Page 27 of Saving the Rain (Crimson Ridge #4)

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

I ’m shivering.

It’s not even that cold, but my body has been wracked with non-stop chills the whole time I’ve sat here in the dirt.

My tattered school bag sags beside my boots, the strap on one side held together with a safety pin, and as I pick at the frayed canvas threads, my eyes sting from the effort not to let tears roll down my cheeks.

There’s no way I’d be caught dead crying.

It was my own fault. I’m the one who fell.

My horse wasn’t the problem, or the bad guy; I just read everything wrong.

For some dumb reason I couldn’t get my grip right, and my head has been aching all day. Mr. Jones barked at me so many times in math class earlier, I thought he’d throw my ass in detention. Making it to the final bell was like swimming through thick soup to concentrate.

Last night sucked. I hate when Mom gets like that.

The nights when she’s had too much to drink and yells and yells and yells.

It’s not like I try to piss her off or anything.

But I don’t have any choice. I gotta steal them from her so she doesn’t fill our house with cigarette smoke until I can’t breathe.

She wasn’t awake by the time I left for school this morning. Nothing new there. Then, this afternoon, I walked to the place where I train for rodeo, like I always do. The problem is that by the time we’re done, it’s late, and buses don’t run all the way out here after dark.

Now I’m sitting in the dust. Not knowing if she’ll remember the time, or that today’s the day I need to be picked up from the arena. So I’m stuck here long after everyone else has gone home. Waiting .

I sniff and gulp back the agony climbing up my throat.

My arm throbs so hard I tuck it tighter against my stomach on instinct.

A stupid, pathetic little noise comes out of me when I hold it with my other hand.

There’s no point being a crybaby when it’s my fault I fell. Now I just gotta toughen the hell up.

What I wouldn’t give right now to have my own car.

To be old enough to get around by myself.

.. to have that freedom . I’m stuck sitting on the ground like a stray pup with dirt on my face, all because I can’t get up and start walking.

Tried that once and found out the hard way to never bother again.

Mom tore my head off when she eventually pulled up to the curb beside me, cussing me out for wasting her time on needing to drive around searching for my ass—all because I got tired and hungry and decided to start walking when it was obvious she’d forgotten to come get me in the first place.

It’s not my problem that she can’t ever afford to keep her cell phone on.

From somewhere down the far end of the block, I hear it; the muffled thump of music and whine of his engine.

My chest tightens at the same moment as I register the all too familiar sounds, and anticipation of the crushing embarrassment I’m about to endure burns hot and bright in my cheeks.

It sets my gut twisting that he’s the one who has gotta come pick me up.

He hates me. I see it in his eyes whenever he looks my way. They go from smoldering to deadened lumps of coal in an instant, like a bonfire that’s had ice water tossed over it.

As the beat-up car rolls into the parking lot, wheels skid to a halt in the gravel.

My mouth is bone-dry when I swallow hastily, before I climb to my feet as carefully as possible.

Quickly dusting the dirt off the seat of my jeans using one hand, I pick up my bag, slinging it over my good shoulder.

The one that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire.

Approaching the passenger door always feels like walking toward a viper. Not knowing if lifting that handle will be yet another opportunity for him to chew me out and blame me—to curse me for merely existing—like I’m the idiot responsible for our lives being such hell.

I try to make myself as small as possible, sliding into the front seat and clicking the door shut behind me.

The scent of him immediately wraps me up, forceful and so weighty it hits my lungs with a potency I’m sure I’ll struggle to forget.

No matter how far into the future, I think I’ll always associate these scents with him.

Engine oil and worn leather seats. The faintest hint of something kinda herbal, sharp, but there’s a pungent earthy undertone to it all. Weed .

My heart speeds up as soon as I lean back, not daring to fully lift my eyes his way. He’s so big. So imposing. One hand drapes over the steering wheel and the other rests on the shifter.

I don’t need him to say a word to know his thoughts.

This shit again? Running around after a stupid little kid after dark, like a babysitter.

Reaching across my body, I tug on the seatbelt, and as soon as I pull it tight to click the buckle, pain sears through me.

It sizzles just like all the times I’ve seen cattle get jabbed with a red-hot brand.

Except there’s no billowing smoke or gross smell of burning fur to make you gag.

Only a cry that punches the back of my throat as it tries to tear its way out the roof of my mouth.

I catch that son of a bitch before it can escape, but I don’t manage to stop the wince from flashing across my face. Even though I keep my chin tucked against my chest, it happens before I can do anything about it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Raine’s voice is low, rough-edged, and dangerous. He sounds like he’s been sleeping.

“It’s nothing.”

“Kayce.” My stomach always does this stupid thing when he says my name.

It’s so rare he does, that when it actually happens, the sound of those letters dragging over his tongue is unsettling.

“I’ve had to leave a hot piece of ass drooling for my cock to come and deal with this horseshit. So tell me what the problem is.”

His fingers flex around the top of the shifter.

“I fell.” It tastes like broken glass to say those two words .

Raine never falls. He never messes up. Every ride, he’s strong and sure of himself, and makes it look easy.

“Christ.” Pinching his brow, he tips his head back, and from the corner of my eye, I see the slope of his throat.

It’s stubbled with a two-day-old shadow of dark hair, and his Adam’s apple protrudes forward.

Like everything else about him, it’s perfectly proportioned to his neck and jawline.

My pulse flutters low in my belly, and I quickly drop my eyes to look at the faded strap of my bag nestled between my knees.

With a loud rev of the engine, we start moving, and I stay braced in that position.

Not daring to flinch or allow my attention to wander to the side.

Refusing to look or breathe in his direction, because my eyes always want to drift to him.

The last thing I need right now is to have my lights punched out by my stepbrother.

He’ll probably think I’m gay or something if he catches me sneaking a glance.

I don’t understand it, but I can’t ever seem to stop myself from watching him.

There’s a certain energy he has that feels so damn frightening, but not in a terrifying way.

Not in the way his dad scares the shit out of me—to the point I never want to find myself left alone with that man, always locking my bedroom door if he’s in the house.

When I’m with Raine... he feels like the idea of getting on a roller coaster for the first time.

Like there’s a hidden part of me who wants to enjoy the thrill, but my rational mind keeps yelling can’t you see the danger? A default sense of self-preservation tugging on my limbs. Warning me that I should run in the opposite direction from this hypnotic, uncertain sensation.

Of course, my stepbrother would happily bust my nose ‘til blood soaks my shirt and watch me slam into the dirt a hundred times, just for fun. So I listen to the part of my brain that hauls me to safety. I keep my chin lowered and struggle to ignore how much my arm hurts.

The car jerks to the side of the road, and we turn off unexpectedly.

Even though I haven’t paid attention to anything under the streetlights whizzing by outside this vehicle, I do know the route back to our apartment—it’s imprinted on my awareness like an invisible roadmap.

Wait at this set of lights. Take the third right.

Slow down for the cops parked on the corner of Smith and Easton.

This isn’t the way home .

What greets me when I lift my head is a big sign, all lit up in red and white. Rows of lights glow outside a maze of buildings. Cars half-fill the lot. An ambulance is parked in the covered bay, waiting for its next assignment.

“Hurry up.” He slams out the door; impatience colors his voice to an even colder tone than normal.

The next parts all go by in a blur. Nurses and waiting and more nurses followed by more waiting.

Unforgiving seats and harsh lighting. Disinfectant smells and hushed conversations.

My stomach knots itself, and a creature gnaws away on the inside with hunger throughout all the examinations and X-rays.

I’m pretty sure I fall asleep in my seat at one point.

It’s only when Raine shoves my knee and grunts at me to follow the doctor that I lurch to my feet and stumble after her, rubbing at my itchy eyes.

She’s got a nice energy. Kindly. Wears a soft smile as she puts the plaster on my wrist and forearm to immobilize the fracture and tells me about her three cats.

By the time we get back to the car, I have no idea what time it is, and my stomach lets out a long rumble of protest. My cheeks grow hot as I feel those dark eyes drill into me from across the flaking paintwork on the roof.

“Sorry.” I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for. All of it? This whole night? For being born in the first place and just being a giant goddamn burden on everyone’s lives?