Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,33

of heavy feet enter the tuxedo shop, I expect to see Carter’s mop of dark curls appear above the counter—he likes to pop in while he’s doing his nightly rounds—but the face I see when I look up grabs the knife handle sticking out of my heart and twists it with invisible hands. Pain, sharp and suffocating, slices through my numbness, but I don’t show it. If I flinch, if I blink, he might disappear again forever.

Wes stares at me with that infuriatingly blank expression. The one he wears when he’s thinking.

He’s always thinking.

I can see him perfectly, even in the dark. Shiny brown hair, flipped up at the bottom from being tucked behind his ear. Soft green eyes hooded by strong, dark eyebrows. He shaved while he was gone. And washed his clothes. I know because the hibiscus on the shoulder of his blue Hawaiian shirt isn’t blood red anymore. As my eyes slide across his broad chest, I realize that all of the flowers are different now. In fact, they’re not flowers at all.

They’re hooded figures on horseback.

Yellow and orange and deep, dark pink.

I sigh, and for the first time since he arrived, I allow myself to close my eyes.

“You’re not really here, are you?”

He doesn’t reply, and I know that when I open my eyes, he’ll already be gone. Vanished like a ghost into the night. With a sigh, I look up and find Wesson Patrick Parker kneeling right in front of me.

God, he’s so beautiful.

I hold my breath, afraid that he might scatter like a dandelion if I’m not careful, but … I’m not careful. I reach out with impulsive fingers and tuck his hair behind his ear. When he doesn’t disappear, I exhale, letting my hand linger on his cheek.

“Why did you leave?”

Wes leans into my touch and closes his eyes. “Self-defense.”

Of course. Wes’s recipe for survival. Supplies, shelter, and self-defense.

“What are you defending yourself from, Wes? Nothing will hurt you here.”

His eyes flick open, and I feel his jaw clench in my palm.

“The only thing that will hurt me is here,” he grinds out, eyes as hard as polished jade.

“If you’re talking about Carter—”

“I’m talking about you.”

“Me”—I shake my head and huff out a frustrated laugh—“hurt you? Are you serious right now? You left me, Wes. You broke my heart. You wanna talk about survival? I can’t survive without my heart.”

“Bullshit,” Wes snaps. “I’ve been doing it since the second I walked out those doors.”

I hold his stare and my breath until my eyes water and my lungs burn.

Then, as if we both run out of patience and oxygen at the same time, we lunge for one another. His fingers dive into my hair. My hands grip the back of his neck. We erase the distance with a violent desperation, and just before our lips collide, Wes whispers my name.

“Rain … wake up.”

My eyes flutter open to find a very different man blinking at me in concern. This one has eyes like warm Tennessee whiskey, not cool, mossy stones. They’re friendly, not fiercely guarded, and they don’t stare through me; they simply stare at me.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Carter whispers with a smile, his perfect teeth almost glowing in the dark.

“Hey,” I croak, rubbing my eyes.

“You remember the plan?”

“Mmhmm.” I go to stretch but stop short when I feel Lamar’s head resting on my shoulder. “Can you …” I gesture toward the bag of bones slumped on top of me and roll my neck in relief when Carter gently shifts Lamar so that he’s lying with his head on Quint’s thigh.

“Carter?” I whisper as he helps me to my feet. “Do you still dream about the horsemen?”

He pauses, looking up and to the left as he tries to remember. “Damn. You know what? I don’t think I do. Why? Are you still having the nightmares?”

I shake my head as we walk out into the hallway. “No. I still see the horsemen, but they’re not scary anymore … I think they’re fading away.”

“That’s good. Now, you can start dreaming about me again.”

Carter wags his eyebrows at me, and I elbow him in the ribs.

“God, you’re just as bad as your dad.”

“Speaking of the old man, you sure you know what you’re doing?”

I swallow. “No, but the way his foot looks like it’s sticking out in the wrong direction a little bit—and the fact that he can walk on it at all—makes me think it might just be a greenstick fracture.”

“And you can fix that?”

I cringe and look