Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(3)

When I walk in, I half-expect to see flaming banners and demons slaying people on horseback, but it’s just the entire miserable town of Franklin, crammed inside and yelling at each other.

God, it’s loud. People who’ve lived here their whole lives are shoving fingers in each other’s faces, arguing about who was next in line. Babies are crying. Mothers are crying. Toddlers are screaming and running around like wild animals. And everybody smells like liquor.

I sigh and begin to make my way to the back of the line when I notice that my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Frazier, is standing at a cash register. It’s her turn to order, but she’s too busy cursing out Pastor Blankenship, who’s behind her in line, to get on with it. I’m sure Mrs. Frazier wouldn’t mind if I—

I slip in front of her at the cash register, hoping she keeps screaming long enough for me to order.

“Hi, and welcome to Burger Palace!” A girl wearing a Burger Palace cap and polo shirt beams at me from across the counter. “May I take your order?”

I glance down the line and notice three more employees, all sporting the same exaggerated grin.

What the hell are they giving these people? Molly? Crystal meth?

“Uh … yeah.” I keep my voice low. “I’ll have a soda and a large fry.”

“Would you like to Apocasize that?”

I blink. Twice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Apocasize it!” She gestures up at one of the digital screens behind her, where an animated thirty-two-ounce drink and bucket of fries are holding hands and skipping around a fire. “It’s not like we have to worry about carbs anymore, am I right?”

My eyebrows pull together. “Uh … no, I guess not.” I hear Mrs. Frazier call Pastor Blankenship a cunt behind me and know I’d better wrap it up. “Sure, whatever. How much does that cost?”

Perky Polly on Molly taps her monitor a few times. “That’ll be forty-seven fifty.”

“For a soda and fries?” I blurt.

She shrugs, never letting her smile slip.

“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath as I dig in my hoodie pocket for some cash.

Price-gouging pieces of—

I set the contents of my pocket on the counter to sort through them, and with that one simple, absentminded gesture, all holy hell breaks loose. Perky Polly leaps across the counter, clawing at my little orange prescription bottle, at the exact same moment that Pastor Blankenship swipes one long arm out to grab it. Their fists collide, knocking the plastic bottle to the floor, which I manage to get a foot on before it can roll away. But, as I kneel down to pick it up, Mrs. Frazier launches herself at my back and sends us both crashing into the counter.

The entire crowd surges forward, pinning us to the stainless steel surface as they push and pull and claw at the salvation in my fist with greedy, desperate hands. I scream as one of them rips out a chunk of my hair. I hiss as another rakes her nails across my cheek. I bite and elbow as many others as I can. Howls and grunts and frustrated curses pour out of me as I struggle against the mob. The weight of them is crushing, pushing me down. I curl into a ball on the floor, clutching the bottle to my chest with both fists as I wince and take their beating.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stops. The ringing in my ears registers a moment later. Someone fired a gun. Or a freaking cannon from the sound of it.

The room goes quiet, and the crowd freezes, but I don’t look up.

It could be a trick. It could be somebody just trying to distract me so that somebody else can snatch my pills. It could be—

I wince as the hot metal muzzle of a gun sears my temple.

“I’ll be taking this.” I hear the stranger’s voice just before a firm hand wraps around my upper arm and yanks me to my feet.

I stand in a daze and face my attackers. They don’t even have the decency to look ashamed. In fact, they don’t look at me at all. Their eyes, a few pistols, and at least one rifle are all trained on the person holding a gun to my head. They’re not mad that he’s about to kidnap me. They’re mad that he’s kidnapping my pills.

“Who the hell are you?” Mr. Lathan, our former postman, growls from the back of the crowd. One of his eyes is squeezed shut as he stares down the length of his rifle, ready to fire.

My abductor shrugs as he walks me backward toward the door. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

I watch the glow of anger in everyone’s eyes cloud over with despair as they take in the meaning of his words.

Today is April twentieth. Nothing matters anymore.

I don’t struggle. I don’t even turn around and look at him. I let him drag me behind the building and pray that, whatever he does, he does it quick.

So much for not drawing attention.

I realize along the way that I’m limping, but I can’t seem to pin down the location of my injury. And my mouth tastes like blood, but it doesn’t hurt. And my body feels all floaty and light even though I just got jumped by half the town.

Damn, this hydrocodone is some powerful shit.

I giggle at the absurdity of my situation as the gunman behind me guides me toward a parked dirt bike with the heel of his palm on my shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” His voice is soft, just like his touch as we come to a stop.

I turn to answer him and almost choke on my own spit. The words dry up in my mouth as I stare into the mossy-green eyes of a guy not much older than me. A tall, gorgeous guy who should be on a poster in my bedroom, not kidnapping me from Burger Palace.