Page 47 of Praying for Rain

Without thinking, I reach out and cup my hands above the gash, shielding it from the onslaught. “Just stand here for a minute,” I say, angling him so that the water hits his back and runs down his arm, cleaning out the injury without all the blunt force trauma.

Wes jerks his shoulder, pulling his arm out of my hand. “I can take it from here. You’re off the clock, Nurse Williams.” He says it like an insult. I feel it land in my gut like a sucker punch.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Nope.”

I glance up and notice immediately that the hopefulness I saw just a few minutes ago has been replaced with a cement wall, painted green and lined with spiky black lashes like razor wire.

“I just don’t wanna be your little patient, okay? I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

And there it is.

“I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

Nobody has ever taken care of Wes before. Not because they genuinely wanted to. Not because they cared.

“I care.” My eyes go wide as my own words hit my ears. I glance up at Wes in a panic, wondering if he heard me, too. Praying to God that he didn’t.

Wes stills, his bottom lip curled inward slightly as if he’s just about to start chewing on it. Blood pounds in my ears louder than the water drumming on his skin as I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t so much as blink.

Fuck.

A subtle hardness makes its way into the edges and angles of Wes’s face. His eyes narrow, just a bit. His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. I can’t tell what he’s fighting back, but whatever it is, it scares me.

“Listen to me,” he grinds out from between his clenched teeth. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend, okay? I’m the guy who put a gun to your head two days ago. Remember? You don’t know me, you don’t fucking love me, and you never will. So, stop …” Wes shakes his head and glances around the inside of the shower, hunting for the words he needs in the swirling mist. “Stop … this. Stop pretending like you give a shit.”

His accusation makes me livid.

“Stop pretending like I don’t!” I shout, balling my hands into fists at my sides as the emotion I’ve been trying to hide from him bubbles up and boils to the surface. “Stop pretending like you’re this unlovable monster when you’re the boldest, bravest, most … most beautiful person I’ve ever met!” My fingernails dig into my palms as fury surges through my body. “And stop pretending like I’m only here because you kidnapped me. You didn’t kidnap me, and you know it. You saved me, Wes. And every time you look at me, you do it all over again!”

It happens at once, but the first thing I register is Wes’s lips on my lips. His kiss is needy and desperate and tastes like my tears. I feel his hands clutching the back of my head next. Then, I begin to process the cold, hard tiles against my back. He’s kissing me like he did at the hardware store when he realized that we weren’t going to get shot—up against the shelves, angry and relieved and unable to express it any other way.

But, this time, there are no clothes between us, no hang-ups or reservations, and no storm brewing outside. This time, when I hitch my thigh over the V of his hip, he’s able to slide against me without a barrier. This time, when I angle myself so that he’s lined up perfectly, he fills me until my back drags up the wall, and my toes barely touch the ground. This time, I feel him everywhere. His feverish skin warms me from the outside in. His palms glide over my wet curves like he’s molding them from clay. And his heart—I feel that too—is pounding away just as hard as mine.

This connection is more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s as if he becomes someone else when we touch. No, it’s as if he becomes himself. The real Wesson. The one who is loving and passionate and aching for affection. I cling to that version as he takes me higher, pressing me into the wall and wrapping my other thigh around his waist. His strength is the only thing keeping me from falling, in more ways than one, and when I feel him swell inside of me, so does my heart.

I tighten my legs around his waist and pull him even closer, wanting as much of him as I can get. And he gives it to me, driving forward until his body rocks against my sensitive flesh, triggering an explosion of convulsions between my legs and fireworks behind my eyes. Wes follows me over the edge, groaning against my lips as his pulsing, jerking surge of heat fills me deep and makes me glow.

I don’t remember how long it’s been since my last birth control shot, and honestly, I don’t care. The only thing that matters right now is that, if I die tomorrow—and I very well might—it will be with a smile on my face and Wesson Patrick Parker by my side.

Wes

I suck a breath in through my nose and exhale through my gritted teeth as I sit on the edge of Fuckface’s bed and let Rain play doctor with my bullet wound.

She wrinkles her forehead and gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I know it hurts. I’m almost done.”

It’s not the gaping hole in my arm that hurts; it’s the one in my fucking soul that has me looking around for something to bite down on. The one that wants to shove Rain across the room and scream at her to stop touching me like that. It’s the part of me that’s never had somebody kiss my stupid fucking boo-boos that wants to rip the bandage out of her hand and slap it on myself. This shit is unbearable.

“There you go.” She smiles, sealing the edges of the bandage down with gentle fingers.

I catch her leaning in with her fat pink lips pursed, but I jump to my feet before she can actually kiss it. She might as well stab me in the fucking heart. Every kind thing Rain does for me is just one more reminder of everything I’ve been missing my whole fucking life. And, honestly, I’d rather not know.

I was so much happier when people used me for a paycheck from the government or a fuck boy, and I used them for a roof over my head or a place to stick my dick. I knew where I stood. Things were simple, relationships were temporary, and I knew all the rules. Hell, I’d invented them.

But this shit with Rain is fucking with my head. I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know if she actually cares about me or if she’s just using me as a stand-in for her missing boyfriend. I don’t know if I’m keeping her around because she’s useful or if I’ve gone and done the one thing I swore I would never do to another person as long as I lived.

Gotten attached.

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