Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,18

a flat line. “You did good, handsome.”

I give him the same bored expression I gave Governor Fuckface and let him lead me by the elbow out the door, down a metal staircase, and through the underground tunnel that connects the courthouse to the police station across the street.

While Elliott fills the silence with tales about all the celebrity trials he’s done, I find myself analyzing the path of the pipes and air-conditioning vents overhead, the placement of the lights and security cameras, the weapons holstered on Elliott’s belt.

“Most actors are short as hell in person, but Chris Tucker? Ooh…now, that’s a tall drink of water! Nice, too! Have you ever seen The Fifth Element? When I saw that movie, I told my mama I wanted to be Ruby Rhod when I grew up!”

As we climb the stairs that lead up to the police station, I find myself analyzing Elliott as well. At first, I thought he was just filling the silence because he’s a self-absorbed, narcissistic star-fucker, but when he glances at me, there’s a sadness in his eyes that tells me he’s not trying to impress me.

He’s trying to distract me.

Because I was just sentenced to fucking death, and the only thing he can do about it is try to take my mind off of it for a few minutes.

When we get back to my cell, Elliott pats me on the back. “Okay, my man. Officer Hoyt will be back with your dinner in a few minutes. You green?”

“Super green,” I mumble, walking through the open bars.

“Ha! I knew you’d seen that movie! You got Korben Dallas written alllll over you, honey!” Elliott beams as he closes the door and gestures for me to turn around and stick my hands through the bars.

On second thought, maybe this asshole wasn’t trying to make me feel better, I think as I face the wall and let Elliott take off my handcuffs and shackles. Maybe he was trying to make himself feel better.

Guilt. I can work with that.

“How did your sentencing go, friend?” Doug asks from the cell next to me. His voice is raw and tired.

I groan as Elliott walks away, twisting my sore wrists in front of me. “It fuckin’ went.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is.”

There’s a silence, and then Doug clears his throat. “Officer Hoyt’s bringing me my last meal soon. They let me choose between the chicken Alfredo and beef Wellington.”

Fuck, man.

Doug’s trying to sound tough, and for some reason, that makes it even worse.

I swallow the lump forming in my throat and ask, “What’d you go with?”

“The beef,” he says with a sniffle. “My wife never let me eat red meat.” His voice breaks at the mention of his girl, erupting into the kind of sob that’s so painful it doesn’t make a sound. Only gasps and gurgles and deep, guttural moans.

I let my head fall back against the cinder-block wall and close my eyes, but I don’t fucking cry.

Because unlike Doug, I’m gonna see my girl again.

I thought I could do this.

I thought I had changed.

I thought I could sacrifice myself for her and make God happy for once in my shitty waste of a life.

But fuck that.

If God wanted a martyr, he shouldn’t have chosen a motherfucker who knows how to pick locks with a plastic fork.

Rain

Our garage doesn’t have windows.

My garage.

Their garage.

Their garage doesn’t have windows.

It’s pitch-black in here, day or night.

I don’t know which one it is anymore.

The sound of cockroaches scurrying around makes me think it must be getting dark outside. They usually only come out at night.

Thank God I have my boots on.

Not that I can feel my feet anyway. I haven’t been able to straighten my legs for hours. Sophie dragged a chair from the dining room out here, and Carter duct-taped me to it. He bound my ankles to the wooden legs and taped my wrists to the armrests.

Now I can’t feel my hands either.

I spent the first hour or two tugging on my restraints, trying to shuffle my chair across the floor without making noise, trying to think of something in here that I could use as a tool or a weapon, but once my anger wore off, I remembered that it doesn’t really matter.

What’s the point of escaping when you have nowhere else to go?

This used to be my home.

Then, Wes became my home.

And now … I’m just homeless.

I picture Wes’s face, bitter but not broken, defiant but not desperate, as he stood before the governor. Since