Raining Down Rules (7 page)

Chapter 13

Jordan

I crash out of the house like a bull charging through a china shop. I understand the expression now—things topple in my wake and at this given moment I couldn’t care less. I have to get out of this house and all things that point to what a failure I am, just like my father told me I was my entire life. Back in high school I used to run competitively, and since striking out on my own, or with the band anyway, I haven’t run at all. In fact, other than the occasional weight-lifting sessions at random hotels, I haven’t done much exercising.

I fill my lungs with air and take off down the front porch steps and race across the expanse of green grass. I haven’t made it a hundred yards before my lungs burn and my thighs feel like they’re being stretched across a hot fire. I’m partway through the canopy of trees before I realize that once again I am without shoes. God, I need to get some.

The leafy canopy above mesmerizes me with the swaying branches and sunlit patterns shifting through the green. I collapse against the trunk of one of the massive trees and allow myself to catch my breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, that’s the quickest way to get everything back in sync. At least that’s what I tell myself, but it’s not working. My heart is speeding up rather than slowing, and sweat is gathering along my forehead and slowly dripping down my back. The ground feels as if it’s shaking from within, something deep and terrifying slithering just below the surface, ready to burst through the growth and swallow me whole. And I would gladly accept this death. Let the darkness take me, let the world forget Jordan Capshaw and the walking pool of filth and hatred he is. Let the beast plow forth, clamp down with its massive jaws and salivating maw over my body. Let it tear me apart, taking me bit by bit so that those I have wronged will feel the release of their troubles.

Just take me.

“Take me now!” Before I realize it, I am screaming at the top of my lungs, and then the ground opens up and I sink beneath the surface.

Chapter 14

Jemma

Even from inside the house I can hear Jordan’s torment. He is not faring well, especially after watching the news. I wish Gran had turned off the broadcast the minute his face lit up the screen.

On his way out of the house, he left a wake of picture frames on the floor that had been on a side table. I pick them up one by one and then clean up the few bits of broken glass. Near the front door, the hat tree with Grandpa’s umbrella lies across the threshold, thankfully all in one piece. I set it right and walk out the door, following the sound of Jordan’s screaming. A chill works its way up my spine as his pain goes on and on.

And then there’s silence, which is almost worse than his screaming. Not even the birds are chirping. “Oh God,” I say with my hand over my heart. I sprint toward the direction his screams were coming from and find him lying facedown in the grass near the base of a huge cottonwood tree. My knees hit the ground and I feel around for a pulse, thankfully finding it quickly. It’s beating so hard and fast, no wonder he passed out. Beads of sweat dot his face and the back of his shirt is damp. He looks like he’s dreaming, perhaps having a nightmare with the way his eyes are moving under his lids.

My fingers curl through his silken hair as I try to calm him, maybe bring him out of his dreams. He whimpers at my touch and his eyes fly open, revealing bloodshot spheres and dilated pupils. I’m not sure what all these symptoms mean, but I’m guessing they have something to do with the lack of substances flowing through his body. Jordan’s hand wraps around my wrist and he squeezes tightly.

“Take me, please,” he pleads with his eyelids clamped shut. “Eat me, kill me. Don’t let me stay here.” His bottom lip quivers as his eyes move in his sockets and his body goes limp, drifting back into a fitful sleep. I sit with him for more than an hour while his body shudders and quakes and he cries out in a nightmare. Each time he shivers I feel myself wishing I had a blanket or something to cover him, other than my own body. I lean over him, willing the warmth from my body to seep into his, knowing I’m doing him no good. What I need is to get him back into the house and up into a bed where he can sleep and work through the withdrawals.

Jordan cries out, flails his arms, and knocks me over. My cheek hits the bark of the tree and I hiss as the rough edges scrape the soft skin. My hand comes away with a light smattering of blood and I whisper a curse. By the time Jordan Capshaw is ready to fly back to White Shadow, I’ll have more than my fair share of scars whether you can see them or not, I fear.

“Jemma?” Jordan’s garbled voice wakes me from a stupor. I must have dozed off.

“I’m here,” I reply, and reach for his shoulder.

“I’m going to be sick,” he says as he scrambles to his feet just in time to rest a hand on the base of the tree, double over, and lose the contents of his stomach. He falls to his knees, still retching, and I don’t know whether to leave him alone or go to him and offer my support. I really am no good at this. Not for the first time do I wonder if I should have left Jordan’s detoxifying up to the professionals.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask timidly.
Seriously, get a grip, Jemma.

Jordan spits a few times and then lowers his head. “I need a fix or a goddamn drink,” he snarls, and then vomits again.

I swallow hard, bite my bottom lip, and fight the urge to run to the house. Jordan will get through this, he’ll fight his temptations and win the battle. I know he will. I just don’t know at what cost.

“Let me help you back to the house,” I say as I stand next to him with my arms outstretched. He pushes them away and clambers to his feet.

“I don’t need your help or your goddamn pity.”

I trail behind as we climb the stairs to the house and then I follow him to the bathroom upstairs. He strips off his clothing at the bathroom door, not caring he has an audience. Heat bubbles in my chest and rolls to my cheeks, settling there like a warm pillow.

Jordan climbs into the empty tub with only his boxer briefs on, rests his arms on the sides, and lays his head against the wall. His knees stick up awkwardly and the cast on his hand looks mildly out of place. His eyes are closed yet he’s mumbling to himself as though he’s holding a one-sided conversation. It’s only now I see the way his fingers twitch and the muscles on his upper arms spasm. It’s possible he could be suffering a mild seizure. God, I hope not. As I walk closer and sit on the lid of the toilet, I notice beads of sweat lining his forehead and upper lip and dotting his chest and shoulders. He begins to shake violently in the tub as he sits up, wraps his arms around his knees, and shivers uncontrollably.

“Water,” he stammers. “I need hot water and a shot of vodka.”

Water I can do, the vodka I can’t and won’t. I turn the faucet all the way to hot and run the water until it scalds me and then reduce the temperature and turn on the shower. I angle the showerhead so the water sprays down over his head and back and then close the shower curtain. Hot water and steam should hopefully help him warm up.

“Vodka!” he snaps, pounding a fist on the side of the tub.

“Jordan, no,” I say firmly. “You have to get through this without alcohol. This won’t last forever, I promise.” Can I really promise him that? I’ve never dealt with anything like this, nor do I know anyone who has. I am on such foreign ground right now. “Just take as long as you need here in the shower. You’ll feel better soon.” His jeans and shirt are lying on the floor, and knowing these clothes are all he has, I figure now is as good a time as any to ask him for his underwear so I can wash his belongings.

“Um, Jordan?”

He grunts in reply.

“I’d like to wash your clothes for you…” There’s a stretch of painful silence. “I’m going to need your underwear.”

He moves in the tub and soon his hand pops through the shower curtain and he’s holding his boxer briefs.

“I’ll be right back,” I say as I leave him to shower in the steam and hot water.

The washer and dryer are next to the kitchen and on my way I pass Gran, who is knitting some kind of scarf or something in her blue chair. She looks up at me over her glasses and raises a brow.

“I don’t want that man naked in my house, Jemma,” she warns as she knits one and purls two.

“Sorry, but his clothes smell awful and they’re the only ones he has. I’m going to wash them.”

“What’s he going to wear in the meantime?”

“Maybe we could see if something of Grandpa’s would fit him?” A part of me nearly cowers at the mere mention of going through his things, but Jordan needs something to wear, even if it’s temporary.

A muscle near one of Gran’s eyes twitches and she pulls off her glasses. I’m afraid she’s going to yell at me for my suggestion, but instead she bites down on one of the earpieces and closes her eyes.

“I suppose those clothes would do more good on someone rather than sitting in a closet,” she says after her moment of silence. “But don’t go expecting me to let him keep them, they belong to your grandfather.”

“I understand, Gran. Thank you.”

The shower finally turns off after almost an hour. He must have run out of hot water. I’ve found a couple pairs of golf shorts and some of Grandpa’s old work polos that will hopefully fit Jordan, all of which I’ve laid out for him on the sink counter. Sitting in my room allows me to hear him rustling around in the bathroom, and then, as though he knew I was sitting right next door, he calls for me.

I spring from my bed and rush to the bathroom, only to catch Jordan once again in only a towel. I swear under my breath and turn around quickly, hoping to avoid the stirring in my belly and rising temperature. Nope, too late.

“Stop smiling at me.” I can feel his slightly crooked smile and knowing stare.

Jordan laughs through his nose and says, “Thank you for the clothes. I usually have a personal shopper buy my clothes, so maybe I can give you some money to buy me some?” He clears his throat and then studies his wet cast. “Not that I mind wearing your grandpa’s clothes. I’m sure they’ll work for a couple days.”

“You really shouldn’t get your cast wet,” I tell him, switching the subject. “I’ll bring some plastic bags up here for you to put over it when you shower next time. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit, I’ll be honest.” He rubs his hands over his face, dragging them through his hair, revealing some smaller tattoos on the underside of his biceps. How did I not notice them before? “What I wouldn’t give to be rid of this headache.”

My lips press into a thin line and I wonder how bad it would be to give him some Tylenol or something. But then I decide when he’s sleeping tonight I will do some research on drug rehab. There has to be some information on the Internet that will help him.

“I really don’t think it’s a good idea to take anything right now,” I say without knowing if it is or not. “I’m sorry.”

Jordan sorts through Grandpa’s clothes and pulls out a pair of tighty-whities. “You have got to be joking. I haven’t worn these since I was four.”

My cheeks puff out as I hold my breath and slowly release it. I watch as he slips his legs in the briefs and pulls them up under his towel. It’s only when he removes the towel do I realize I’ve been practically staring at him. But I find I can’t take my eyes off of him—he’s built like a Roman sculpture chiseled from stone, and the tattoos along his shoulders only add to his appeal. I want to explore the tattoos, find out what they are and what they mean to him. My fingers itch to touch his skin and get tangled in his hair. When Jordan shrugs on one of Grandpa’s old shirts my cheeks brighten as my stomach swirls; I wasn’t finished with my visual inspection.

“You know you might go blind if you keep looking at me like that,” Jordan says playfully.

I close my eyes and walk out of the bathroom to my room, closing the door behind me.
Oh my God
. I have never been more embarrassed in my entire life. To be caught staring and practically drooling over Jordan Capshaw, by Jordan Capshaw, is utterly humiliating.

Chapter 15

Jordan

I hate mornings. Today is no exception. I pick at my food while Jemma and her grandma scrape their plates clean, every noise like a dagger in my ears. I clench my fists and drag them over my eyes before shoving my plate of food as far away from me as possible.

“I can’t eat this shit,” I say, folding my arms across my chest and leaning back in the chair. Gran’s fork stops midway to her mouth and Jemma’s fork slips from her hand and clatters on her plate.

“Jordan!” they exclaim. And then Gran says, “Young man, you will hold your tongue in the presence of ladies. Excuse yourself this instant and return to your room.”

I sit upright in my chair, run my hands through my hair, and scoot back from the table and storm out of the room. Good God, these women are awful with their politeness and rules and…and whatever the hell else they are. I haven’t been sent to my room since I was living at home with my parents. I can’t handle this any longer, especially the way my head carries around its own vise, and with each heartbeat the vise squeezes tighter and tighter. Soon, my head will be nothing more than a flattened piece of skin and bone, of that I’m sure. There has to be something in this horrid house to dull the aches and twitches.

God, I never thought I’d be that guy, the one who’s so hooked he can’t go a day without a fix. The shakes are enough to make me turn this place upside down in order to find anything to take them away. I pause at the bottom of the stairs. I’ve been here for three days and they have been hell, not one positive thing has occurred, and as far as I can tell, nothing positive will result in my stay here. Which is why, if I can’t find something in this house to take the edge away, I plan on clearing out as soon as possible. I guess staying clean and sober is not in the cards for me. I’m too much of a dick to stick with it and a pussy when it comes to giving it a real shot.

Jemma and Gran are finishing their breakfast so now’s as good a time as any to search the bathroom down here. Inside, there is a small tub and toilet and a sink, but the best news of the day is the doublewide medicine cabinet that hangs above the sink. My fingers twitch in anticipation for what treasures I may find inside. My fingers trace alongside the mirrored glass, which reflects a nasty image of myself I don’t want to see. I guess over the years I’ve mastered the “avoiding myself in the mirror” thing, which is why my hair always looks like I don’t care. Because I don’t. I don’t want to see the reflection of someone I don’t recognize staring back at me. The scariest part of all of this is me and how much I’ve changed. Jemma was right; I’m nothing like the Jordan from six years ago.

In a rush, I use both hands to open both sides of the medicine cabinet and want to scream at the sight of the empty white shelves. The shaking is growing worse and my stomach feels like it’s being sucked through a vacuum. I’m not as quiet now leaving the bathroom, and for shits and giggles I try the door at the end of the hallway. Inside I find towels and sheets and a brown cardboard box without a lid. My fingers grip the edge and I tilt it forward so I can see the contents inside.

Bottles and bottles and bottles of pills dance in front of my eyes and I could burst into song at my discovery. I pull one of the top bottles off the pile and silently curse when I read the label: stool softener. Nope, don’t need that, the plumbing works fine. Shit, all these bottles are useless. Acid Relief, Tums, anti-diarrheal, none of this will help me at all. I shove the box back into place and close the door, not caring at this point if the two crotchety ladies know I’m snooping through their house.

“I need a goddamn Tylenol,” I growl as I walk out of the small hallway. I slide on the flip-flops Jemma bought me—stupid girl—and storm out of the house. I don’t care how long it takes me, but I’m going to walk to that shitty grocery store and buy myself the largest bottle of vodka I can find.

“What are you doing?” Jemma jogs up beside me, her hair tumbling over her shoulders like a cascading blonde waterfall.

“Leave me the hell alone.”

“Jordan.” She tugs at the sleeve of this ridiculous shirt, but I shrug her off.

“I’m going to go get a drink, or whatever. I’m done with this clean and sober shit.”

“It’s seven miles into town,” she says, and hands her phone to me. “Do you remember the code?”

I stop walking and stare at her like she’s lost her mind.

“Um, right. Well, it’s one-zero-one-four, can you remember that?

“I’m not two years old,” I say as I snatch the phone from her small fingers.

“The number to the house is listed under
‘
Gran
,’
so when you’ve walked as far as you want and need me to come get you, just call and I’ll be there.”

She turns and walks back to the house, leaving me standing on the dirt driveway with my bare toes dusted with dry dirt. My mouth gapes as I watch how her hips sway side to side and how her hair hangs in loose waves down her back. A part of me wonders what a girl like her is doing in a place like this. The other part of me wonders what I’m doing in a place like this and what’s going to happen when I disappoint her. Some people under promise and over deliver, Jordan Capshaw over promises and always under delivers.