Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,22

by to check on you in a few, okay?”

Quint grabs my wrist and looks at me with eyes the color of my cold, dead heart.

“Am I …” he whispers, pausing to suck in a breath and grimace from the pain.

“Hell no,” I lie. “Don’t even say it. You’re gonna be fine.”

Quint squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth as his face crumples. A high-pitched keening sound comes from somewhere deep inside his body, and I can’t fucking take it anymore.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I say more forcefully, but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince—myself or Quint. “You want some water? I’m gonna get you some water.”

I stand up and grab the empty bottles on my way out the door.

Fuck.

This.

Place.

I have to concentrate on not crushing the plastic bottles in my fists as I stomp toward the food court.

Fuck.

These.

People.

A fat-ass toad jumps from the edge of the fountain into the murky, mucous-like water inside as I pass.

Supplies.

Shelter.

Self-defense.

I kick a broken tile.

I’m getting this motherfucker some water.

Then, I’m getting the fuck out of here.

The second I walk into the food court, I set my sights on the bitch at the back table. Q. She and the rest of her minions are still celebrating the end of civilization. A few tattooed misfits with random parts of their heads shaved are playing cards and taking shots from a bottle of bottom-shelf tequila. A beanpole in a jean jacket with the sleeves cut off is playing a goddamn accordion while a burly, bearded guy in a pair of unwashed overalls strums along on the banjo. A few crusty teens are gathered around a cell phone, elbowing each other like they’re watching porn, and Q is kicked back in a plastic chair, smoking a joint, with a busted pair of black motorcycle boots propped up on the table and her black men’s pants cut off at the knees.

Fucking gutter punks.

“Well, well, well.” Q coughs, holding the smoke in her lungs. “If it ain’t our new roomie, Hawaii Five-0. Everybody say, ‘Hi, Hawaii Five-0.’”

“Hi, Hawaii Five-0,” the clan drawls without looking up.

“Where’s the luau?” Q exhales and passes the joint to her right.

I want to bark at her that I don’t have time for her bullshit, but I smirk through my rage and hold up the empty water bottles. “Know where I can fill these?”

Q gets an evil glimmer in her gangrene-colored eyes and sits forward. She drops her feet to the floor and sits with her legs spread wide apart, like a dude.

“Water’s for employees only, Surfer Boy.” Q eyes me up and down. Her eyebrows and eyelashes are thick and dark. Her brownish-greenish-yellowish dreadlocks are flipped over the top of her head, spilling over one shoulder and ending somewhere below the full tits she’s hiding underneath that baggy T-shirt. And the gold hoop in her nose glints in the light as she grins, deciding she likes what she sees.

I don’t need this shit.

“You know what? I’ll find it somewhere else. Thanks.”

I turn to leave, but the sound of Q’s plastic chair scraping the ground stops me in my tracks.

“Hold up.”

I look at her over my shoulder with my not interested in your bullshit face firmly in place.

“Let’s take a little field trip. I wanna show you somethin’.”

“I don’t have time for—”

“Listen, muhfucka. I let you stay in my castle last night. I gave you my protection from the Bonys. I fuckin’ fed yo’ ass. You can give me five minutes.”

She’s right. I might not like this bitch, but right now, she’s the best resource I’ve got.

“Fine. Five.”

“I’m sorry. I think what you meant to say is, Thank you, Yo Majesty.” Q stands and brushes her dreads over her shoulder with a dramatic sweep of her hand.

“Thanks,” I mutter as Q turns and walks away from the table, gesturing for me to follow her with a flick of her long-ass fingernails.

“We gon’ have to work on that last part.” She cackles over her shoulder.

I feel the eyes of everyone in the food court on my back as we walk across the room and through a swinging half-door next to one of the fast-food counters.

“You ever see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Surfer Boy?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?” I mutter as we turn down a series of skinny, unlit hallways behind the restaurant kitchens.

Q pulls the latch on a heavy metal door and yanks it open, revealing a set of metal stairs. “Because I’m about to show you the April 23 version.” Q grins and gestures