Raining Down Rules (3 page)

Chapter 5

Jordan

I have no clue what just happened. Or where the hell I am. Or who that girl was. And I have no idea why I am such an asshole. They should erect a sign that hangs around my neck, or maybe one that hovers over me:

Jordan Capshaw, Asshole Extraordinaire.

At least everyone would be forewarned and there wouldn’t be this slick film of guilt oozing from my pores.

I’m too sober and awake to sleep and I need a fix to calm the jitters and shakes that will be coming soon. I can already feel my pulse beginning to pick up, to fly through my veins, making my head pound. I don’t know how it can pound from the inside and feel squeezed from the outside all at the same time.

Raking my hands through my hair, I prance around the small room, trying to be as light on my feet as possible. Don’t want to wake dear old granny. Who lives with their grandma, anyway?

My hands are starting to tingle, and a shiver creeps up my spine. I reach for the wallet in my front pocket and hope I haven’t used up the last of my E’s. Sorting through the worn leather and plastic cards, I find the small bag containing my “in case of emergency” stash. The two blue pills practically leap out of the bag into my mouth. I’ve been at this so long I don’t even need water to chase them down, though I wouldn’t mind a shot of whiskey. Or maybe several.

How can a bedroom not have a clock? I need a clock. No idea where I left my shitty phone, it would have told me the time. I can’t sit still, I need to piss, I want a drink, and my feet won’t quit jittering. These E’s better kick in soon because my brain is all over the place.

She said something about a bathroom; maybe that will help.

The hallway is dark and empty when I peek my head out of the bedroom, and across from me are two narrow paneled doors. Shit. Which one is the bathroom?

Taking my chance with the one directly across from my room, I fumble with the handle and twist. The door creaks open, revealing a mostly naked girl,
the
girl. Her honey-blonde hair topples over her shoulders and reveals a small tattoo on her left shoulder blade. She turns, sees me, and drops to the floor, trying to cover herself with a tiny tank top.

“Get out!” she whisper-screams at me as her face turns bright cherry red.

“Day-amn, woman.” The air escapes my lungs in a long, low whistle. “You are a freaking goddess.”

“Get the hell out of my room,” she says a little louder this time. My feet won’t move, or maybe it’s just I don’t want to leave. Everything about her body has me on high alert, jeans tightening and pulse quickening. Thank God I still
have
my jeans on, otherwise the girl would be getting quite the show right about now. “Why are you still standing there?” she asks.

My fingers are buzzing and my lips have swelled due to the E, and I’m pretty sure I’m seeing a perfect double of the girl now. I sag against the door and lazily slur my words together.

“Bathroom. Need to pee.”

“You’re high again,” she says with fire, the fury in her eyes only adding to her beauty. Who knew a seemingly wholesome girl like her would do it for me? Though to be fair, really anything with tits is my type.

I shrug my shoulders and slip from the doorframe, but catch myself before stumbling to the floor. She already knows I’m high, but I don’t need to make it any more obvious.

The girl stands, still holding onto that skimpy tank over her perfectly sculpted breasts, and stomps over to me. “Give me whatever you have,” she says, gritting her teeth. She holds out her hand and I take a step back, holding mine in the air.

“I’m all out, babe,” I say with a smile. Or is it a classic Jordan Capshaw grin? I don’t know anymore.

“I’m not your
babe
, and I don’t believe you.”

“God, you are so hot!”

“Turn around,” she demands. I shake my head and laugh to myself. I am enjoying this way too much. “Turn around now.”

“What are you going to do?”

There’s no time to react, she literally grabs my balls and squeezes them tightly. My stomach clenches and I feel sick as I hunch over, hoping she’ll release my testicles. Only she doesn’t, she squeezes harder and I fall to the floor in a heap and groan as I hold my junk.

“Next time,” she says as she slips her tank over her very tempting breasts, “do what I ask.” She turns away, showing her perfect ass covered with baby pink panties with the words ‘
Bite Me’
on them.

Oh God, do I want to.

“And the bathroom is the next door over.” She walks to her dresser, opening the middle drawer, and removes a pair of gray sweatpants that she slips over her hips. “Get off the floor, Jordan. Gran doesn’t come upstairs very often, but I’m sure you’ve woken her up. So while you’re in the bathroom you better flush whatever else you might have down the toilet. I’m checking the bedroom for more—you can’t have that stuff in my house.”

“Your house? I thought this was your precious grandma’s house,” I say as I peel myself off the floor. The sign that should be above my head would be flashing neon right about now. I’m mostly recovered, but as I stand fully upright I hold my hands in front of my groin to protect the goods.

She throws her hands in the air and they land on her delicious hips. “You know, you are such a shadow of the Jordan I first drooled over six years ago. Jordan from back then wouldn’t have behaved like you do now. In fact, if you and he were to meet, I’m pretty sure he’d look you in the face and wonder what he did wrong. He’d wonder where he failed you and he’d be so disappointed in himself.”

I storm through her bedroom door and push her up against the wall. The pulse in her wrists speeds up as I press them hard against the plaster.

“You have no idea what it’s like out there and you have no right to be my judge and jury. Jordan from six years ago doesn’t exist, he never did. It’s all an act, sweetheart, for sad, pathetic chicks like you who have no idea what it’s like in the real world and therefore dream up shitty fantasies and need to live vicariously through me. I give girls like you a reason to live.”

The girl doesn’t shrink or cower, only stares into my eyes as though she is challenging me to go on. And I could, believe me. I have a whole bag of insults and ammunition I could fire at her. As I gear up to do so, I see a twitch in her eyes that makes something in my chest tighten. I loosen my grip on her hands and can’t decide if I’m going to kiss her or move away.

“Get out of my room,” she whispers, and it’s all I can do not to throw my arms around her small frame and spew out one apology after another. “Please.”

My hands move from around her wrists and I turn to go to the bathroom, but stop in the doorway. I’ve left red and white welts on her skin and I want to beat my head against the wall in an effort to make up for holding her too tightly. “Do you have a phone? I need to call my manager.” I need to get the hell out of here.

Chapter 6

Jemma

My hands tingle after Jordan releases them and I hope I don’t have bruises on my wrists tomorrow. Tugging at one of the straps on my tank top, I dig through my purse for my cell phone. Jordan looks like such a mess and I wonder how he’s going to live to see his next birthday on March 11th. It’s stupid trivia like that that makes me angry with myself for spending so much of my life pining for a rock star.

Of course, look at me now. I have said rock star in my bedroom.

“Here.” His fingers graze over mine as he palms my iPhone and slides the lock. “One. Zero. One. Four,” I say as he touches the corresponding numbers to unlock my phone.

“Thanks,” he says as he dials his manager’s number. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. I wonder how many times he’s had to wake up to Jordan’s drunken phone calls. Sitting on the edge of my bed, trying to avoid staring at this man I’ve had on such a high pedestal for so many years is proving to be difficult. His every movement demands attention.

Jordan Capshaw, Rock God Extraordinaire. He’s tall and lanky with a permanent five o’clock shadow and brown eyes that draw you in, making you want to hold on for dear life and never let go. He paces the floor as he awaits someone on the other end to answer. I never would have pegged Jordan for a pacer. He chews his bottom lip and doesn’t even notice how I’m studying him. I probably should be more afraid of him and his temper, but I mostly feel sorry for him and the life he’s chosen. It’s obvious he’s unhappy, otherwise why would he do this to himself? No one freely chooses to harm their bodies just because it’s fun…do they?

Jordan ends the call and dials again, this time his speed increases. If I ventured to take a guess, I’d say he’s nervous. And then his face totally changes, his eyes brighten and his lips turn up slightly at the corners.

“Jeremy, my man!” he says with a little hop in his step. “Yeah, yeah. Two a.m.? Right, well, see, I’ve found myself in…” Jordan snaps his fingers in my direction. “Where are we?” he whispers to me.

“Torrance,” I say.

“It’s this little town called Torrance. Can you come get me? I don’t have my phone or a car.” Jordan paces the floor, stopping at the corner of my bed like he’s just been slapped. “What the hell do you mean
no
?” His fists are clenching and a vein on the side of his neck throbs. “Look, this girl, I don’t know who the hell she is, picked me up and basically kidnapped me. I’m stuck here and I don’t know my way back to the gang.”

As I listen to his conversation I catch bits and pieces of the voice on the other end. This Jeremy is obviously annoyed and it doesn’t sound like Jordan will be leaving any time tonight. He’s pacing the floor again grumbling a lot of
mmhmms
and
yeahs
, and surprisingly not doing a lot of talking for someone who’s getting an earful of things they probably don’t want to hear.

“The hell with you and the guys,” he says before hanging up and throwing my phone onto my bed. “Who do they think they are? I’m the lead singer of the band—they can’t just take a break without talking to me first.”

“Are you talking to me?” I ask.

Jordan stops pacing and glances at my bed and then me. He’s breathing deeply through his nose and pumping his fists, but he stands still, keeping his distance.

“Look…” he begins, and then stops abruptly before studying me. “Jeremy’s an ass. He’ll probably call me in the morning to apologize. Just give me your phone and I’ll give it back when he calls.”

“Um…no.” I quickly grab my phone and hold it on my lap. “You’re not taking my phone. For all I know, you’ll call your dealer and I’ll have people showing up at my door wanting to sell drugs. Sorry. Not going to happen.”

“What kind of guy do you think I am?” He looks offended, his posture drops a bit and his entire countenance changes from high alert to fighting an endless battle.

“I think you’re a guy who hates his life and will do anything to avoid looking at himself in the mirror.”

“Back to that, then? You’re a selfish bitch who doesn’t know her ass from her cu—”

“Don’t you dare finish that word! For the last time, get out of my room before I call the cops.” My chest is heaving I’m so angry. What was I thinking bringing him home? I am the world’s dumbest person to even think there’s any hope for him.

Jordan takes a step back and then flat out laughs. “The cops? You’re the one who kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t exactly kidnap you, I found you stumbling on the streets not wearing any shoes and higher than a kite. You willingly got in my car.”

“I probably thought you were going to give me a blow job.” Jordan rakes his hands through his bleached brown hair with the frosted tips and then throws his arms in the air. “I give up. I’m going to take a piss and then I’m going to bed. Thanks for…nothing. And I seriously hope I don’t have to see you tomorrow.”

My jaw clenches as he storms through the door and slams it shut, causing the picture frames on my wall to sway side to side. Even through my closed door I can hear Gran calling from the bottom of the stairs. This is just perfect. Thanks, Jordan Capshaw.

“Jemma?” Gran calls again. Her face is creased with worry, and when I finally meet her at the bottom step the lines fade.

“Sorry, Gran,” I say, and then lean down to squeeze her frail frame. Since her diagnosis she’s lost a considerable amount of weight.

“What’s going on up there? Did you bring someone home?” I can’t tell if she’s pleased or worried. Biting my lip and weighing the consequences of my actions, I tell Gran the whole story. Her concerned smile turns to a frown and her forehead creases even more than before.

“I don’t want that man here, Jemma. He’s not right in the head.”

Nodding in agreement, I hug her once more and send her off to bed with a light kiss on her cheek. I watch as the silver bun on the top of her head bobs up and down with each step, almost like a toddler still wobbly on their feet.

Back upstairs I hear water streaming from the sink in the bathroom and debate on walking in there and tossing Jordan out of the house. He’s obviously stronger than me, but I could call the cops and make him leave, though with the drugs in his system he’d probably get a couple nights’ stay in jail and then ordered to go to rehab. From what I understand, rehab only works if you want it to. I’m not sure Jordan wants to get clean.

My hand reflexively knocks on the bathroom door and I quietly call his name. “Jordan? Are you still in there?” He doesn’t answer and the water continues to run. Crap, he’s probably passed out again.

“Jordan, open the door right now or else I’m going to open it for you.” Still he doesn’t answer, so I try the handle. It’s locked of course. I run my fingers along the trim on top of the door and find the little brass key and pop the lock. “I’m coming in,” I call from the closed door. My heart is pounding in my chest and echoing in my head. The door opens but gets stuck after opening only about six inches. On the other side of the door I see Jordan’s bare legs on the floor.

“Jordan!” My voice is rising in octaves. What has he done? I shove with my shoulder, pushing the door open wide enough for me to slip through. Jordan’s propped against the wall, head slumped to his chest, and his hands lay lifeless on the tile floor. Oh God, what has he done? I rush around him, crash to my knees, and grab for his wrists. I turn them over in my hands, there are no wounds but his pulse is faint.

“Jordan! Don’t you die on me, you jerk.” I lift his head, which is heavier than I would have thought, and run my finger along his jawline, searching for a stronger pulse. His scruff scratches at my fingers and when I press harder, I can feel it thrumming away. I fall back to the floor in relief and land in a puddle of something lukewarm. He’s peed himself. On instinct I slap him while muttering to myself about how stupid I am and how stupid he is. Through my mutterings I begin to taste something salty on my lips and realize I’m crying. I don’t know if they’re tears of joy, sadness, or sheer frustration; all I can think, however, is this is not how I thought my Friday night would end up. I never would have imagined sitting on my bathroom floor in a puddle of Jordan Capshaw’s piss.