Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton Page 0,55

the Green Mile up to this mornin’.” Hoyt clears his throat. “ ’Fraid I’m gonna hafta ask you to put these on.”

The sadness in his voice makes me have to clear my own fucking throat.

Jesus, Hoyt.

I stand up and approach the bars.

“How long have I got?” I ask, pulling the jumpsuit from Hoyt’s reluctant arms.

“Don’t know.” He sighs and shakes his head, his chin practically resting on his chest.

I notice that he’s still holding something—a white plastic cup filled with caramel-colored liquid.

“A little hair of the dog?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

Hoyt’s eyes jump to mine in a panic. “I … uh … no. I just … thought you might want a fresh cup … you know … to brush your teeth.”

He brought me whiskey. Sweet fucking bastard.

“Officer Hoyt, I could kiss you.”

I grab the cup from my sink and exchange it for the one in his meaty hands. “Thanks, man.”

Hoyt nods at the ground before shuffling away.

I swirl the alcohol around in the cup, taking a deep whiff until his footsteps fade in the distance.

Then, I pour it down the drain and brush my teeth.

I have a date with the fucking devil today.

I’ll drink when it’s over.

Rain

After lying wide awake next to Lamar’s skinny, snoring body all night, I decide I’ve had enough. If I don’t stretch my legs soon, I’m gonna scream, and I don’t want to wake Lamar up. I’m sure wherever his mind is right now, it’s a hell of a lot better than what’s waiting for him here.

Reaching up, I feel around with my hand until it hits a dangling handle. Then, I yank as hard as I can. The lid pops open with a quiet click, and sunlight floods the spacious trunk. We went with a Cadillac this time—at Lamar’s request. A metallic purple one sitting on blocks.

I sit up and stretch before climbing out of the trunk, but when I do, a wave of nausea almost brings me back down to the fetal position. The blood on my jeans must have dried and stuck to my skin overnight. Every movement severs the crusty bond a little more—like a bandage being pulled off—and I smell like a corpse.

Once my feet are planted firmly on asphalt again, I suck in a few breaths of fresh air. Then, I turn and unzip the duffel bag as quietly as possible, pulling out a bottle of water Michelle gave me yesterday and a prenatal vitamin.

I just hope I can keep it down.

As I unscrew the cap, Lamar throws an elbow over his face and groans.

“Morning,” I mumble, tossing the giant, chalky pill into my mouth. I swallow with a shudder.

“Why’s everybody so loud?” he whines, making me realize that it is pretty loud out here.

I turn in the direction of soon-to-be Burger Palace Park, and my jaw almost hits the Cadillac’s chromed-out bumper. Dozens—no, hundreds of people have gathered around our handiwork.

Last night, Lamar and I laid Quint’s body in the middle of Plaza Park, his arms and legs spread out like a human X. Then, we went and found the dead Bony I’d seen on the side of the road yesterday. I took his King Burger mask to put over Quint’s face, and Lamar took a can of orange spray paint he’d found in the guy’s hoodie pocket. Once the bloodstained mask was in place, I painted the words HERE’S YOUR SPONSOR in a circle around Quint’s body.

“Lamar.” I shake his shoulder. “Lamar, look!”

He grumbles and sits up, dreadlocks smashed against the side of his head as he turns and squints in the direction of our human protest sign … and the crowd gathering around it.

“Oh shit …” he says, almost to himself. “It worked.”

Turning to me, Lamar’s brown eyes go wide. “The sublimi-whatever thing! It worked! People are coming! Holy shit, Rain! What pictures did y’all use?”

“Just some photos I found on Google. People marching with their fists in the air. People rioting in the streets. Oh, and a picture of Governor Steele’s banner from the capitol building with a bull’s-eye Photoshopped right onto his forehead.” I smirk.

Lamar snorts and shakes his head. “You ’member, before all this shit started, you had blonde hair and wore cowboy boots and dresses. Now, look at you.” He gestures from my head to my waist. “Black hair. Boned out. Savage as fuck. You’re like … Post-Apocalypse Barbie now.”

“I feel more like Morning Sickness Barbie,” I say with a forced smile. But it fades the moment I let