Raine's Haven

by Shari J. Ryan

  I peer up at him, squinting through the rain. With my vision blurred, the proximity of his warm lips doesn't alert me until there isn't a second to process what's happening. His hands slide down my sides, scooping me up, so my legs wrap around his waist, eliminating the foot of height difference between us. With my wet hair draped around us, my lips unfreeze from the icy lock they had been in, and I cup my hands around his face, succumbing to the momentum between his mouth and mine. My heart is aching—pounding inside of my chest, making it hard to breathe. Raine takes a couple of steps backward until he falters against a tree. Our lips part and he's breathing heavily against my mouth, causing unspoken thoughts to bubble within me. I tighten my arms around his neck and drop my forehead to his shoulder. "You aren't scared of me anymore?"

  "I'm even more scared of you now," he says. "Attraction is a powerful force, but the pull I feel inside to know every single detail about you is like some kind of internal Armageddon." If words could cause the same sensation as lips against lips, I just heard them—I just felt them. "Loneliness is a drought, Haven, and my life doesn't feel so parched when I'm with you." I feel the meaning of that too.

  I curl my fingers around his ear, staring into the depths of his kind eyes. "How could you be so lonely when you have freedom?" I ask, hearing my words come out hoarse through the tightness of my throat and missing breaths I have endured. Why is it that I have been jealous of his life when he seems so envious of mine?

  "Freedom? My freedom, Haven, is like standing on a white platform with no walls and no horizon, yet every second longer I live with this freedom, I feel as empty as being contained in a room with enclosure. Space doesn't define our confinement or lack thereof. It just means there is an abundance of loneliness—”

  "Haven!" Maryanne is yelling for me, and there's worry in her voice. "Haven, where did you go? Your parents have every single person looking for you! There's a flood warning. We have to get out of here." I knew this was going to happen when I heard the storm made landfall as a Category II hurricane, no matter what the weather forecast said.

  Frantically, Raine places me back down on my feet. "Go, now. Get out of here." He gently shoves me away from him. "Please, just go!"

  "Where do you live?" I ask him.

  He hisses a slur of words, but I only make out, "Don't worry about it. Just go."

  I jog backward toward the sound of Maryanne's voice, watching Raine walk deeper into the woods, wondering where's going.

  When I come to the end of the trees, Maryanne's ice cold hand grabs mine as she pulls me under an umbrella. "What the hell are you doing in here? Who was that guy?"

  "Who?" I ask, playing dumb.

  "You're going to get yourself in trouble, girlie. Let's go before your parents call a freaking rescue search to find you."

  I turn back as Maryanne continues to pull me away from the trees, just in time to catch a glimpse of Raine sliding down against a tall, thick stump as he runs his hands over his face.

  8

  Raine

  The irony of rain is that I'm named after it, or so I assume. I know so little about the woman who gave me this name and not much more about the man who agreed to it. The only thing I do know is that they met during a cocaine exchange. Nine months later, I arrived, raining down on their carefree, doped-up lives.

  I close my eyes, letting the marble-sized raindrops fall down the length of my face. Now that the murmuring of excited voices has muted, the only sound I hear is the water hitting everything in its path. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit us, but earlier when it was headed for us, it was predicted to be bad, so who knows how this will turn out. In any case, it doesn't help my current living situation.

  Things with Crow didn't end as I hoped they might. He calmed down after the initial shock of my recent past with Kacee, but I knew he wasn't going to drop the issue that easily. That man is more territorial than a female lion with her cubs. He kicked me out a week later, and since then it's been park benches, the homeless walk-in, or the Sutter motel when I can afford it. I was hoping to have enough cash tonight to stay there, but the event coordinator for this fair probably fled with the other rain alarmists, so chances of me getting paid are slim.

  With the grounds now saturated and overfilling with water, I peel my wet pants away from the mud and amble out of the woods, finding myself in the middle of a clear lot with closed vendor trucks and empty stages.

  Sirens blare in the distance as I walk through the drenched grass lot. The water is cascading from the dark sky like a solid sheet, making it impossible to see where I'm walking, but I know better than to stand still. My truck is alone in the empty parking lot, and I retrieve a tarp from behind the driver's seat to secure my equipment in the bed. I hope this piece of plastic holds up against whatever mother nature has in store for this shitty town tonight.

  I make my way across town to the small shelter on the corner of Main Street in Cascade. By the time I park and approach the building, the place has a small line wrapped around the front side. People who are probably without power or who had a tree fall on their house would have no other choice but to seek shelter here, underneath the small country store.

  "We're at our capacity," a woman explains from the doorway. “The gymnasium at the high school is letting people in. If you need shelter, please head down there immediately.” Shit.

  I slide back into my truck, heading straight for the motel. Unsure of what to expect, I know it isn't much as I pull in to see the lights flickering on and off in the main office, just as the lights in the lot fade to black.

  Wading through the several inches of water from my truck to the office, I pry open the door against the wind. Inside, is an older woman who I've never seen in here before. Usually, it's an older guy with an overgrown, dirty beard and a matching thick gut. Maybe this lady is his wife or something. Like the man I usually find here, she looks like she has seen better days, yet she's cowering in the corner with her arms draped around her chest. "Please don't hurt me," she says.

  "What? I'm not going to hurt you," I tell her, holding my hands up in surrender.

  "Well, what do you want from me?" She tries to back away further, but it's not possible since she's already up against the wall. Am I that scary looking? I get that I look like a drowned rat right now, but Jesus, I would assume the thought of hurting someone would be the farthest thing from anyone's mind at this moment.

  "I was just hoping you had a spare room is all," I tell her, still holding my hands up.

  "We have one," she says. "Eighty dollars for the night, and you have to be out by ten in the morning."

  I dip my hands into my pockets, pulling out the cash I have, which I know isn't eighty. "I only have thirty-eight." I'm not looking for a handout, just shelter from this damn storm.

  "Where's all your money going? Drugs or something of the sort?" she asks, condescendingly. Drugs. If she only knew a thing about me, that wouldn't have been her first assumption about my poverty.

  "No, Ma'am. I'm just dirt poor for other reasons, but I understand."

  "What are you, eighteen? Nineteen? Where are your parents?" She fires question after question, interrogating me for a reason I don’t understand.

  I shake my head dismissively and peer down to the yellow and green mosaic linoleum floor tiles. "I'm twenty-one and on my own. It's fine. I understand." Turning for the door, I know I'm pretty much heading into the eye of the storm at this point, but I'll stay safe in my truck for the time being.

  "Stop," she says, just as I place my hand on the push bar of the glass door.

  I turn around slowly, curious as to what she wants. "Yes, Ma'am?"

  She unwraps her arms from her chest and steps in toward the reception desk where there's an open magazine, a glass tray filled with old butts, and a cash register from the eighties. Reaching under the counter, she retrieves a key with a green rubber piece hanging from the end. "I'm going to trust you ain't lying to me. Room two-twenty."

  "I appreciate your kind
ness," I tell her.

  "Don't make me regret it," she says, placing her hands down on the countertop. The tips of her fingers pull in toward her palms as her knuckles tense with paleness.

  "I mean no trouble...honest," I say again.

  "Okay then." She clears her throat and redirects her attention from my face to the door, hinting for me to go. I'd be doing the same if I was talking to someone who looked as dirty and washed up like me.

  Without another word, I push against the door and step into the downpour. Using my arm as a shield from the rain, I run up the stairs and eagerly search for the room this key unlocks. Each step feels like a mile with the rain and wind pushing against me, but I reach my room and close myself inside.

  As I peel off my wet clothes, I finally have a chance to think about my interaction with Haven tonight. The realization of what I may have started with her seeps in through my damp skin. If she's attracted to me, it's based on what she knows, and what she doesn't know would likely kill that sense of attraction. I've never been a dishonest person, but I have been a private one. I don't want Haven’s pity, and I feel like she might only see me in that light if she knew my whole story. Still, to feel any sort of realness in my life isn't something I can turn my back on, regardless of how wrong she is for me or how wrong I am for her.

  As I slide my legs over the smooth cotton, the warmth of the sheets brings along an ache inside my veins. The simplicity of a bed has me feeling sorry for myself again and yet, I can't seem to do a damn thing about my life. I try. I work harder than I ever imagined I'd have the strength for, but the way the lady in the front office sees me seems to be the way most people see me around here. They know. They know what my mother did, and my father. They know my granddad died, and I lost a grip on stability. I wouldn't be surprised if they only saw me as the bad apple who fell from the rotting branches my parents sowed.

  I could leave, but I wouldn't get far. No one wants to hire a man who looks like he can't even afford a haircut. The only thing I have to my name is that mower and my truck, and I'm just waiting for the day they shit the bed too; then I'm done for. I will have no source of income other than the random side gigs for local events, and I know that hiring me to help with those is nothing more than a charity case for the coordinators. Still, I won't give up. I refuse to become my parents, and I will die trying to make something of my life, even if it's just to make Granddad proud.

  The white noise of rain pounding on the flat tin roof above my head knocks me out, and I do my best to avoid the nightmares, the dreams, and everything in between.

  The dim light hitting the plastic-sheeted curtain burns through my closed eyelids. The storm must be over, and the reconstruction of whatever damage it caused is most likely already in progress. These storms bring forth the helpless people in this town, and the town will pay for the help they need. Being one of those in need of help, I will offer my services until I have enough money to eat and sleep in this bed again tonight. The motivation is strong every morning, hoping this will be the day things turn around for me, or that I will at least get a break. I press my feet into the thin, harsh carpeting, and with blurred vision, I stumble into the bathroom eager for a shower to wash away the outer layer of dirt.

  Cleaner than I've been in a week, I step out of the bathroom in a towel and scoop up my slightly damp clothes from last night, quickly slipping them on. There was a time when I'd cringe at feeling damp jeans against my legs, but it's a sensation I've gotten used to over the past few years. I've got two pairs of jeans and two shirts to my name at the moment. The other pair is in the truck, covered in grime from a job I had last week. The mower got stuck between a rock and a muddy puddle, which caused a mud storm to cover me from head to toe.

  When I step out of the motel room, the daylight shines over the damage caused from last night. Trees are down, and branches are floating in a foot of water covering the surrounding area. I make my way into the truck and head down toward Main Street to the other side of town, taking in the landscape of damages. We get hit with these storms two or three times a year, but this one is up there on the more damaging side.

  I cruise down the residential streets looking for people who need help and find a few who requesting assistance with the trees lying across their driveways, and unfortunately, some vehicles as well. Every person is in such a state of despair, the thought of asking for, or taking compensation after helping, goes right out the window. Although their experience of a catastrophe is just a normal state of living for me, I'm no worse off than some of these people at the moment.

  After helping at least a dozen locals with their damages, I head into Haven's neighborhood, finding electrical trucks working on their main transformer. While pulling up in front of their house, I see Haven outside on the front porch with her knees pulled into her chest and arms encasing her entire body into a ball. Worry lines her face, and I don't consider the thought of her parents seeing me as I jump out of my truck and hurry over to her. "You okay?" I ask in a hush.

  As she spots me, she stands up and jumps off the steps into the flooded lawn. "Are you okay?" she responds with more concern than I had for her.

  "Where are your parents?" I ask, worry slowly breaking through my mind.

  "Town hall helping with the emergency calls," she says.

  I pull her out of the grass and back up to the front steps. "They just left you here?"

  Haven shrugs. "I'm okay." Pausing for a moment as she takes in the sight of my appearance, I focus on her eyes and the enclosed green specks the sun highlights, but I break my stare as I notice her brows knit together. "You're wet and wearing the same thing you were wearing last night. Didn't you go home?" She peers down at her watch and back up at me. "It's almost two o'clock."

  I could tell her the truth. I could. "Long story," I say, instead. "I was helping some people out. There's a good amount of damage, and your neighborhood looks like it lucked out compared to some of the others I've seen today.”

  She takes me by the arm and pulls me inside the house. “Raine, you still need to take care of yourself.”

  I’m inside the mayor’s house. As the door closes us in, the warm scent of honey and vanilla saturates the air around me, making my stomach ache with incredible hunger pains, but the thought of being in this man’s house makes my stomach hurt worse than hunger. "Haven, I don't think this is a good idea," I tell her as we make our way through the front foyer.

  Ignoring my remark, she pulls me in a little farther. "They won't be home until after dinner tonight. You don't have to worry."

  "I still shouldn't be in here," I say, standing firm. But, I want to be in here.

  Haven takes a few steps back, giving me an odd look. "Do you remember the night at the bar?" she asks.

  There were two nights. "Which one?"

  "Does it matter?" she retorts.

  I'm not sure where she's going with this. "I don't know, does it?"

  "The Raine from that night isn't the Raine standing in front of me right now," she says, studying me as if she's trying to figure me out.

  "I'm the same person. That doesn't make any sense."

  "Were you just trying to scare me away that night? You know, when you held me up against that wall, acting all tough like I should be afraid of you or something."

  I fold my arms over my chest and rest heavily on my heels, feeling a watery give within the sole of my boot. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was trying to do."

  "Why?" she expels, throwing her hands up in the air. I think it's safe to assume she's pissed that I've sent her mixed signals. It wasn't intentional—just an internal battle I've been fighting and losing.

  "You can't—you shouldn't like me. I shouldn't be attracted to you," I tell Haven.

  She huffs a quiet laugh. "Okay, well, you have a dumb way of showing it. And what exactly is your reason for why I shouldn't be attracted to you?"

  "So, kissing you was dumb?" I question her, ignoring the last part of her badgering remarks.

 
I watch Haven struggle to swallow as a weakness plays through her eyes. "No," she says so quietly I can hardly hear her. "But you think I don't know why you're saying all this? You think I don't get it? I'm off limits. I'm the mayor's daughter. I might as well have leprosy. You aren't the first guy to run from me the second they find out who I am." Haven takes off into the center of the house, and I debate following her. She could have a housekeeper here, or someone who would rat us out. "Do you want something to eat?" Her voice echoes from what must be the kitchen, which means if someone else is here, the cat's already out of the bag. I follow her voice through a few large rooms and into the kitchen. Everything is covered in stainless steel except for the cabinets and countertop, which are stark white. Pristine and perfect.

  Haven doesn't realize I know, or at least I don't think she does, but I'm aware they were living a couple of towns over before her father, Frederick Leigh, became Mayor Leigh of this town where half of the residents live off food stamps and welfare. I can't figure out why no one has ever questioned the mayor’s real source of income.

  Haven is busying herself with a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. "I—ah—I'm allergic to nuts," I tell her.

  "Oh! I'm sorry." She caps the jar and throws the half-made sandwich into the trash. "Any other allergies I should know about?"

  "Nope," I tell her, moving in closer.

  She flings the fridge open and grabs a container of sliced meat and a bottle of mayo. My stomach is snarling in pain at the sight of a sandwich. In less than a minute, she pieces the mouthwatering foods together and hands the plate to me. "Soda or water?"

  "Anything is fine." Do I look starved? Deprived? I could probably answer my own question as I devour the food within four large bites.

  She turns around with a can of soda, holding it out to me, while also admiring the crumbless plate in my hand. "Holy crap, hungry?"

  "I'm fine. Thank you for the sandwich." I down the soda, creating a moment of silence between us as she watches me with intent and possibly a bit of question.