Raining Down Rules (Raining Down #1)

by B. K. Rivers

  Raining Down Rules

  BK Rivers

  Raining Down Rules

  Copyright © 2015 by BK Rivers.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2016

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-488-2

  ISBN-10: 1-68058-488-X

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For everyone who has ever loved and lost,

  but learned to love again.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Four Months Ago

  Jemma

  I haven’t kissed anyone in more than a thousand days, so when my date, Cody, leans in for the customary end-of-the-first-date kiss, I step away, bring my fist to my mouth, and pretend to cough.

  “Sorry,” I say, quickly trying to come up with a valid excuse. I should have had one at the ready. “I’ve been fighting a cold or something for a couple days.” Lame? Yes. Effective? Apparently. He backs away, shoves his hands in the pockets of his khaki Dockers, and clears his throat.

  “All right, well…good night. I’ll call you.” He walks away from the door to my dorm and I have the feeling I’ll never hear from him again.

  “How’d it go?” Trish asks eagerly as she looks up from painting her toenails an obnoxious hot pink color.

  I plop down on my bed, which sits across from hers, sigh, and pull a pillow over my head. “It was fine until the end and I pretended I was coming down with something so he wouldn’t kiss me.” I cringe as I await her reaction.

  Trish’s mouth drops open. “You did what? I thought you liked him.”

  Did I like him? Sure, I guess. He’s a few inches taller than me, pursuing a degree in microbiology, seems responsible, and, until five minutes ago, seemed into me. I liked the way he kept his light brown hair trimmed neatly and parted to one side. His smile was nice and his teeth were straight. He even had a White Shadow CD playing in his car, my favorite band. But that doesn’t mean I will throw my rules out the window.

  “Yeah, I liked him.”

  “Buuut?” Trish knows me too well. We’ve been roommates for two years now. Where I’m quiet and reserved, she’s loud and boisterous. You’d think we were destined to hate each other, but somehow we hit it off and became fast friends.

  “Trish, I just can’t date. It goes against everything I’ve known for so long. I think I’m done with boys.”

  She chews on her bottom lip, her brows drawn together. “So, you’re changing sides, then?”

  “What? No!” I exclaim. “I’m just not going to date.”

  “You can’t just…not date. That’s not normal.”

  “Easy for you to say.” Trish has an exotic girl-next-door look with the added bonus of her outgoing personality, which makes the guys practically line up for a chance to date her. Her coal-black hair is sleek and hangs just below her shoulders, which she claims is only so people can tell the difference between her and Cher. As if the length of her hair is really what distinguishes their differences. “You never have trouble with guys asking you out.”

  “True,” she admits. “But I don’t give off the Ice Queen vibe. If you’d lighten up, you’d go out on just as many dates as I do.”

  “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Whatever,” she says with a flip of her hair. “I thoroughly enjoy dating and I think you should too. You’re only twenty and you act like you’re an old maid. That vajayjay of yours is probably shriveled up like my grandmother’s.”

  “Trish!” My phone buzzes beside me and Gran’s name is revealed on the caller ID. “Speaking of grandmothers,” I tease, making us both laugh. I answer the phone after I’ve controlled my giggles.

  “Hi, Gran,” I say while I grit my teeth, trying hard not to laugh.

  “Hi, my darling,” she begins. “How are things at school?” Her code words for I miss you.

  “They’re good,” I say, my code for I miss you too. “Trish and I are getting ready to go to a movie. How are you?”

  Trish mouths, “We are?”

  I shake my head and shrug my shoulders.

  “Honey, I’ve got some news.” Gran’s voice holds a twinge of sadness, something I haven’t heard from her in a very long time. “I’ve been diagnosed with stage four liver cancer.”

  “What? You’re really healthy, Gran, that’s not possible.” My breath catches in my chest; my lungs gather air but won’t release it. Dark spots start to dance in front of my eyes.

  “Just because I’ve been healthy in the past doesn’t mean I’m immune to the damn disease. I’ve got it and the doctors have given me a pretty grim outlook.”

  My small shared room tips sideways—at least that’s how it feels as my vision darkens and blurs. “How bad is it, Gran?”

  A long pause passes between us. Silence builds on the line, starting out as a delicate snowflake before crashing to the earth and rolling into a massive snowball. The weight of the quiet between us presses down on me.

  “I think you should come home.” As she utters those words my phone slips from my hands and falls to the floor, shattering the screen. Just like the song “My Shattered Life” by White Shadow. Just like my life, it always follows the songs from my favorite band as if they wrote each album just for me.

  ***

  Present Day

  Of course the radio is playing a tribute to White Shadow today. They’ll be performing in Warner later tonight and I’ve foolishly decided to attend. I have tried to cull my crush on Jordan Capshaw, the band’s lead singer, but it’s really hard since I’ve been pining for him for six years. This concert will not only conjure up memories of how hard I’ve crushed on him over the years, but all the wrongs in my life as well. All the painful memories of my life will be sung for the whole arena. White Shadow’s CDs should have been titled Jemma Bowers
’ Life. Why am I going to this concert and torturing myself?

  Slowing to a stop at one of the three stoplights on Main Street in Torrance, Washington, I glance over my left shoulder and watch as an elderly couple walks down the street arm in arm toward the greasy burger joint. Gran should be with them, her friends, but the meds she’s on have her essentially housebound. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I clench my teeth as I think about the health risks for her if she leaves the house, and so I am off to Warner to pick up what she needs for another two weeks.

  Gran says it’s good for me to leave the house every now and then and act like a twenty-year-old. I’m sure she’s right, but then I risk seeing people who I’ve tried to avoid for so long. Whenever I do leave the ranch, I make excuses to drive to the next town over, hoping to increase the odds of keeping my distance.

  Today, however, I have to stop off at the corner gas station and fill up my tank. At least there I don’t have to go inside to pay. I pull up behind a large black Ford truck, the only space open, and begin to fill my car. The sandy-blond-haired guy with the five o’clock shadow using the pump in front of me keeps glancing my way. I duck my head and study the scuffs on my shoes instead of the way his shirt hugs him like a second skin. It didn’t do that when he was in high school.

  “Jemma? Jemma Bowers?” Oh crap, his quick wave and tip of his head indicates he recognizes me. I give him my customary tight-lipped smile and nod, hoping he’ll drop it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he briskly walks toward me and I can think only of how much I want to hide. I can’t handle running into people I knew once. “God, I thought it was you. How are you?”

  “Doing good,” I say numbly. There is nowhere to go and my tank isn’t yet full.

  “Sorry,” he says, revealing a perfect set of dimples in both his cheeks, eliciting a swirl in my stomach. “Vic Harper. I graduated a few years ahead of you.”

  Yes. I remember you. I’m sure all the girls from high school would remember him. “Right, how are you?” Okay, this is exactly why I avoid the people here in Torrance. Vic was a senior when I was a freshman. He played football and basketball, drove a crappy truck, and looked like a freaking model in high school. Yes, maybe I had a tiny crush on him. Who didn’t?

  “I’m great. Heading to work, how about you?”

  Deciding to spare him the details and cut the conversation short, I say, “Yeah, well, it was good to see you.”

  His brows drop suddenly as though I’ve said something confusing. Doesn’t he know a brush-off when one is given? “Hey, listen, you and I should go out sometime and catch up.” His dimples are extremely distracting.

  “I’m not really…going out, right now.” I won’t make the same mistake I did when I was seventeen, young, and naive. I will protect myself from the inevitability of someone leaving me like my father did sixteen years ago.

  “Oh, okay. Well, hey, I’ll see you around, then.”

  “Sure.”

  Back in my car, I drop my head to my steering wheel and clench my fists around the leather grip. When Vic pulls away, my keys slip from my hand and as I reach for them, I hit the windshield wipers and groan in frustration. I realize how much of a jerk I was, but seeing him unnerved me, and I do my very best to keep that from ever happening. Instead, I focus on the drive to Warner, where Gran’s specialty meds await me at the apothecary. Every two weeks I head north on a highway full of hilly farm landscapes and narrow roads. The doctors say the drugs are only experimental and there are no guarantees they’ll help with the cancer, but they are our only option at this point. She’s been on them for six weeks now and I’m no expert, but she seems to be feeling more like her old self. Anything that helps her feel better is okay in my book.

  Quickly finding Trish’s number in my speed dial, I wait for her to answer. She’s an “answer at the beginning of the fourth ring” kind of gal, which both irritates me and makes me laugh.

  “Hey, doll!” Her voice is like a breath of fresh air. Man, I miss that girl. “On your way to Warner?” She knows me too well.

  “Yep. I’m calling to bug you about coming out here. I need some Trish time.”

  “Girl, you know I’d totally be there if I didn’t have class, my internship, and like a hundred guys knocking at my door.” All probably true. “And FYI, you’re the one who left me here in New York.”

  “I know, but it’s been forever since we got to hang out. I miss being roomies.”

  “Me too.” She sighs. “But hey, spring break is only like what, three weeks away?”

  “Three weeks of torture,” I mumble. “I guess it’s not horrible. I just really miss my friend. Torrance is so…there are just too many memories.” Painful memories I haven’t told anyone about.

  “Don’t you have any friends from high school who are still around?”

  “There’s no one like you,” I say in a rush, avoiding the topic altogether. “Just get your skinny butt over here soon.”

  “Will do, girlie. I gotta dash, class starts in five minutes. Talk to you soon.” Before I have time to answer, the line goes silent, allowing my mind to wander for the remaining twenty-five minutes until I arrive at the apothecary.

  With my windows rolled down so I can enjoy the unusually mild February weather, I turn the radio up, which, thankfully, has moved on from White Shadow songs. The wind and the chill give my cheeks a healthy flush as I sing along loudly to the radio the rest of the way to Warner.

  I have several hours to kill before the concert after I pick up Gran’s meds, so I spend my time touring model homes and browsing high-end furniture shops. Even though I wasn’t able to finish my interior design degree at NYU, I still enjoy dreaming about the day when I can.

  An hour before the concert begins, I park my car in the crowded lot and say a quick prayer that Gran will be okay while I’m here. That she has all she needs for the night and that she’ll rest and wake up feeling better tomorrow than today. She encouraged me to go to the concert and I agreed, even if I’m not ready to relive all my old memories. But I still worry about Gran when I’m not there. Please let her be okay when I get home.

  Chapter 2

  Jordan

  I could let go right here in this room and be done with my miserable existence. I could let this syringe sticking out of my arm be the end of me, just push a little more into my system and…poof! Jordan Capshaw would be wiped off the planet. My pulse pounds in my veins, thick like sludge pushing through a sewer pipe. With each relaxing beat of my icy heart the tension slips from my body, my muscles loosen, and my breath catches in my chest.

  But I can’t end it, not tonight. I have a show to do, a pathetic, here’s your last shot at something, anything, to keep you afloat show.

  And I’ve already gone and blown the chance all to hell.

  I can’t hide the fact I’m stoned. Jeremy and the crew will be angry as shit when I join them for sound check later, but it’s not like they can replace me, I’m the lead singer after all. And the glue that’s holding the band together.

  The syringe is cold in my hand and it burns as I slide it out of my purple-flowered skin. I throw on a black tank and a black corduroy jacket, call a cab, and stumble out of my cheap hotel room. Who says a multi-million dollar rocker has to stay at the nicest hotels? It’s the holes-in-the-wall where you find the best shit to keep the high.

  The cab meets me in front of the all-glass lobby that’s decorated in 1970s orange plush, and I give the manager who can’t keep his eyes off me the finger as the driver pulls away. I don’t need his judgment; I’ve dealt with it all my life from those who were supposed to love me unconditionally. I sprawl out on the cracked yellow leather seat, peer over the front seats, and spot the driver’s ID hanging from the rearview. Jack Nelson, cab driver, is a paunchy middle-aged man with graying sideburns and a cliché tweed flat cap that sits on his balding head. He glances in the mirror and does a double take.

  “Holy shit,” he says. It’s the same thing nearly every time. “You’re that guy from
that band. What’s it called? Something Shadow?”

  I tip my chin up at him and slap his shoulder. “Something like that, mate.”

  “Wait till my wife hears who I had in my cab tonight, she’ll freak!”

  Probably not. If this guy doesn’t even know the name of my band, it’s likely his wife won’t give a rat’s ass. I can imagine their conversation:

  “Hey, wifey, you’ll never guess who I drove around town tonight.”

  “Who? The President of the United States?” she would answer, tired of playing all of his ‘guess who’ games.

  “It was that singer you like from that band. You know the one.”

  “Yeah, that’s great, you stupid shithead. Now, grab me my ciggies and don’t bother me unless you’ve got a hard on.”

  “So, you here for a gig or something?” Jack directs the question at me, snapping me back into reality.

  “Yeah, up at the Eagles Arena. You think you could get me there, like an hour ago?”

  “Sure thing. I’ll step on it. I know my way around these streets and which ones to avoid. You know the cops, they’re always on the prowl.”

  Again, I tip my chin up at him and wish for silence. But he keeps on talking about some shit I couldn’t care less about and a cloud forms over my brain, drowning him out. The streets of this hole-in-the-wall city float by, a mist of reds and greens mixed with a light, drizzly rain. Thank the stars for band managers, because I’d have no dammed clue where I was during my shows. Jeremy always has the staging room set up the way I like it: black leather sofas, dim blue lights, our set list, and thankfully the name of the city we’re playing in. Hell, I don’t even know what state I’m in at the moment.

  “We’re here, man,” the driver says. “There’s a back entrance. Do you want me to drive around to that one?”

  “No,” I say. I took a cab. No one will think the lead singer of White Shadow would take a cab to their own show. “Here’s good. How much do I owe you, mate?”