Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,49

a scene from another life.

Rain’s pillow still sits on the floor by the toilet where I spent most of the night with my fingers down her throat. Her long, thick black braid is still lying on top of the trash can in the corner of the room. And vanilla-scented candles still cover every flat surface. I’d pulled them out of Rain’s bedroom that night to block out the stench of death from the rest of the house, but now, I’d take blood and brains over sweet vanilla.

Because it reminds me of her.

When we first met, Rain smelled like sugar cookies, birthday cake, vanilla frosting with rainbow sprinkles—things I wished my mom had baked for me as a child, things I smelled and tasted at other kids’ houses. Kids whose parents remembered their birthdays. Kids whose parents loved them.

That’s what Rain smelled like to me—the kind of love I always wanted but never had.

But after a few days, she didn’t smell like vanilla anymore.

She smelled like me.

I took every good, pure, sweet thing about Rain, chewed it up, and swallowed it.

I’m the reason she took all those pills that night.

I’m the reason she almost joined her parents in the dirt out back.

And I’m the reason she’s probably lying naked in Carter’s arms right now.

There’s a reason none of my houses ever smelled like vanilla.

It’s because love doesn’t exist in my world.

I step over the pillow and turn the handle on the shower faucet as far as it will go. The pipes groan and rattle in protest, but a second later, water sprays from the faucet. I sigh and set my gun down on the counter, pushing some of the candles aside to make room. I pull off my Hawaiian shirt and lay it on the closed toilet lid. Then, I turn sideways to look at my bullet wound in the mirror. It’s damn near healed.

I close my eyes and remember the way it felt when Rain put that first bandage on. Her touch was so gentle, but the pain it caused was excruciating. I’d wanted a woman to touch me like that my whole life, and once I felt it, I knew walking away would hurt worse than any fucking gunshot ever could.

I hate being right.

I blow out a shaky breath and go to strip off the rest of my clothes when the sound of voices has me reaching for my revolver.

Standing in the space between the sink and the open bathroom door, I press my back against the wall and listen. I can’t make out what’s being said over the sound of the shower, but I definitely hear someone downstairs.

A million different scenarios run through my mind, but the only one that makes sense is that it’s pillagers snooping around for supplies. They’re not gonna find much downstairs unless they check the freezer or swipe the keys to the motorcycle or truck, but the fact that they’re talking at full volume despite hearing a running shower upstairs tells me that they’re ballsy as fuck—and probably well-armed.

I tiptoe down the hall with my gun drawn. With each step closer to the living room I get, the clearer the voices become. The one talking right now is definitely male, which is good. I have no problem shooting the fuck out of a man. And, with another few steps, I can tell he’s definitely a good ole boy. This isn’t one of the Glock-toting gangbangers from the grocery store. This is one of the rifle-slinging, pickup truck–driving rednecks who tried to jump me in town.

I take the stairs as quietly as possible with my back against the wall. By the third stair, I begin to make out a few words here and there—words like violation and willful disobedience. By the fifth, I find their source—a glowing TV screen reflected in the framed poster above the couch.

I exhale and take the stairs a little less quietly the rest of the way to the living room but keep my gun drawn just in case.

“Governor Steele,” a female reporter on the TV says. She’s wearing so much makeup I suspect she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s just as hungover as I am. “Are you saying that what we’re about to witness is a public trial of sorts?”

“No, ma’am,” the bloated, old bastard answers, snatching the microphone out of her hand.

Turning to face the camera, Governor Steele puffs up his chest as a slow, evil smile curls up into his jowly, pockmarked cheeks. “What y’all