Dying for Rain (The Rain Trilog - BB Easton
© 2019 by BB Easton
Published by Art by Easton
All rights reserved.
e-book : 978-1-7327007-7-2
Cover Design by BB Easton
Cover Photographs licensed by Adobe Stock
Content Editing by Traci Finlay and Karla Nellenbach
Copyediting by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing
and Ellie McLove of My Brother’s Editor
Formatting by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. While several locations in the book are based on real places in and around Atlanta, Georgia, the events that take place there, characters portrayed as employees, and even the interior layout and decor are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book.
This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had to fight for their own happiness.
SKIN: Chapter One
Books by BB Easton
About the Author
Dying for Rain Synopsis
What could be worse than knowing the exact day the world is going to end?
Waking up to find out that it didn’t.
The post–April 23 world is a lawless, senseless, ruthless place, but it’s not loveless. At least, not for Rain and Wes.
But when the government begins holding daily televised executions as a demonstration of their power, that love is put to the ultimate test.
Will Rain sacrifice one life to save the others?
Or sacrifice the others to save the one?
It’s amazing how your whole life can change in an instant. How forces beyond your control can just reach out and rip entire chunks of your life away from you—the best chunks, the biggest chunks—without so much as a please or a thank you. And those forces always wait until your guard is down. They want to hear you exhale, to sigh in quiet contentment, before they strike.
I was in my tree house after sundown, exhaling a calming stream of smoke from one of my daddy’s cigarettes, when three shotgun blasts made me an orphan.
I was creeping down the highway on the back of Wes’s motorcycle, relieved that we’d survived April 23 and excited about what we might find outside of Franklin Springs, when an eighteen-wheeler exploded and almost killed my best friend, Quint.
I was wrapped in the safety of a dark, abandoned bookstore, sleeping peacefully after making love to Wes, when he ripped himself out of my life without so much as a goodbye.
And I’m in the safety of Wes’s arms now, in the living room of my childhood home, surrounded by a newly polished hardwood floor and freshly painted walls, when I feel myself exhale again.
Watch my fear flutter to the floor like a silk robe.
Smile as hope and peace and gratitude tickle my flushed skin and whisper promises in my ear.
Wes wraps my thighs around his waist and kisses that smile away—feverishly, impatiently. As if he has more love to give me than time.
I sigh into his mouth, and three knocks on the door immediately signal my mistake. I let my guard down again, and now, the forces have come to take the only good thing I have left.
My eyes slam open, and Wes grabs my face.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
“What’s gonna be okay? What’s happening, Wes?”
Bang, bang, bang!
“Georgia State PD. Open up!”
I shriek and cover my mouth with my hands. My stupid, sighing mouth.
“We have the premises surrounded! Open up!”
“Oh my God!” I search Wes’s face for answers, search the room for a place to hide.
“They’re not here for you.” He shushes me, cupping my cheek in his warm, rough hand. “You did nothing wrong, okay? Just promise me you’ll stay here. You’re safe here.”
“What’s happening, Wes?” My voice goes shrill as the banging gets louder.
“It’s open!” Wes yells, holding my stare as the door behind me—the brand-new country-blue door that he installed while he was away—flies open.
“That’s him,” a voice I’ve known—a voice I’ve trusted—my entire life snarls from the doorway. “That’s the man who procured the antibiotics.”
I spin around as my mouth falls open, shock and betrayal slicing me from back to