Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,33
in here.” He lifts a hand to the ceiling. “God rest his soul.”
While Elliott reaches for his key, the rusty-ass gears in my brain slowly begin to turn again. “Since nobody took his spot, I guess this is a slow week for arrests, huh?”
“Why? You lookin’ for a cellmate?” Elliott wiggles his eyebrows at me while he unlocks my door.
I know he’s cracking jokes to keep things light, but heavy is the name of the game right now.
“Nah. I was just thinking, it’s probably nice for you guys to have a day with no executions. No burlap jumpsuits. Nobody crying or pissing themselves. No last meals or last words. That’s gotta be hard, day after day.”
Elliott narrows his eyes at me as he sets my tray on my sink. “You tryin’a guilt-trip me, handsome? ’Cause I ain’t fallin’ for it.”
“No. I just know you guys didn’t exactly sign up for this,” I say, repeating his drunken words from last night. “But hey, at least you won’t have to do it much longer. Now that they’re televising the sentencings, I’m sure you’ll get some acting work soon.”
Elliott steps back out of my cell and closes the door with a loud clang. He can’t look at me until he wipes the flattered smirk off his face.
What a shit actor.
“When you said, ‘All rise,’ in the courtroom yesterday … I got chills, man. Didn’t even sound like you.”
Elliott purses his lips to keep from smiling as he rests a hand on the billy club hanging from his utility belt. “I’m just tryin’a shine. That’s all.”
“Well, good fuckin’ job.” I stand up and grab the tray off the sink by the door.
“Pssh.” Elliott drops his eyes and waves me off, but he doesn’t leave.
We’re only about three feet apart now, separated by a few dozen metal bars.
“For real,” I say, going in for the kill. “You know, I have some friends in the TV industry. Maybe they’ll notice you tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll be watching my … you know.”
Elliott’s face falls.
“I would offer to put in a good word for you, but I’m sure you’re not allowed to let me talk to anyone. Or maybe you can. I mean … it’s not like there are any laws anymore.”
“Nice try, handsome, but no laws means that the chief can skin me alive and wear me like a Gucci fedora if he wants to, so ixnay on the calling your friends-ay.”
I shrug. It’s not like I have anyone to call anyway. I just want him to think I have something he wants.
“Why you tryin’a help me anyway? You know I can’t let you go.”
“I don’t know, man. I’ve got, like, eighteen hours to live. It couldn’t hurt to do somethin’ nice for somebody before …”
“Before you meet your maker.”
I clench my jaw and nod.
“Well, for what it’s worth”—Elliott glances up at the camera at the end of the hall and turns his back to it, finishing his thought under his breath while he locks my cell—“anybody who walks the Green Mile already got themselves a one-way ticket into the pearly gates, as far as I’m concerned.”
Elliott pockets his key and steps away from the bars. Using his normal volume and level of sarcasm, he says, “Eat up, buttercup. I’ll be back for that tray in half an hour.”
“Thanks, man,” I say in a tone as low and sincere as the one he used ten seconds ago.
Then, as soon as he’s gone, I shovel the gruel he brought me into my mouth in about three angry bites. I can’t tell if it’s oatmeal or grits or regurgitated fucking Cream of Wheat, and I don’t really give a shit. I have eighteen hours to con, fight, or fucking dig my way out of here.
I’m gonna need all the energy I can get.
Rain
I don’t know how many times in the last few weeks that I’ve woken up and had no idea where I was. I’ve woken up in my tree house, in a tree house inside of an abandoned bookstore, on the floor in my bathroom, on the floor of an abandoned mall, in Carter’s bed, and even tied up in my own garage. It usually only takes me a second or two to remember where I am and how I got there, but as I stare into the absolute darkness on this particular morning, I got nothing.
Not until I try to stretch.
My hands and feet don’t get more than a foot away from my body before they’re stopped