.” I put a hand on her bare shoulder, but she recoils from my touch. “Rain, tell me what’s going on.”

She shakes her head, a little too hard. “Nothing,” she lies, forcing herself to meet my stare. “I’m just … I’m really sorry about your sister.” The sadness in her voice is sincere, but when she yawns, it’s fake as hell. “I’m so tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed, okay?” Rain doesn’t even wait for my response before she’s practically running out of the room.

What.

The fuck?

I hear a door slam down the hall but no crying. At least, not yet. I’m sure she’s too busy digging a little white pill out of a little orange bottle.

Whatever. I am not going after her crazy ass. I’m gonna sit right here, enjoy this fire, drink this entire bottle of vodka, and pass the fuck out.

I take a nice long pull from the ice-cold bottle and hear what sounds like music coming from down the hall.

So what? Maybe she falls asleep listening to music.

Then, I recognize the song—“Stressed Out” by Twenty One Pilots.

Twenty One fucking Pilots.

She’s in his room, listening to his music, wearing his clothes, like she still belongs to him. But she doesn’t, and it’s high fucking time that she got that through her head.

Fueled by three or four or six shots of vodka and Rain’s erratic behavior, which is obviously contagious, I stand up and stomp down the dark hallway she disappeared into, mad that my bare feet don’t make any sound on the worn-out carpet. I want her to hear me coming. I want my footsteps to rattle off the walls.

This bullshit ends now.

My eyes take a second to adjust to the dark. I see three doors in the hallway before it turns left, but only one is shut. I walk right over to it and give it a hard shove. The music gets louder as it swings open, and there, sitting cross-legged in the center of a bare mattress, is Rain, rocking and staring at a glowing MP3 player in her hands.

“Get up,” I shout.

Rain jumps. Her head swivels toward me, but she doesn’t move.

“I said, get the fuck up!” My voice booms in What’s-his-face’s tiny bedroom, but I don’t even try to rein it in. I don’t even think I can right now.

I’m furious that I see a nine-year-old version of myself in her lost eyes, and I want to slap it out of her. I’m furious that something is hurting her, and she won’t let me murder it. But mostly I’m furious that I didn’t find her soon enough to stop whatever it is from happening in the first place.

Rain hops up, standing next to the bed with the glowing device in her hands, and stares at me. She’s not crying. She’s not running. And, for the first time since I laid eyes on her, she’s awaiting her next command like a good little soldier.

“I need you to get something through that pretty little head of yours right now.” I take two steps into the room and point my finger directly at her face. “Everybody … fucking … leaves. I don’t know what’s going on with your family, and honestly, it doesn’t matter. Because people are temporary. Everyone you love, everyone who’s hurting you—they will all fucking leave, one way or another. They might die, they might get locked up, or they might just throw you away once they find out how fucked up you are, but they … will … leave … you.” I drop my hand and take a breath through my nose, trying to calm myself down.

Shaking my head, I close the distance between us with a final step and continue in a slightly less homicidal tone. “Our job … is to say fuck ’em and survive anyway. That’s it, Rain. That’s our only job. That took me twenty-two years to figure out, and I wish you had twenty-two years to figure it out, too, but you don’t. You have two fucking days. So, I need you to man the fuck up because I can’t do my job without you.” Emotion—one I don’t remember feeling since I was a kid—strangles me, cutting off my voice before the last syllable of my confession.

Rain shakes her head as a new song begins to play. “That’s not true.” Her voice is quiet but strong. “Because I’m not gonna leave you.”

The singer begs her to save his heavy, dirty soul, but she drops him onto the bed and buries her face in my heavy, dirty soul instead.

Her embrace on my bare chest makes me feel like I’ve been skinned alive. I’m nothing but raw pink meat in her arms. My scales, my fur, my leathery hide … it’s all been ripped away. Rain’s touch penetrates through every layer of defense I thought I had, reaching places that have never seen the light of day. I hate this feeling. Every muscle in my body tenses in response to the pain, but I hold her to me anyway.

Wrapping my arms around her warm, curvy body, I slide a hand up her back and thread my fingers into her short, damp hair. “Oh, I know you’re gonna leave me,” I growl, pulling her head back so that she’s looking up at me in the dark. “So, until then, I’m gonna use … you … up.”

Rain presses up onto her toes at the same moment that I dive for her parted lips, and our mouths collide like the train wreck that we are. I tilt my head sideways and plunge my tongue into her mouth, unable to get my fill. I’m gripping her hair too tight, but I’m powerless to release her. Instead, I slip my free hand under that sad excuse for clothing and grip her full, round ass. My heart jackhammers in my chest as I swallow her responsive moan.

Her hands slide up my back and around to my front, skirting over my pecs and locking behind my neck. I feel her nipples against me, hard as pebbles beneath that unworthy dipshit’s jersey, so I pull it off over her head and toss it to the floor. I can barely see her in the darkness, but I don’t need to. My hands read the curves of her body as they skim every square inch of her goose bump–covered flesh. She shivers as I knead her perfect tits, and when I break our kiss to pull one perky, needy nipple into my mouth, her hand reaches for me.

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