Page 6 of Praying for Rain

Especially the ones in this town.

I watch as he takes off his brown leather shoulder holster next. The gun inside must be heavy, judging by the way the veins on his arm pop out as he wraps the straps around the weapon and tucks it into the wheel well of the bread truck. Unarmed, the man shrugs his blue floral shirt back on, and I quickly go back to the business of shirt-tucking.

“You ready?” His eyes fall to the drawstring waistband of my plaid pajama pants, which I’m tying in a tight knot to keep my shirt in.

“No,” I sass, peeking up at him through my lashes.

He rolls his eyes before tucking his disheveled brown hair behind his ears. The motion is so sweet that I almost forget about all the tattoos and muscles. He becomes a guy again.

And a guy is much easier to trust than a man.

“Just keep your mouth shut and follow my lead, okay? We’re gonna be in and out.”

I bite my tongue and nod, letting him guide me toward the entrance of Fuckabee Foods with a hand on the small of my back. A neckless meathead with facial tattoos is sitting in a folding lawn chair out front. He’s holding an Uzi and staring at a glowing device on his lap. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t look up until we’re almost standing right in front of him.

“You got service?” my abductor asks, glancing at the episode of American Chopper playing on the guy’s tablet.

“Fuck no,” he snaps, furrowing his unibrow. “But I downloaded some shit before the cell towers went down.” He taps the side of his head with a thick index finger. “You gotta be smart, man.” The redneck who looks like he just escaped death row cuts his eyes to me and sneers, “Looks like you payin’ with a dime today, huh?”

I have to fight back a wave of panic as his gaze slides down the length of my body.

“This?” He chuckles, giving me the side-eye. “This, unfortunately, is my sister. I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy, man.” He leans forward and whispers loud enough for me to hear him, “She’s a biter.”

I cross my arms and cock my head to one side, trying to play the part of the bratty younger sister as the ogre eyes me suspiciously.

“If you ain’t sharin’ the pussy, you better come correct, boy. My men ain’t gonna be real happy about not gettin’ a taste of that”—he licks his lips as I try not to dry-heave under his stare—“unless you got somethin’ even better for ’em.”

“Your men like the taste of Hydro?”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until that asshole reaches into his pocket and produces an orange canister full of little white pills.

My hands fly to my stomach, squeezing and patting my now-empty hoodie pocket. “No!” I shriek, reaching out to snatch my pills back, but Human Shrek grabs them first.

With a victorious grin, he pops the cap off and shakes a handful into his mouth. “These better be real,” he mumbles, crunching them to paste between his yellowed teeth. “If I ain’t feeling somethin’ by the time y’all leave, y’all motherfuckers is dead.”

Um, you just crushed, like, five extended-release hydrocodone. I think you might be the one who’s dead, dumbass.

Standing, he pats us down with the hand not holding the semiautomatic weapon and then hands us two plastic grocery bags from the stash hanging off the back of his chair. “Fill ’em up and get the fuck out. Twenty minutes.”

As soon as the sliding glass doors close behind us, I turn and punch my captor in the stomach. “What the hell?” I hiss. “Those were mine—”

Before my temper tantrum has a chance to get started, I’m up against a wall with a hand clamped over my mouth.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Hawaii Five-O’s pupils bore into mine like lasers, but his voice is nothing more than a whisper. “I don’t care what you need. I’m here to get what I need. And what I need is food, supplies, and for you to shut the fuck up.” He glances out the front door where our new friend is sitting with his back to us. “Unless, of course, you want homeboy’s buddies to hear you. I’m sure they’d love to see the hot piece of ass he just let in here.”

My eyes go wide as his palm disappears from my face. I should be upset, enraged even, but as I stare up at the grumpiest asshole I’ve ever met—other than my dad, of course—my stupid mouth pulls into a sideways smile.

Did he just call me hot?

My captor doesn’t smile back. He simply shakes his head in a way that says, This bitch is crazy, and then taps an invisible watch on his exposed wrist. “Nineteen minutes. Let’s go.”

My smile disappears.

I hustle to keep up with him as he heads toward the center aisles. The deeper into the store we go, the louder the voices of the new occupants become and the stronger the stench of rotting food. Of course, the center aisles house all the nonperishables, which is exactly what he appears to be stocking up on. Protein bars, squeezie pouches filled with pureed fruits and vegetables, beef jerky, trail mix …

“What’s your name?” I whisper as he bends over and reaches one long arm all the way to the back of a shelf to grab the last can of beef stew. The place has been ransacked.

He looks up at me with that same flat expression. Then, he stands and drops the can into one of the bags, ignoring my question.

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