Raining Down Rules (2 page)

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?”

“My wife would kill me if she knew I made you pay for the ride,” he says. Although I’m guessing she’ll probably kill him for
not
taking my money.

“Thanks, mate, here’s a little something to keep the missus happy.” I slip him a Benjamin and haul ass out of the cab, narrowly avoiding a small swarm of groupies. Seven girls rush around me, grabbing every inch of me, and I slough them off like the parasites they are. Their bodies pulse off energy I used to crave, back when we first hit it big, but now it is just the catalyst for the decline of my heroin high. I guess it doesn’t matter what kind of car I pull up in, they come in droves to see me. You can’t mistake Jordan Capshaw and my signature “who the hell cares what I look like” concert look—all black clothing and messy hair that sticks up at odd angles due to the fact I refuse to use a comb.

When I’m clear of the small mob I stumble my way to the entrance of the building and catch a glimpse of a girl standing outside, wringing her hands as though she’s nervous. Her long honey-blonde hair hangs over her shoulders and she is wearing some ridiculous sweater thing and jeans, which means she’s wearing more clothes than any of the other groupies. I laugh to myself as the word
prude
flashes in my head and immediately I’m drawn to her. She doesn’t flock to me like a moth to a flame, making her different from all the other girls I’ve been with. She’s a challenge I intend to win.

Jeremy knows any girl holding one of my cards is allowed backstage at any time, before, during, or after the show. I can tell this girl will gladly accept, but hold back and wait until the last minute to meet me. But she
will
meet me.

I swagger up to her—because that’s what I do—put on my best smile, and reach my hand to her. Her cheeks flush as she avoids eye contact. Good hell if that doesn’t ramp me up.

“Jordan Capshaw,” I say, expecting her to take my hand. But the strangest thing occurs. She folds her arms across her B-cup chest and glances over my shoulder. She has a small, flat mole on the lower part of her jaw and I catch a whiff of her sweet perfume as she turns back to me. My toes curl with anticipation of what she’ll be like after the show. “I want you to have this,” I say as I hand her my card.

“What is it?” Her voice is soft and timid, almost silky. She takes the card and then slides it into the back pocket of her skinny jeans.

“It’s a free pass,” I begin. “Show this to the guys at the front gates and they’ll direct you to the staging room where you and I can hang out.”

“A backstage pass?”

“Yeah, for whenever.”

“I don’t think I—”

“Just think about it,” I say. “It’s good any time today, so before the show, during, or after. Whenever.”

“Listen, I—”

“Yeah, I get it. You’re not looking to hook up with me or the band, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it a million times. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” I give her my signature wink and expect her to swoon.

“Obviously you haven’t,” she says sharply before she turns away and walks across the expansive, poorly manicured lawn. My jaw drops to the floor in pure awe. She turned me down. No one ever turns me down. And as I watch her perfect ass walk away, I kick myself for being a jerk. But Jordan Capshaw is always a jerk.

Chapter 3

Jemma

It was stupid of me to go to White Shadow’s concert when Gran is still sick. It was even more stupid of me to consider using the backstage pass Jordan Capshaw gave me outside. Though I felt even worse for giving the card to some half-dressed groupie as the concert came to a crashing end. Apparently I’m an enabler for Jordan’s sexual whims. Who knew?

What surprised me the most, however, was even though I’ve lived the last six years of my life feeling like it was a White Shadow CD, it didn’t feel that way tonight. Tonight I felt like a girl who went to a concert and overcame the sadness I felt has shadowed me for so long. My life is so much better than I would have thought, and so much brighter than the future of Jordan Capshaw and White Shadow.

Jordan’s slurring of his words and stumbling onstage made it obvious he was drunk and probably high, not to mention his band looked like they wanted to skin him alive. I’ve heard White Shadow was floundering but what I just witnessed wasn’t floundering; it was flat out failing. And I can’t help but feel sorry for all of them.

The arena clears out and I’m about all that’s left hanging around, and for what, I don’t know. My inner fourteen-year-old self still holds some sort of candle for Jordan Capshaw, I guess, even though he is obviously way beyond saving. I know there is nothing I can do for him other than hope he will clean up his act. I can’t fix what’s broken in him, whatever that may be. He has to be willing to help himself, but by his performance onstage tonight, it will be a long time before that happens. If ever.

It’s interesting watching the crews pick apart the stage bit by bit, almost like animals eating the meat off the bones of their prey. Slowly they gnaw at the muscle and sinews until finally nothing is left but the metal skeleton, leaving the arena looking hollow and larger than life. The lights dim and an usher stops to ask if I’m okay and then he escorts me out of the building to my car parked alone in the lot.

“I’ve never had someone stay as long as you,” he says with a smile, probably thinking I’m hoping to catch up with the band later.

“Thanks,” I mumble, and then start my car. I check the glove compartment for Gran’s meds, which are still safely tucked in there, before pulling out of the parking lot. I’ve been to Warner many times, but driving at night can sometimes turn me around. Compared to Torrance, Warner is New York City. Where Torrance is neatly tucked along a small river and is compact and friendly, Warner is sprawled out between two mountains along a wide valley and tumbles over a large river. There are countless stoplights, roads, and turns.

I drive along, thinking back to the other two times I’ve seen White Shadow in concert, wondering what has changed so much over the years that the band is falling apart. Jordan Capshaw is on a downward spiral to who knows where, dragging his friends with him. As I pull down an unfamiliar street and debate turning back, I see a figure stumbling down the street. It’s a man, and from the looks of him, a very drunk one. He’s holding a bottle of something he keeps taking quick swigs from. His brown, summer bleached hair shines in my headlights and my heart speeds up in my chest.

“Jordan Capshaw.” His name floats from my lips like a whisper as I shift my car into park and swallow hard before stepping out. He stops inches from the hood, takes a long drink from his bottle, and sits down on the front bumper of my Honda Civic.

“Um, Jordan?” I ask quietly. Shortening his name feels foreign on my lips. I’ve always called him by his full name and the informality of using just his first name makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “You do know this is a street, right?” I ask.

Jordan turns my way, but looks through me. He’s so wasted he probably has no clue he’s even outside, let alone without shoes. “Can I take you somewhere?” A warning chimes in my head—it was a leading question, and one a mostly sober Jordan would have taken to his advantage.

“I’m all used up, baby,” he singsongs while taking another sip. “Three is my limit.” He slips against the hood of my car, almost falling to the pavement, but catches himself at the last second.

“Let’s go,” I say as I help him to his feet and walk him to the passenger side of my car. He spills onto the seat, dropping his almost empty bottle of Everclear on the floor mat below his feet, instantly making my car smell like the crap he’s drinking. “Watch it,” I warn as I reach around to click the buckle in place. His hands slip up the back of my shirt, making my skin pucker, and on instinct I slap his cheek and finish buckling him in. “You will not touch me, do I make myself clear?”

A lazy smirk works its way onto Jordan’s handsome, albeit sloshed, face as he nods and passes out.

Chapter 4

I’m an idiot, and someone should just engrave it on my headstone when I die. My car reeks of alcohol, Jordan’s passed out next to me, and he smells like smoke and smut. My heart is beating faster than my car is going, which is saying something. I’ve just kidnapped a famous rock star—sort of—and more than likely will be arrested tomorrow when he sobers up. As we pull into town, Jordan stirs, making me jump in my seat and swerve slightly to the left. His head bobs to the side as he groans something incomprehensible and then belches, making me gag. I really could punch him right about now, but that might cause him to emit more noxious gasses. Instead I roll my window down, turn up the radio, and drive through town as fast as legally possible.

The front porch light at Gran’s welcomes me home, making me wonder if I should leave Jordan in my car overnight, but then I think better of it when I glimpse the green hue his face is reflecting. I would never forgive myself if he vomited in my car, knowing the smell would never come out.

“Wake up,” I say, and softly pat his shoulder. He doesn’t budge, except for the small movement coming from his toxic mouth while he breathes. “Jordan!” I say louder this time as I gently pat his cheeks, noting the way his scruff scratches at my fingers.

His arms push me away and his eyes open, though they look so bloodshot I don’t know how he can even see out of them.

“Who the hell are you?” His breath burns like fire in my face, making me turn and cough.

“Just get out of my car, please.”

His hand fumbles on the handle and when the door opens he spills out onto the driveway.

“Perfect,” I mumble, and then jump out to help him. He leans his body into my shoulder, causing my balance to waver, and we both topple back to the pavement, Jordan landing on top of me. Our foreheads knock together, sending a dizzying array of stars dancing in front of my eyes.

With a grunt, I push his alcohol-logged body off me, waking him enough so he stands on his own. He breathes so heavily into my face I have to close my eyes against the foul odor coming from his mouth.

“Hey, girl,” he says with a heavy breath, making my eyes water. “My head feels like someone hit it with a hammer. Got any blow?”

“Excuse me?”

Jordan’s arm snakes around my shoulders as he pulls me closer to his poisonous breath. “Anything to chase the dragon? You know, ride the wave?”

I shove his arm off my shoulder and it lands against his thigh with a thud. “I don’t do drugs.” I turn away from him and head toward the wide front porch with Jordan trailing closely behind.

“Man, girl, m-mm-mmm. That ass is on fire!”

My cheeks flame momentarily—Jordan Capshaw thinks I have a nice butt! And then I remember how irritated I am with his current state.

“Gran and I have an extra room upstairs,” I whisper quietly as I open the squeaky door. “You can sleep off whatever you’re on, but tomorrow you need to clear out of here. And I don’t want you talking to my Gran, and for that matter, I really don’t want her to know you’re here. She can’t stand the idea of you, let alone what you’ve gone and done to yourself.”
Way to be firm, Jemma.

He clicks his tongue at my tone and then whistles out a soft catcall. “Seriously, girl, where have you been hiding my whole life? Your ass is out of this world.”

“My ass,” I say as I pull his scruffy chin to face me, “is none of your business. Let’s go.” I drop his chin and immediately feel guilty, or maybe ashamed, that I’ve just spoken to Jordan Capshaw so gruffly. Shaking it off, I guide Jordan into Gran’s house, something I never would have thought in a million years would ever happen.

“You can sleep here.” Thankfully the door doesn’t squeal like the rest of them do, or Gran would probably wake up and see the predicament I’ve gotten myself into. “The bed’s old, but comfortable.”

Jordan’s eyes roam the room, scanning from the bed with the pale green coverlet to the old bird’s eye maple dresser and the ancient roll-down window shade. “I’ve slept in worse,” he says before attempting to shuck off the shoes he isn’t wearing. “What the hell?” His eyes widen as he looks to me. “What did you do with my shoes? Those cost six hundred dollars!”

My cheeks flush, both at the cost of the shoes and his tone. “You weren’t wearing any shoes when I found you walking the street like a drunkard. Which, by the way, you are.”

Jordan reels from my accusation and starts toward me. “Who the hell cares if I’m a drunk,” he snarls only an inch from my face. “I can do whatever the hell I want. It’s
my
goddamn life.”

“Back away,” I say slowly. Jordan’s body moves away but his feet stay planted in front of mine. “Talk to me like that again and you can find yourself another place to stay tonight. There’s a hotel about fifteen miles from here, and by the looks of your neatly polished and buffed toes, it’ll hurt like hell.” I try to hide the fact my hands are shaking and my chest is heaving, knowing my resolve is fading. I don’t know how much longer I can play the tough guy.

Jordan pulls in his bottom lip, bites down, and breathes heavily. He looks like he’s readying for a punch, or maybe he’s holding back from vomiting. Either way, I step around him, roll the window shade down, and pull down the blankets on the bed.

“You can’t do any drugs while you stay here at Gran’s house. You understand that, right?” Jordan rolls his eyes and nods. “Also,” I continue, “I really don’t want you giving her any trouble. It’s probably best if you clear out tomorrow after you’re sober.”

“Right,” he scoffs. “I haven’t been sober in years, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I can’t help but hear the sadness in his words. His voice cracks as though he realizes people really don’t like him much these days. I can’t imagine how that must feel, to be so popular, wanted for so long, and then suddenly have all of it wrenched from your fingers, almost like a Band-Aid ripping away from a wound.

He slides the jacket off his shoulders, revealing a black, figure-hugging tank along with a scattering of tattoos across his back. But more importantly, I notice the purple-green bruises dotting his arms. No wonder he wears long sleeves in public.

“You’re going to have to pay me if you keep staring like that,” Jordan says out of the side of his mouth, jerking me back to reality. My cheeks burn and I groan inwardly in embarrassment. “I’m going to take my jeans off now. You know, in case you wanted more of a show.”

My toes curl in my shoes as I quickly turn around, slamming the side of my face on the corner of the door. I jerk back, holding my hand against my cheek, and trip over the braided rug and begin falling backward. Jordan’s hands catch me under my arms and he pulls me to my feet. My face is throbbing angrily, my cheeks are flushed with pain and humiliation, and tears spill from my eyes against my will.

“You’re…crying?” Jordan asks as a tear slips down my cheek. “Of course you’re crying. You’re a girl.”

Using my elbow to wedge between us, I push away from him, glaring through my good eye, and resist the urge to prop his head in the doorway while slamming the door on his face a couple times.

“I hit my face on the stupid door, you jerk! It fricking hurt!”

“Let me see,” he says, surprisingly moving tenderly toward me. But instead of letting him wipe away the tears, I step back, suddenly very aware of how close he came to really touching me.

“The bathroom is across the hall,” I blurt out. “Gran sleeps downstairs. Stay away from her.” And with that I practically run out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me.