Page 5 of Praying for Rain

I consider my options. I can’t exactly run back into the restaurant and ask for help. I’m in no condition to fight. I might be able to toss the painkillers in one direction and run as fast as my beat-up legs will go in the other, which could work if all he wants is the pills. But then what? Limp home and survive on pancake-syrup soup until the four horsemen of the apocalypse come to get me?

Yeah, I think I’d rather be kidnapped.

Rain

I climb on behind my captor and wrap my arms around his waist like girls do in the movies. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before or a dirt bike or whatever this thing is, but I like that it gives me an excuse to hug this boy. I sigh and rest my cheek on a yellow hibiscus on the back of his Hawaiian shirt. I know it’s not a real hug, but it still feels pretty damn good. I guess I haven’t hugged anybody since …

A memory gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. It must be a sad one—I can tell by the way it gets harder to breathe—so I push it back down with all the others.

If I can just keep them locked up until April 23, I won’t ever have to feel them again.

The lifer stomps down on some kind of lever, and we take off like a rocket. I squeal as we round the building, holding on to him tighter with my right hand so that I can use my left to give Burger Palace the middle finger.

I smile with my cheek still pressed against his back and wonder what he smells like. All I can smell is spilled gasoline from the wrecked and abandoned cars we’re weaving through at top speed. That, and the occasional overflowing dumpster.

Left, right, left, left, right.

The fluid movement and throaty roar of the engine are exhilarating and soothing, all at the same time. I want it to last forever, but a few moments later, my chauffeur slows down and turns right, pulling into the Huckabee Foods parking lot.

Somebody spray painted an F over the H on the sign so that it says Fuckabee Foods now, but I’m too busy freaking out to admire my handiwork.

The grocery store? No, no, no, no, no. Is this why he took me? To whore me out for food? Shit!

The parking lot is almost empty, except for a handful of motorcycles and a few delivery trucks that either got stranded or hijacked. We pull up next to a bread truck, and I feel the blood begin to pulse through my body.

I’m gonna do it. Now or never. Here we—

The second we’re parked, I throw my leg over the side of the dirt bike and take off running toward the highway. At least, I thought I was going to take off running. As soon as I try, I remember that I just got the shit kicked out of me and can’t manage much more than a hobble.

I get maybe ten feet away when a pair of large hands clamps down on my waist and a head of shiny brown hair appears under my arm. With one motion, the lifer stands up straight, scooping me off the ground with his shoulder in my lower back.

I scream and cling to his head with both hands as my world is turned upside down.

“No!” I shriek. “Put me down!” I thrash. “Fuck you!” I kick and pull at his hair with both hands.

The lifer suddenly bends his knees, causing his shoulder to jam into my kidney. “Fucking. Stop.” He punctuates each word with a heavy breath as he struggles to keep a grasp on my flailing body.

“I’m not going in there,” I pant. “You can’t make me. I’d rather starve than—ugh! Ahh! Oof!”

The bastard is walking back toward the dirt bike now, and every step sends his shoulder a little deeper into my back.

He sets me on my feet between his bike and the bread truck, and then he turns me around to face him. His viselike grip has moved from my waist to my shoulders, his hair is in his face, and his eyes are narrowed in frustration.

“I need food,” he spits through his clenched teeth. “They have it. And you’re gonna help me get it. Now, if you will just shut the fuck up and listen to me, I’ll make sure you get out of there with your precious little virtue intact.”

I roll my eyes. “Virtue? Pssh. That shit’s been gone since eighth grade.”

Captain Serious completely ignores my perfectly timed joke and stares at the yellow Twenty One Pilots logo on my black hoodie. “Do you have a shirt on under that?”

“Uh … yeah.”

“Tuck it in.”

I sneer at him, but the witty comeback turns to dust in my mouth as the boy strips off his Hawaiian shirt. Where I expect to see the birdcage chest and spindly arms of a teenager, I find the rippled, muscular torso of a man. A grown-ass man with actual biceps … and tattoos on those biceps … and abs that I can count even through his ribbed tank top.

I feel myself physically pull away from him. Guys are fun. Guys are my friends. Guys I can handle. But men …

Men scare the shit out of me.

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