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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 are about to see heah … is a public execution.”
I drop to the couch and set my gun on the coffee table.
“Excuse me,” the reporter says, leaning into the microphone that Governor Fuckface stole from her. “Did you say … execution?”
“That’s right, young lady. The events of April 23 have given the human race a new lease on life, and we must protect it at all costs. We were facing global extinction due to our bleeding hearts, and the only way to enshuh that never happens again is to protect the laws of natural selection tooth and nail.” The motherfucker pounds his doughy palm with the butt of the microphone. “In the words of the late, great Dr. Martin Luther King Junyuh, ‘Desperate times call for desperate meashuhs.’”
“Governor, sir, I believe it was Hippocrates who said—”
He yanks the microphone even farther away from the leaning reporter. “We are no longuh countries divided! We are one race—the human race—and our sworn enemy is anyone who dares to defy the laws of natural selection again! The future of our very species depends on swift … just … permanent consequences.” His jowls bounce as he shakes his fist in the air.
“But, Mr. Governor—”
The balding piece of shit actually shoves the reporter back with his forearm and takes a step toward the camera. “Today, y’all will see the lengths to which your government is willing to go to protect you from evah havin’ to face the possibility of extinction again. We take this responsibility very seriously, which is why anyone reported to us for engaging in activities that save or sustain the life of someone with a terminal disability, injury, or illness will be tried within forty-eight hours and, if convicted, sentenced to death.”
The camera pans to the right, past the shell-shocked reporter and the gold-domed Georgia State Capitol building behind them, and swivels around to face a grassy clearing surrounded by people.
“From now on,” the governor continues, walking into view, “Plaza Park will be the final resting place for those who choose to defy the laws of natural selection in the great state of Georgia!”
The crowd cheers.
