Raining Down Rules (Raining Down #1)

by B. K. Rivers

  “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. “Jere
my’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.

  Chapter 7

  I stayed with Jordan for a good long while after I cleaned up his mess and left him in the bathroom to sleep off his high. Before I went to bed, I cleared the medicine cabinet of all things pharmaceutical and removed razor blades. It’s possible I should have called 911 with his pulse so low, and maybe I’m just fooling myself thinking I can help him.

  The alarm buzzes angrily in my ear at six a.m. and I fumble with the clock, attempting to bat away the reminder of how little sleep I had. It’s no use trying to turn it off; my arms feel like lead and the buzzing is only growing louder. Rolling over, my feet hit the chilly wooden floor and goose bumps climb up my calves. On a forty-acre ranch with only me to care for it, there is no sleeping in, regardless of how much sleep I did or didn’t get.

  The bathroom is still occupied by the sleeping—and still alive, I checked—Jordan Capshaw, so a shower is out of the question. I throw on a pair of well-worn work jeans, a white tank, and a pink and purple flannel button-up shirt before heading downstairs to the kitchen. I kiss Gran on the forehead. She’s working one of her crossword puzzles, and she smiles and pats me on my hip. I pull a granola bar from the cupboard, chow down on the chocolate and peanut butter goodness, and haul tail to the stables. At one time the stables held up to twenty horses, but these days I can only manage four. But they are four amazing creatures, all with championship ribbons hanging above their pictures in the tack room.

  Ranger meets me first with his low whicker and then his majestic dappled head pops out of the stall door.

  “Good morning, boy,” I say as I pat his velvet nose and kiss the lazy star on the center of his forehead. “You ready for some breakfast?” Ranger tosses his head in agreement, not that he actually understands what I’m talking about. Belle, Marley, and Dazzle meet me next, though Dazzle in her old age is much slower than the rest.

  After I’ve sufficiently greeted all the horses, I load up my wheelbarrow with hay and a bucket of sweet oats and begin dishing out their breakfasts. While the horses munch away, I tidy up the tack room, polish a couple of saddles, and then check the mini fridge stock of vaccines and dewormer. Everything is where it should be and I make a note to put in an order for some more arthritis meds for Dazzle. With the horses fed and the tack room cleaned, I let the horses out into the pasture and get to work on mucking out the stalls. It’s backbreaking work, but after I finish, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride at the state of the stables.

  Ranger whickers as I leave the barn and then I notice a black truck driving toward the house. There is something vaguely familiar about it and as the driver pulls to a stop and steps out of the cab, only then do I remember why. Crap. I make my way quickly toward him, do a quick sniff test, and realize there is nothing I can do about my current state of odor.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask a little too harshly, and then try to take it back. “I mean, how did you know where I lived?”

  “I think all the guys from high school knew where you lived.” Vic scratches the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly, revealing his swoon-worthy dimples. How can those dimples still make heat rush throughout my body? It’s been six years since I last saw him in s
chool, right before he graduated. I was sure my little crush on him died when school started the next fall.

  “Wait, what do you mean the guys all knew where I lived?” I need to focus on something other than his muscles and those dimples.

  “Let’s just say it’s a small town and you’ve always been…” He gestures at my body as his cheeks flush. “You’re hot, what can I say?” Dimples.

  “So you drove out here to tell me I’m hot?” I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this new knowledge, so I play it down with a shrug and a squint of my eyes. The sun is behind him after all.

  “Yes. No. I mean I remembered you liked horses, and I brought you something.” He reaches into his truck and pulls out a small green bag. “Do you still like horses?” He holds the bag near his chest and stares at me with eagerness.

  I make a show of my current state of dress and point to the stables. “Been mucking stalls and feeding horses all morning. Surely you can smell them on me.” Why would he buy me a gift? And why does he have to look so handsome? Six years has done amazing things to his body. His chest is broader, his arms more defined and toned, and the blond stubble on his chin is tempting me to touch.

  Vic steps close enough that the heat from his body and the musky scent of his cologne swirls around me. “I think you smell amazing,” he says quietly as he holds out the bag. My fingers brush his as we exchange the gift and a pulse of heat and energy passes between us.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, open the bag, and pull out a small glass sculpture of a rearing horse, the mane looking as though it’s whipping in the wind. “It’s beautiful,” I say as I hold his gift in my hand. “But I can’t accept this.” I begin to place the horse back into the bag, but Vic’s hands stop me. They’re warm on mine and his touch makes my stomach swirl.

  “You have to,” he says, showing me his dimples again. “Consider it a bribe.”

  “For what?”