Becoming Rain
Page 65

I close my eyes with his words, as his mouth finds my collarbone. I am real. At least, parts of who he’s seen are. And this is real, what’s happening between us right now.
I feel like the Velveteen Rabbit.
Right now, part of me wishes I had a fairy godmother to wave a wand and make Rain Martines come alive. But if she did, then I couldn’t help Luke. And, more and more, I want to help him.
I feel the tip of him rubbing against my thigh, and my body instinctively lifts and moves toward it, beckoning him in. I’m standing on the edge of a cliff right now, and I have no choice. I have to jump, even though the landing is going to hurt.
But I know the fall will be pure ecstasy.
He groans and I expect him to fish out a condom. But his hands and mouth begin wandering instead. Strong hands that make me feel dainty and cherished, the way they squeeze my hips and caress my breasts and slide inside me. I remember wondering if he was a selfish guy, focused more on his own needs.
I couldn’t have been more wrong, I realize, as he seems to worship every part of my body with his fingers and mouth, until my thighs are clenching around his head and my fingers are weaving through his hair, yanking on the soft strands.
Begging him.
I’m so riled up by the time I finally hear the condom wrapper tear open that he slides right into me with a moan and a muttered curse.
Guilt and happiness go to war inside of me as I fall.
I wonder which one will win.
With my head against his chest and his fingers drawing circles on my back and his heartbeat lulling me into sleep, my body jerks with his sudden words. “Hey Rain, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” That’s about all I can manage, I’m so content right now.
His fingers continue their dance along my back in the silence of the cabin. “Have you ever done anything illegal?”
Hearing his tone switch to something more serious is like being thrown into a bath of ice water, my postcoital bliss effectively ruined, reminding me that I have a purpose here. I take a deep breath and relax my body. “You mean like smoke pot?”
His low chuckle tickles my eardrum. “Yeah, sure.”
I decide to be honest with him. “A few times. And when I was fourteen, I stole makeup from the local CVS, too.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Yup. Turns out I’m a shitty thief. I didn’t even see the camera pointed on the makeup aisle as I stuffed my pockets.”
“What happened?”
“Well, thankfully my mom knew the owner well so he agreed not to press charges. But, man, did my dad ever make me remember not to do it again.” I groan, thinking back to the aftermath. “It was September and we were in the middle of a heat wave. I couldn’t wear shorts for a week, because of the welts across the backs of my legs.”
There’s a pause and then Luke’s body tenses. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” I turn my head until my chin is resting on Luke’s chest and I can see him staring down at me, his hair mussed but still sexy as hell. “I told you my dad was old-school Italian, right? Well, he grew up with the belt. So my brother and I grew up with the belt, too.”
Luke seems speechless for a moment. “And you still talk to him?”
“I’ve forgiven him, yeah. I mean, that’s what his dad taught him and that’s all he knew. For years, I didn’t even realize how wrong it was.” I’ve never talked openly about this with anyone before. I can’t believe I’m doing it now, with my target. Then again, maybe he understands, in a way. He was raised by people who obviously love him, but who also haven’t grasped how wrong what they’re doing is. They don’t live their days flogging themselves with guilt. They’ve long since convinced themselves that it’s okay.
It becomes ingrained in them, and in each new generation following. Somehow, Rust convinced his nephew that this life he’s leading him into is something to strive for.
“Has he realized how wrong that is?”
“Yeah. We had our differences growing up. I moved out when I was seventeen, and lived with friends. I was still in high school. We didn’t talk for a few years.”
Luke doesn’t say anything for a long moment. I’m not surprised. Most people who don’t deal with that sort of thing don’t know how to reconcile the fact that I still talk to my dad, that I love him, that I’ll do anything for him. That tells me that, for the other ways that Rust has corrupted his nephew, he never raised a hand to him, which is more than I can say about the criminals I’ve busted in the past. They usually have a handful of kids with different baby mamas. If they acknowledge them, it’s usually with abusive words and backhands and general neglect. Stereotypical, yes. But also real. I remember this one drug dealer who had his scrawny thirteen-year-old son, whose voice hadn’t even dropped yet, muling cocaine and pot around school. Of course the kid got roughed up and robbed. When he went home with a bloody lip and told his father what happened, his father beat the shit out of him for letting them take the drugs.
I’m guessing the Markov/Boone household was a semi-normal family home to any bystander—the smell of eggs and bacon wafting from the kitchen on Saturdays, church on Sundays, a perpetual pile of muddy kids’ shoes at the doorstep every other day.
Finally, Luke sighs. “That’s just . . . kinda crazy, Rain. But you’re fine now? I mean, it seems like you’re fine, with you living in his condo and everything.”