Raining Down Rules (10 page)

Chapter 20

Jemma

Back at home while I sit on my bed, I replay the events of the night and come to the decision it’s time for Jordan to leave. I’m dangerously close to ignoring my rules, and with Jordan, especially with Jordan, it’s too dangerous. He’s said he wants to go to rehab so I grab my laptop and search for clinics nearby, as well as in his hometown of Phoenix. I find two in-patient clinics in Warner and one outpatient clinic in Stafford, which is only about fifteen miles from here. There are more than a handful of clinics in Arizona, so he can choose from the pick of the litter. I print off the information for the three local clinics and then a couple in Arizona and leave the paper sitting on the printer. There’s no need to bring them to him tonight.

The house smells like nutty cinnamon and salty bacon when I wake up in the morning. Either I’ve slept late or Gran has gotten up early and made breakfast. Throwing day-old grunge to the wind, I shrug on a lightweight sweater over my tank and head downstairs. Gran is sitting on a kitchen chair near the window working a crossword, and Jordan is standing in front of the stove flipping bacon. My mouth drops open at the sight of the two of them having switched roles.

“Hey!” Jordan says, perhaps with a little too much excitement. “I thought the smell of gourmet bacon would get your lazy ass out of bed.”

“Language,” calls Gran from behind her crossword.

“Sorry,” he says, and then he flips another piece of bacon.

“You’re making breakfast?” I ask as I walk to the table and take a seat. I can’t say I mind watching him cook over the stove, even if he is using his broken hand too much.

“I thought I’d give it a shot. It’s been a while, but I think it’s all coming back to me.” He winks and my heart does a little dance in my chest.

Conversation is polite and pleasant during breakfast and I offer to clean up dishes when we’re through. After Gran goes to her blue chair in the family room I decide now is as good a time as any to bring up rehab.

“So, I printed up some information for you last night. It’s over there on the printer.” I point to the printer sitting on the counter.

Jordan laughs through his nose and shakes his head. “You mean the rehab clinics?” I nod, a little surprised he noticed them. “You’re that eager for me to leave, huh?”

“I just thought since you mentioned them the other day, I’d help you find some.”

“Sure. And it has nothing to do with what’s going on here?” he asks as he walks closer to me, gesturing with his hands as though there is an invisible rope connecting the two of us. I shake my head, trying to force myself to believe he’s wrong.

“Nope, nothing to do with…with…there isn’t anything going on here.” Biting my lip, I keep repeating those words in my head. Jordan steps closer. The tips of our toes nearly touch.

“Nothing?” He places his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. “Are you sure?”

Nodding and staring at his eyes while holding a dishtowel is not distracting enough. And when Jordan dips his head even more unbearably close, my sigh hits his lips and he closes his eyes. His lashes are so long and full they almost touch his cheekbones, and the scruff on his face is darker than what’s neatly combed on his head this morning. His lips part just enough it’s like a crack in his exterior, a small portion of him he’s opening up to me. My fingers tremble and I wrap them tighter around the towel.

A dry lump forms in my throat, and when Jordan’s eyes open, they focus on my lips, making me want to trace my fingers over them and feel their softness. I want the stubble on his jaw to scrape against my neck as he runs his lips over me.

Jordan wets his lips and draws his eyes back to mine. “Are you sure there’s nothing here?” His whispered question makes me weak in the knees. My head bobs somewhere between a yes and a no as I drop the towel.
Rules, Jemma
.
Rules.

“I should go to the horses.” My voice is soft and slightly raspy as I steal one last glance at his blush-colored lips. They curve into a glorious sideways smile and I have to put all of my weight on the counter behind me.

“They can wait,” he whispers, and then moves over me, leaving no room for air between us. My heart catches in my chest, and my body temperature rises by about fifty degrees. His cheek grazes mine, sending goose bumps all down my body. His lips brush against my ear, and my eyes close as he whispers, “You smell like the night and a cool breeze.” He inhales deeply, drawing me in. “It’s delicious.”

He drags his lips down my ear and then across my jaw. I shudder at his touch, at the not-really-a-kiss kiss. Jordan moves back, taking the heat with him, and I find myself leaning toward the space he just occupied, my lips parting, releasing a hungry sigh against my will. Stupid lips.

***

Over the next several days, Jordan has become more helpful around the house. He’s doing some cooking, light cleaning, and has even taken to helping me with the horses. Now when he enters the stables the four traitors nicker not only to me but to Jordan as well. Even Gran seems to be acclimating to him.

The papers I printed for him haven’t left the printer and I’m beginning to wonder if he really meant what he said about going to rehab. I know he has to be ready and actually have the desire to go. Maybe he’s just not there yet.

Every passing glance he gives me is filled with something that troubles me. I see his eyes reflecting what I feel: desire. Deep, heated, lustful desire that only leads to trouble and heartbreak. So I remind myself hourly he’ll be leaving soon and what I’m feeling is merely hormones and nothing more.

Gran’s refills are ready in Warner, which means it’s time for my every other Friday trip to the apothecary. As I kiss Gran goodbye I hear Jordan clomping down the stairs, his flip-flops flopping loudly behind him.

“Take him with you,” Gran says as she kisses my cheek. “I want to rest and I won’t be able to with him moping about.”

My eyes close and I stop myself from sighing. “Okay. You’ve been really tired lately, Gran. Should I take you back to see Dr. Hobson?”

Her lips curve into a tight smile. “No, dear. I’m just getting old.” She pats my arm and shoos me out the door. Jordan smiles and when we’re out of Gran’s sight he slaps my butt, making me squeal and jump out of his range.

“Don’t even start, mister, or you can stay in the stables with the horses,” I warn.

“Sometimes I think they would be better company,” he says with a smirk.

Even as I drive and try to keep my focus on the road, Jordan’s presence alone is distracting. The way he lounges on the seat, his legs stretched out in front, leaning on his elbow on the armrest—all of it swirls in my brain, causing my imagination to run wild. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

Halfway to Warner the radio DJ comes on and announces the next song and the mood in the car goes from charged with tension to sour.

“Well, folks, this next song is an oldie but a goodie. And considering the band’s current hiatus, it may be one of the last songs we’ll remember of theirs. Here’s “Blinded By You” from White Shadow.”

A part of me needs to stop the car so I can get out and be sick on the side of the road. The other part wants to take a hammer to the radio and beat it until the parts spill out of it like a box of noodles. Why
that
song? Why now, with Jordan sitting beside me in the car? Why was I so stupid at seventeen? Jordan looks as green as I feel and his hands are balled into fists. We’re both miserable for different reasons and neither of us knows how to help the other.

We pull into the apothecary and Jordan waits in the car while I pay for Gran’s prescription.

“See you in two weeks,” Angie says with her polite smile. “And let me know when you want to hang out.”

“Thanks, I will,” I answer back, and as I leave, the chime on the door echoes in my ears. I had forgotten she said something about getting together last time I was here. So much has happened since then, and I haven’t been in a place to hang out.

Jordan’s legs are bouncing in his seat when I get in the car, a habit I’m sure from times when he feels the urge to get high.

“You doing okay?” I ask when his bouncing doesn’t stop. He looks at me with his brown sugar eyes and then follows my line of sight to his legs.

“Oh, sorry. I’m having some major withdrawals right now.” Beads of sweat line his forehead, and when I offer him some water he shakes his head.

“How can I help?” Here we are again, at this place we can’t get around. Every couple of days he gets like this: antsy, full of angst, and twitchy. I wonder if it will ever fully go away. I wonder if
he
wonders if it will ever go away.

He tries to smile but he looks like he’s in so much discomfort that the smile looks more like a murderous smirk. “God, I don’t know what to do.”

Should I bring up rehab now? He hasn’t spoken of it in over a week and I’m not sure how it would go over if I mention it.

“I just need this all to go away. I can’t keep doing this.”

“Jordan, you’re scaring me.”

“Just let me out, okay? You and Gran have done enough.”

My hand lingers over the handle of my door and my mouth drops. “Jordan, let me help get you checked in at a rehab clinic.”

“And what am I supposed to do after rehab?” He slams his hands on his thighs and a groan from deep in his chest spills from his mouth. “I’m no good sober, Jemma. Don’t you get it? I can only make music if I’m high or drunk. No one is going to want me back if I’m useless.”

“You’re not use—”

“Shut the hell up, Jemma. You have no idea how the music industry works. I’m getting out of this car, so get your finger off the automatic lock.”

I hadn’t realized my hand had slid down to the lock and now my fingers are trembling and tears slip down my cheeks.

“Jordan, don’t do this, please.”

His hand reaches for the handle and the door pops open. He slides his legs out.

“It’s better this way, trust me,” he says as he closes the door. My body shakes with sobs I can’t control. When Jordan walks to my door, I throw it open and jump out. I pull out my cell and thrust it to his chest.

“You’re an asshole, Jordan Capshaw,” I say as his fingers wrap around mine.

Something flashes in his eyes. Guilt, maybe? It surfaces and then it’s gone in an instant.

“I thought I could do it, I really did,” he says as he cups my face in his hands. “If I was a better man, and not such a screw-up, I could have done it.”

My heart plummets to my stomach as Jordan bridges the distance between us and his lips crash against mine. My eyes widen in shock but close as a hunger unlike anything I’ve ever felt tears through me. His lips are persistent, and when his tongue finds mine all is lost. It’s like a long ago lost fire has suddenly been ignited with fuel and the heat is unimaginably intense. His hands drop from my face but hold firm on my shoulders as he pulls me closer, our bodies so close it’s as though we share the responsibility of breathing. My fingers rake through his hair and come to rest on the back of his neck. We stumble back against the car, and Jordan becomes more persistent, pressing himself against me. One of his legs wedges between mine and we’re tangled in a puzzle of limbs. His hips grind against me and I moan into his kiss.

“God, I want you,” he says against my lips. He drags his lips over my jaw and nips at my ear. My fingers slide down his back to his sides where I ball my hands into fists, tangling them in his t-shirt. I feel myself slipping away, wanting to forget the rules I created so long ago, wanting nothing more than to give in to this hunger. Jordan twists my hair around his long fingers and hungrily covers my lips with his again. My back is pressed up against the driver-side window and Jordan’s hips are pressing harder into me. His leg nudges higher and higher until a tingling heat forms at my core.

“You guys need to go get a room,” a man’s voice says from somewhere nearby. Jordan barely notices, but I pull away, noting how my cheeks burn not only from embarrassment. Jordan leans back to kiss me, but I push against his chest with my palms.

“I can’t do this,” I say as I work to separate our bodies. “Especially
here
, in front of the pharmacy where I get Gran’s meds.”

The apothecary sits in the center of a small strip mall, and as far as I can tell, we just put on a pretty good show for several onlookers. I’m a nobody, but Jordan is still recognizable, though he has a much fuller patch of hair growing on his face. Even at this distance from the strip mall, people can tell who is standing in front of me.

“We should go,” I say, tugging on the hem of his sleeve. Jordan folds his arms across his chest and stares down at me.

“I’m serious,” he says gruffly. “I’m not going back with you.”

Chapter 21

Jordan

Jemma’s swollen lips beg for me to kiss her again, and with her cheeks such a bright pink, I almost do before she drives away in her Civic. She insisted I keep her cell phone, and I suppose it will come in handy until I can get my own. Which, thankfully, will be in about ten minutes. There’s a cell phone provider a couple doors from the apothecary, and since my last phone was through Verizon it shouldn’t be a problem telling them I’ve lost my old one. It’s a shame about all my contacts though.

After signing what felt like a thousand autographs at the Verizon store, I made my way out with a new phone and the numbers of three groping girls. At least I haven’t lost that ability. A cab comes to scoop me up minutes later. The driver rolls down the window, sticks his head out, and asks where I want to go. I stand back and appraise his posture and the way he avoids eye contact. His hair is buzzed along the sides by his ears and the top is longer so it forms a faux-hawk. His arms are sleeved in tats and he has plugs in his earlobes. This guy most likely knows where to take me.

I climb in the backseat and watch as the driver jerks his head in a double take.

“No way, man!” he says, and sticks his hand over the seat for me to shake. “I knew this job would pay off someday. Name’s Randy.” His grip is firm and his poorly groomed smile makes me like him even more.

“Nice to meet you, Randy. I’ve got an itch I need to scratch in the worst kind of way, you know?”

Randy smiles and peels out of the parking lot, taking me to God knows where. The streetlights are a blur as we drive through the windy roads, down a hill, across a bridge, and then I’m way beyond lost. My sense of direction flew out the window along with my first chance at normal I’ve had in years.

We pull up to a white wooden clapboard house with darkened windows and muddy brown grass that looks like it hasn’t been mowed in months. The sidewalk leading to the front steps is broken and crumbling in patches where the brown grass has snaked its way through, like splintered fingers reaching from an earthly grave. Randy’s bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leaps up the four steps and then impatiently knocks on the broken screen door. The interior door opens a crack and hazy blue eyes stare at us through the slice of an opening. If it’s at all possible for eyes to smile, these do.

“Randy!” The eyes became the face of a blonde-haired woman in her twenties. The makeup around her eyes looks like she smudged it on with a sponge, heavy and thick and pooling around the corners of her lids. Some of the black liner has dripped along the sides of her nose, no doubt where tears fell from inhaling too sharply. My fingers begin to twitch and I have the strongest urge to push past Randy just to get inside and take a hit from whatever she’s got. The blonde opens the door fully and ushers us both inside the dilapidated house.

“Hey, Elise,” Randy says as the woman pulls him in for an overly friendly hug.

“God, it’s been what, almost a year?” she asks as she pushes away, leaving her hands on his shoulders. She looks him over with a wry smile and pulls him close and plays tonsil hockey. To say I am uncomfortable is an understatement. I don’t know either of these people and usually it’s me doing the saliva swapping. I guess I know how my bandmates must feel.

Randy and Elise finish making out after the third time I clear my throat. I’m ready to get my twitching hands on…something.

“Check this out,” Randy says as he claps me on the back. “Jordan Goddamn Capshaw got in my cab.” A smile spreads across his face, and Elise gapes at me.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, which breaks the awkward tension in the room.

“So sorry,” Elise says as she pulls me in for a hug. “I’m just so…I don’t even know.”

“I get that a lot.”

Randy and Elise lead me through the decrepit house, which is probably a compliment. The rooms are dull and gray, cracks in the wooden floors, plaster peeling off in the corners of the rooms, and the furniture looks like it’s been through several owners and possibly picked up off a street corner. The kitchen is the hub of the house, it seems. There are five others, three guys and two girls, sitting around a table, smoking hash and playing poker. You can always tell who has been using longer by the dullness around their eyes and the sag of their cheeks. Most of the people in this house have been using for a number of years, at least as long as I have, if not longer.

Elise introduces me to everyone—Nick, Jack, Evan, Rachel, and Jo, short for Joanna. Apparently Nick and Jack are brothers from Portland, Oregon who moved to Warner a couple years ago to work at some paper factory. Evan and Rachel have been dating, semi-exclusively, for the past four years and he works at an ad agency, she at a bakery. Jo rents a room in this house and is going to beauty school. Elise’s parents own the house but live in Montana. They bought the house when Elise was six and then moved to Montana when Elise started college. She has yet to graduate but has plans to finish her major in pharmacology in a year or so.

During introductions there was a lot of swearing and
dudes
floating around, along with several offers of hash.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I say, gesturing to my neck. “Hurts the vocals.”

Jo stands, offers me her seat, and moves around me. “I’ll go get the candy. Be right back.” Jo is slender and exotic with her naturally sun-kissed skin and sleek chestnut hair that hangs halfway down her back. She’s wearing tight, dark jeans that hug her round ass and a low cut v-neck sweater that accentuates her more than ample breasts.

“You play poker, Jordan?” Jack asks as he begins to deal a new hand with the worn blue deck. The shuffling of the cards distracts me from watching Jo walk away. When she comes back, in her hand is a plastic bag with the candy—cocaine. My heart speeds up and my mouth goes dry. This night is beginning to turn out better than I had hoped.

“The game’s simple. Fifty bucks buys you five lines of coke, ante is half a line. Bet as you will.” Jacks places the remaining deck at his left and the cutting begins. There are eight of us playing, and adding up the lines being cut, they have a shitload of coke. Jo’s lines are straight and precise and the five lines she gives me look like the finest white gold, a treasure I’ve been missing. Everyone antes up and the game begins.