Page 42 of Saving the Rain
Kayce’s attention flicks from my hand wrapped around the aluminum, then toward the front doors, and swallows thickly.
Stubborn little shit.
I can already see it in his expression, his features hardening, blue eyes gathering a steely edge to them. Hard-headed ‘til the final buzzer, as always.
“Don’t touch me.” Those words of his snarl out with snapping jaws. “I don’t need the fucking crutches. And I don’t need your help.”
With that, he charges past me and disappears inside without looking back.
Chapter 18
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 Itrain 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 thatfreedom. 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 towarda 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.