by BK Rivers
Raining Down
Redemption
BK Rivers
Raining Down Redemption
Copyright © 2016 by BK Rivers.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: August 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-740-1
ISBN-10: 1-68058-740-4
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 those who believe in second chances…
and in first loves…
this book is for you.
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
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
Jordan
The energy in this arena is electric—it makes the blood in my veins pound to the rhythmic chanting of the awaiting crowd. They scream out, alternating between my name and our latest hit single—the one I wrote for Jemma. I haven’t seen her in almost fifteen months. Man, I miss that girl. We take the stage. The fans scream, and lights flash a bright white and rain down scorching heat, making me remember just how hot the Phoenix summers can be. Except it’s the middle of January. We run through our set list, and almost two hours later I’m drenched in sweat. My clothes stick to every inch of my body, and now the ride is over.
White Shadow’s Recovery Tour is over.
Our PR rep suggested the title since I finally chose to stay clean twenty months ago, and in truth, the band needed something to promote change. It’s been a bumpy road, but it feels incredible. I can’t believe after almost eight years I’ve completed months of shows without drugs or alcohol. That had never happened before I met Jemma.
Backstage, all six of us can’t contain our smiles as we hug and slap shoulders. A successful concert will do that to you—bring out the most girlish feelings in the manliest of men. I’ve put these guys, my friends, through hell over the years, but fences have been mended with this tour, and we’re stronger than ever.
“Food?” Carson, our keyboardist, suggests. It’s tradition now that I’m clean. We find an all-night diner, talk about the show, and stuff our bellies. Tonight is no exception. Except we’re back home in Phoenix, and there’s only one place we all want to go since we haven’t been in years: Eggceptional. Best pancakes in the state of Arizona. We jump in the van and take off toward the hole-in-the-wall diner on Fifteenth, not even stopping to discuss the matter.
The six of us spill out of the van and trudge through the almost empty parking lot. The diner looks the same, tucked into the corner of an old black-and-white brick building with the 1950s neon diner waitress flashing above the entrance. Once inside, the air is thick with old grease and the salty scent of bacon, and I feel at home. The guys and I used to come here throughout high school and up until we scored our record deal.
We slide into a large booth near the back and study the menu, even though I’m pretty sure we all know what we want. You come here three times a week for three years and you get to know the menu fairly intimately.
“Yep, buttermilk pancakes and the Rocky Mountain Scramble are calling my name,” Drake says as he rubs his belly. “What are you all having?”
The guys mumble their responses as Grant glances up and blows out a low whistle.
“Look at those legs,” he says, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. “Damn, I’d like to—” The waitress turns, and my brain stutters, like it has trouble keeping pace with my racing heart. “Holy shit, is that Reggie?” Grant clears his throat, glancing to me. “Shit, man. I didn’t know. Sorry.”
I wave him off and inhale, the huge gulp of air catching in my throat. “It’s fine, bro.” I cough, pounding a fist to my chest. “We haven’t seen each other since graduation.”
“You two were inseparable, though.”
“That was a long time ago.” The years since high school have been really good to her; she’s filled out, looking more like a woman than a teenager. When she glances over to our table, she stops dead in her tracks. Her smile fades, eyes widen, and her fingers grip the pitcher of water she’s holding. Her long brown hair is tied at the base of her neck, and her cheeks carry a hint of rose pink. And her lips, I can still remember how they feel—how they taste. Slowly she shakes her head side to side like she’s chasing away a memory. Her slender hand tucks a stray hair behind her ear and lingers on her jaw as she makes her way to our table.
The simple gesture, so familiar, shakes me to my core, and a memory hits me where I’m eighteen and sitting with Reggie behind the football field bleachers. We’re holding hands and talking about the future. Mine hopefully included a record deal; hers was working towards a classroom of her own. Teaching was her passion; music was mine. My hands grip the fabric of her jeans at her hips as I pull her between my legs. She practically purrs at my touch, and all coherent thought is lost when our lips crush together. She tastes like spearmint and summer heat, and when her hands trail down my arms to stop at the top of my thighs, I declare it time to head back to my place. My girl is too good to take behind the football field.
Nine years ago, it was like Reggie was built just for me—we fit together perfectly—like two puzzle pieces coming together. It killed me when she walked away from me shortly after graduation. Looking back now, I understand why she did, and I’m glad for it. It wouldn’t have been fair to her, having me gone, high, and screwing any girl who came my way. Sometimes I wonder how I’m still alive after all the shit I’ve done.
“How have you all been?” I close my eyes at the lilt of her soft voice. She addresses all of us, looking at everyone but me. The air in my chest catches. Damn, I didn’t expect it to still hurt so much.
“Reggie! Holy shit, girl, you look amazing,” Grant says, wearing the oversized, cheesy grin he uses when he gets his flirt on. I kick him under the table, narrowing my eyes. Okay, maybe I’m not exactly good with anyone but me hitting on her. Reggi
e’s cheeks flush from Grant’s compliment as she asks to take our order. When her eyes finally land on me, she swallows slowly and taps her pen on the green order slip.
“How are you?” I ask, before giving her my order. It feels strange to see her again, especially here at Eggceptional. We used to come here when we were dating—the whole high school frequented this place. She and I sat in this very booth and, since it’s tucked so far in the back, my fingers got a little frisky more than once under the table.
“I’m good,” she says, her voice cracking slightly. “Do you know what you want?” Her dark chocolate hair slips back from behind her ear, and her slender fingers tuck it back again. Her eyes wander while I study her, but I’m interrupted by an elbow in my side from Jeremy.
“Dude, you’re bordering on creepy,” he whispers, reminding me to place my order.
As she walks away, a pang of guilt—maybe fondness—tugs at me as though there’s an invisible string attached to us, and she’s tugging on it. She makes herself scarce after our food is delivered, making that string pull tighter. The guys and I discuss our break and make plans to book the recording studio in L.A. in a couple weeks. After we’ve all eaten until we’re sufficiently stuffed, I decide to wait and grab a cab later so the guys can be on their way. I want to hang out longer and talk to Reggie. It’s hard for me to comprehend, but I’ve missed her. I want to get to know her again.
Jeremy slides out from beside me, taking the seat across the table. He folds his arms over the hard surface and stares directly at me. “What are you doing here, cowboy?” He taps his long fingers on the creases of his elbows, studying me like an ant under a magnifying glass.
“I’ve missed her,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, then scoot against the wall and drape my arms over the back of the booth. Jeremy sighs, rubs his bearded face with his hands, and echoes my posture in the booth.
“Have you missed her for nine years or just since you saw her here an hour ago?”
“What’s the difference?” I ask, scanning the floor for her petite frame.
“You can’t march up to someone you haven’t seen in years and say, ‘Hey, I’ve missed you. Let’s go shag in my hotel room.’”
“Shag? Who says that?” A laugh is bubbling in my chest, but Reggie rounds the corner with a pitcher of water, and I swallow it back. I hold up my plastic cup, and she dips her head as if she was already on her way to refill our drinks. Her short black skirt sways with her hips, showing off her toned, olive-skinned legs. Everything about her still makes my body react like it did when I was seventeen.
“You sure you don’t want anything stronger than a water?” she asks as the ice clinks from the pitcher into my cup, sending droplets of water onto the table. She refills Jeremy’s cup and sits down next to him. A shot of jealous heat rushes to my chest.
“Honey, I gave that shit up almost two years ago.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, and a small smile twitches on her rosy lips. Jeremy turns in his seat, resting both arms on the table, and it brings me back to all the times the guys and I hung out with Reggie in high school. Of course there were a few other girls at times, but mostly it was just me, Reggie, and the guys.
“That’s really great, Jordan,” she says. Her eyes dip to her fidgeting fingers, her long lashes feathering across the apples of her cheeks. “I heard you were giving sobriety a shot.”
A smile dances across my lips—she’s been keeping tabs on me. “You following up on me, Reggie-bug?” Her back stiffens and her cheeks flush with heat. When I discovered that her middle name was the Spanish word for ladybug, I started calling her Reggie-bug. Sometimes just Bug when the situation fit.
“Please don’t call me that,” she whispers. Something in the pained way she’s looking at me makes that invisible string constrict around my lungs. I’ve lost my breath at the beauty seated across from me. Her brown eyes have aged; there’s a depth to them that wasn’t there when we were younger. Suddenly I want to take her in my arms, hold her, and wipe away the sadness I see there.
“So…” Jeremy breaks in. “You work here, huh?”
Her lips turn up in an easy smile, pulling that searing heat of jealousy from me once again. She can smile for him but not me?
She nods and says, “Yep. Almost four years now. How about you guys, what are you doing here?”
We talk for some time about our tour closing and how we’re taking a four-month break to record some new songs. The entire conversation I let Jeremy control the flow while I watch Reggie and take in the subtle changes that have settled over her through the years. Her smile has widened, giving her an even more loveable quality, and new creases around her eyes make me wonder about her life, what she’s been doing and with whom. Is she married? Does she have kids? For my sake, I hope not on both accounts. I plan to spend a lot of time with her over the next four months.
Reggie drums her fingers on the table before standing. “Break’s over. I’ve got to get back to it.” She shrugs, appearing anxious to step away from us.
“It was good catching up,” Jeremy says as he clasps his hands together behind his head. “You look good, Reggie. Real good.”
“Thanks, Jeremy. You do too.”
I’m not ready to say goodbye, not by a long shot. As she walks away, I motion to Jeremy to wait for me. I slide out of the booth and jog to catch her before she slips into the kitchen.
“Reggie, wait up.” She stops mid-stride, cradles the empty pitcher in one arm, and rests her free hand on her hip.
“I really have to get back to work.”
“I know,” I say, maybe a little too fast. A part of me fears losing her once again and, thinking for a moment it’s even a possibility, it creates a pit in my stomach, causing even my fingers to ache. “Go out with me,” I blurt, filling my cheeks with an unfamiliar rush of heat. Jordan Capshaw doesn’t get nervous—I play concerts for thousands of fans.
“Excuse me?” The pitcher slips from the crook of her elbow, but she catches it before it crashes to the ground. “Jordan, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Come on.” My hands ball into fists at my sides. Please don’t turn me down.
“Listen, we had a good run in high school,” she says, looking everywhere but at me. “Let’s just be happy to have bumped into each other and move on. Can you do that for me, Jordan?” Her brown eyes grow darker as she blinks away the tears gathering along her lower lids. “Please leave.” She turns quickly and disappears behind the hammered steel door to the kitchen.
Chapter 2
Reggie
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rico says as he flips a series of greasy burgers on the grill. “Everything okay?”
I set the empty pitcher on the stainless steel counter and take several deep breaths to try to clear my head. I fall back against the kitchen wall, wrapping my arms around my waist, unable to stop the unwanted tears. They’re like cascading waterfalls staining my cheeks and tumbling to the sunset-orange Saltillo tiles at my feet. Rico tucks his grease-smeared spatula into the pocket of his stained apron and wraps his doughy arms around me in a warm hug. He stands only a couple inches over me and outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds, but his gentle hug feels warm and comforting.
When my tears have stopped falling, and after Rico retrieves the burgers from the grill before they burn, I pull a paper towel from the wall and clean up my face.
“Thanks, Rico,” I say, hugging him from behind. “I needed that.”
“Anytime, girl.” He plates the burgers and sends me on my way. I half expect to see Jordan standing where I left him, but despite how persistent I know he can be, he’s nowhere to be seen. I release the breath I was holding, paste on a phony smile, and finish my shift.
***
It’s after 2 a.m. when I cross the threshold to my apartment and, just as it is every night I work late, Stacey is huddled under her fuchsia blanket watching SNL reruns. The cozy blanket falls to her feet when she stands, stretching her a
rms over her head.
“Hey,” she begins sleepily. Her brows knit together when she takes in my frazzled appearance. “Oh, hon, what’s wrong?”
Plopping down on the couch, I pull a pillow to my chest and hug it tightly. When I woke up this morning, never in a million years did I expect to run into Jordan Capshaw while working my shift. I mean, I guess it was always possible, but in the four years I’ve worked at Eggceptional, never once has he set foot inside. And why, oh why did he have to look so good? Everything about him has broadened since high school—his shoulders, his easy smile, his chest. Man, he looked so good. He always kept his face smooth when we were together, and I couldn’t help noticing the thick scruff lining his cheeks and how it made me want to run my fingers over it.
I groan into the pillow, trying my best to work out the confusion and nerves zipping through me.
“Is Micah asleep?” I ask, hoping he sure better be.
Stacey nods, lays her arm over my shoulder, and pulls me close. I’m so lucky to have a friend like her; I don’t know what I would have done without her.
Melting into her embrace, I sigh heavily. “I saw him tonight. He came into the diner.”
Stacey’s arm falls from my shoulder, and she sits upright. “Who, Reg?”
“Jordan.”
Her jaw moves side to side while she processes the information. “Jordan, Jordan? As in…”
“Yep. That Jordan.”
She falls against the back of the couch, and I follow, relaxing into the plush microsuede. For a long while we sit in silence, and I think maybe she’s fallen asleep. When I finally glance at her she’s staring at the ceiling, twisting her lips to the side in concentration.
“So, did you guys talk? Or was it just a passing glance?”
I proceed to run through the night and our conversation, right down to when he asked me out. A cheesy grin works its way onto Stacey’s lips, and when she turns to me she scrunches her eyes closed and bursts into laughter. Okay, I was totally not expecting that. Maybe a groan or a sarcastic “yeah right,” but a laugh? Is it really that funny?