Praying for Rain (The Rain Trilogy, #1)

by B.B. Easton

Shit I’m Never Going to Think About Again Because None of This Matters and We’re All Going to Die fortress,

Sugar cookies. She laughs like a farm animal. She looks like a discarded porcelain doll that raided a teenage boy’s closet. And she smells like fucking sugar cookies.

The only thing country folk love more than God is their goddamn guns.

The kitchen is just as countrified as I expected—beige wallpaper with roosters all over it, rooster-shaped cookie jars, little rooster salt and pepper shakers.

Rain nods, staring at her corn dog like it’s a beloved family member on life support. “It’s gonna pull through,” I tease, squeezing her shoulder. Which earns me a smack on the arm.

“Tom Hanks!” Rain squeals and shoves my leg. “Nobody hates Tom Hanks! He’s the nicest guy in America!” “I call bullshit,” I say, leaning forward to rustle the logs with a fire poker. “It’s all just an act. I’m not falling for it.”

My armpits start to sweat. Great. Now, we’re both sweating.

“What wouldn’t I do for you?” She nods, a glimmer of mischief returning to her sad red eyes. “I don’t know … piss on Tom Hanks if he were on fire?”

The light lands on a black briefcase sitting on the floor next to the door—the kind that takes a code to open. Luckily, I have the code—in the form of a pocketknife.