Raining Down Rules (4 page)

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 school, 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?”

“A date? I’d really like to go out with you.”

His hands are still on mine and I’m finding it hard to say no. I should say no. A date means possible kissing, which means possible touching. Touching leads to sex and that would be breaking the rules I put in place three years ago.

“Vic, I told you, I’m really not dating right now.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Wow, he’s direct. “No.” I shake my head and break the contact with his hands. “I don’t do boyfriends.”

A smile plays across his lips. “What do you do, then?” I have a feeling he is asking me more than one question.

“Thank you for the gift, it’s beautiful. But I have chores to finish.” I start to walk away, but Vic’s hand catches my shoulder, his thumb runs over the side of my neck.

“Just think about it, okay?” His blue eyes are the color of sapphires, and as he drives away I find myself wondering how much harm could come from going on a date with him.

Sitting down for a moment, I send a text off to Trish telling her about Jordan and Vic. Within seconds she’s texting back, asking for more information. I spill the details with a promise to call her later.

I’m famished by the time my morning chores are finished. Back in the house, I find Gran in her little blue chair by the window with her head tilted back against the soft cushions. She’s sleeping peacefully so I leave her to rest while I make myself a sandwich.

Mid-chew I hear the unmistakable sounds of footsteps shuffling down the stairs. My stomach drops to the floor, my heart speeds up, and I begin sweating uncontrollably. By the time Jordan reaches the landing I’m sure I’ve quit breathing. I swallow the lump in my throat and realize I hadn’t quite finished chewing the peanut butter and honey sandwich. Swallowing double hard to dislodge the bulge of bread in my throat only results in me coughing like a lunatic. I fumble around the kitchen, searching frantically for a glass of water, and then fill my mouth, forcing myself to swallow, which makes my throat feel like I’m attempting to swallow a watermelon. When the bread ball finally makes its way to my stomach, I turn around and see Jordan propped up against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, and I completely forget how to breathe.

“Hi,” he mumbles. His lips are drawn into a thin line, giving me a partial closed-mouth smile, and his hair is tousled out of control, which only adds to his appeal.

I open my mouth to answer a greeting but instead what comes out is a high-pitched squeal of a hiccup. Perfect. I can feel the heat climbing up my neck coming to a rest on my cheeks. Get a grip Jemma.

“Hey,” I say in between hiccups. I seriously need to rein myself in. It wasn’t even a day ago that I was so put off by Jordan. But with him standing here in just his jeans it’s hard to deny how devastatingly handsome he is.

“So…” He rakes a hand through his hair, only making pieces of it stand up more.

Hiccup.
“Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”
Hiccup
. Jordan shifts in the doorway, stands up straight, and I can’t deny that my eyes practically walk down his chest to the top of his jeans. I mean, come on, there’s practically a map pointing where to go.
Hiccup
. “I’m sorry, I start to talk really fast when I’m nervous and obviously—”
hiccup,
“—you’re standing here, in my house and, and…” I talk to his chest as though it has a face of its own.

“And…?” He drops his trembling hand to his sides and clenches his fists.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve got to ask,” he says, bringing his arms back over his chest. “Remind me where am I and who you are.” He chews on his bottom lip, his eyes taking me in, no doubt confused at the state I’m in—sweaty, grimy, and smelling like manure.

“Wow, um, well, I saw you last night after your concert, and—”

“Shit,” he says while shaking his head. “I don’t usually hang out this long after.”

My cheeks start to burn at his assumption as I throw my hands out in front of me. “No, no, no, we didn’t. I mean, you were really drunk, not to mention high, and you were walking down the street without any shoes. So I, uh, talked you into getting in my car. I didn’t know where to take you since you passed out, so I brought you here.”

Jordan rolls his eyes and sighs. “Thank God,” he groans. He’s glad…what? That we didn’t sleep together? Not that I would have, but what’s wrong with me?

“Why are people so vague all of the time? I just want to know where I am and who the hell you are,” he says as his face becomes pinched like he’s fighting the world’s worst migraine.

“You’re in Torrance, Washington, which is about an hour’s drive from Warner where you played your show last night.” I toss my plate into the sink where it hits the side and shatters.

“Jemma?” Gran calls from the other room. “Everything all right?”

“Fine, Gran,” I say, and storm out of the kitchen. “Get your own damn sandwich and then figure out what you’re going to do because you’re not staying here.”

Chapter 8

Jordan

The girl’s name is Jemma? Who the hell names their kid Jemma? And good God do I need a fix to stop this sledgehammer inside my head, not to mention the shakes making it look like I have Parkinson’s disease. The girl said to make my own sandwich. How am I supposed to do that when my shitty hands won’t hold still? The bread is there on the counter, along with some God-awful peanut butter and honey. One quick sniff of the peanut butter sends my stomach into fits. I can’t eat that crap.

“Well, look what we have here.” It’s the old lady I heard from the other room, and she’s snuck up behind me, wearing some ancient floral nightgown. Her gray hair is twisted into a knot on the top of her head, pulling at the wrinkles around her eyes. “Don’t you be talking to my granddaughter like that, young man, or I’ll have you out of here faster than you can piss your pants.”

I salute the old woman and force a painful smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. You have anything to take the edge off?”

She scoffs. “As long as you’re in my house, you’ll keep yourself good and sober, you hear?” The old lady hobbles over to the counter, reaches in the bread bag, and pulls out four slices. She fumbles with the fridge handle and grabs some lunchmeat, mayonnaise, and sliced cheese, a woman after my own heart. “Ham sandwich?” she asks. I nod and watch as she prepares two sandwiches and invites me to sit with her at the little table near the windows. We sit awkwardly together, eating in silence until I take my second to last bite, and that’s when she releases the dogs on me.

“I don’t agree with my granddaughter bringing you here. I think you’re a selfish drunk who takes advantage of young women and their vulnerability. You use drugs as your escape because you fear reality and the life you’ve created for yourself. There is no better girl than my Jemma, and I won’t have you hurting her or taking her down the path you’ve put yourself on.”

Now I know where Jemma gets her gumption. I want to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong about me and that I have no interest in her granddaughter, other than looking at her, although there is no way I’m mentioning that to dear old Granny.

“You can use the phone over there,” she nods to a wall phone at the far end of the kitchen, “to call whoever you need to come and get you.”

“Thanks for the sandwich,” I say. “I’ll clear out of here as soon as I call my manager.”

“It’s for the best,” she says before finishing the last bite of her ham sandwich. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to excuse me, it is time to finish my crossword.” She stands up, reaching for our plates, but I put a hand between hers and the dishes.

“I’ll take care of these.”

She smiles as though she’s surprised I possess some manners, and then hobbles back to that sad little blue chair near the windows. I can see why she likes to sit in that spot, the windows look out to a large expanse of a grassy meadow with ancient trees that are so big their canopies overlap, creating a tunnel of sorts. It’s a place I could see writing a song about. But Jordan Capshaw can’t write songs anymore; the words have stopped, they’re stuck in my head but won’t translate to paper.

The dishes are put away in the dishwasher and I have an uneasy feeling about this phone call to Jeremy. As my manager, he’s always been there to pick me up from whatever I’ve gotten myself into, but I feel like something is different this time. Not to mention my head feels like it has a timer ticking down to zero, and with each passing second the twitch of the clock hand puts more pressure inside my skull. I reach for the phone but it slips from my trembling fingers and lands on the counter with an ear-shattering sound.

“Shit.”

“Language, Mr. Capshaw,” the old woman calls from her blue chair. Damn her and her incessant niceties and radar hearing.

The phone is attached at the wall, which gives me no privacy. Granny is going to hear every word of this conversation. I can’t wait. The line rings once and I’m immediately sent to voice mail. Of course Jeremy wouldn’t answer a number he doesn’t recognize.

“…leave a message.” His voice mail cuts out and I say my piece and ask him to call back on the number that pops up on caller ID. I pace around the small kitchen, pour myself a glass of milk, and wait for the phone to ring. Five minutes pass, then ten and my pacing grows more frantic.

I can see the old woman glancing up from her crossword every so often and it’s driving me crazy. Why can’t she mind her own business? Another ten minutes pass and I feel the need to punch something…or someone.

“Is there somewhere I can go to blow off some steam?” I ask the old lady in a hurry. I’ve got to get out of here and fast before I do something I’ll only regret later.

“Jemma’s probably in the barn, you can see if she needs help with the chores.”

It’s such an old woman response—she’s probably muttering
hard work never killed anyone
to herself.

The barn is easy to find and smells…old and dirty, like there are layers of dust and grease covering years of age and history. There’s a rustling above me and as I look up a pitchfork full of hay is thrown my direction and I barely have time to duck out of the way. As it is, I get a face full of hay particles and dust.

“What the hell was that for?” I shout at the girl as I swipe the debris off my face and chest, then open my eyes to see a red-faced Jemma looking down at me from above. A few strands of hair have fallen from her ponytail and she hangs down over the ledge of the upper barn floor.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as she climbs down the ladder and looks me over as though she’s inspecting for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head and pluck off a couple stray pieces of hay from my pants.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I’ve got a headache larger than my—”

“Nope. Don’t want to hear that.” She raises her hands almost defensively and backs up a couple steps.

“I was going to say my Aunt Brenda, but now that you hinted at it, yes, that too.”

“I didn’t hint at anything,” she argues, only adding more rosy pink color to her cheeks.

“I’m having a hard time here,” I admit. “I feel like I need to punch something.”

“Umm…”

“I left a message for Jeremy…my manager, and he hasn’t called back. I need to clear out of here and get back with my band.” She’s startled by my decision; it’s obvious in the way her eyes bug out. But then they drop and her disappointment tugs at my heart.

“Sorry,” she says again. Why is she always saying that? “It’s just that you spoke to Jeremy last night.” When I squint my eyes she continues. “I didn’t hear the whole conversation but it sounded to me like your band was taking some time off.”

“What? Excuse me? My band doesn’t just take time off. We have a tour to finish, gigs to play.”

She draws a line in the loose dirt on the barn floor with the toe of her boot. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I heard.”

I tug at the hair on my head and want to yell. Not a small yell, but like a mountain man yell that shakes the trees and causes avalanches. “You heard wrong,” I shout instead, and then scout the barn for something to punch…or kick…or both. The wall. Yes, the wall is good enough. I ball my fist, pull my arm back, and charge at the ancient wooden structure and punch it so hard my teeth rattle. Dust falls from the floorboards, causing my sight to blur, or that could be the way my knuckles are protruding at a funny angle.

“Jordan!” Jemma shouts, and then rushes over to me. “Oh my gosh, your hand, you’ve broken your hand.”