Raining Down Rules (5 page)

Chapter 9

Jemma

Jordan looks like a cross between someone who is about to be sick and someone who just realized they’re in a tremendous amount of pain. His eyes are not focusing on anything in particular and his skin has taken on a sickly greenish hue. He wobbles on his feet and then clenches his good hand around the wrist of his injured one.

“Jordan?” I say while gripping his shoulder, trying to shake him out of his shock. “Can you hear me?” He takes a step back and slumps against the barn wall, sliding to the floor. “I’ve got to get you to a doctor—do you have insurance or…anything?”

“In my wallet,” he mumbles with a shaking jaw.

“Where’s your wallet?” I snap my fingers in front of his face as he starts to lose consciousness. “Jordan!” My hands are trembling and I do the only thing I know of to bring him back: slap him. My palm connects with his cheek with a loud smack, stinging my hand. I can’t imagine how his reddening cheek must feel.

“Jesus,” he slurs. “What?”

“Your wallet, where is it?”

“My pocket, I think.”

“Can you stand? I’ve got to get you to the car.”

Jordan nods slowly and grunts as I help him to his feet.

“Okay, turn around and hold still so I can grab your wallet.”

Jordan laughs and then points to the front of his jeans with his good hand.

“Ummm…”

“I keep my wallet in my front pocket,” he says. “It’s the only safe place when you’re out on the road.”

Crap
. Just what I need, digging around in Jordan’s front pockets with the risk of accidental bumpage. “Okay, keep still, will you?” I hesitantly reach into his right front pocket, working hard to keep my hand far away from his…oh boy. My fingers brush against the leather of his wallet and I thrust my hand in deeper, wrap my fingers around the wallet, and yank it out, practically getting my hand stuck in the process.

“Holy shit, woman, you almost ripped off my—”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, interrupting him. When did I become such a prude? “Let’s go.”

“What about your grandma?”

“I’ll call her on the way. Your hand looks really bad.”

We drive like hell to the hospital across town and sit in the waiting room after I’ve filled out the forms for Jordan. Surprisingly, a few of the waiting patients obviously recognize him but remain in their seats. I watch as they inconspicuously point and then whisper to each other. I say a silent prayer of thanks for their restraint.

“Jordan…” The nurse’s eyes move from Jordan’s face to her clipboard and then she continues. “…Fischer?”

“You used a fake name?” he whispers in question.

I shrug my shoulders and push him to his feet.

“You coming?” he asks.

“Do you want me to?”

“You can help keep my story straight.”

I follow Jordan and the middle-aged nurse through the sliding glass doors to a little alcove where she weighs him: one hundred eighty-five pounds; gets his height: six feet two; and takes his temperature: ninety-nine point six.

“Follow me,” the nurse says, guiding us to a small room with an exam bed, a small teal chair, and a backless swivel chair. “Go ahead and have a seat and I’ll just grab your blood pressure.” Jordan sits on the edge of the bed, still cradling his bad hand, and watches as the nurse slips the blood pressure cuff around his bicep. He winks at me as she pumps the pressure ball and she looks at him over her glasses and frowns. “One twenty-seven over eighty-five. A little high for someone of your age.”

“I’ve just broken my hand, what do you expect?” Jordan asks defensively.

“Mmhmm.” The nurse hands him a small plastic cup with a green lid marked
‘
sterile
.’
“Bathroom’s across the hall, we’ll need a sample.”

“You know he’s only here because of a broken hand, right?” I ask, slightly taken aback that they need a urine sample.

“Standard procedure, miss. We don’t want to prescribe medications if he has any drugs in his system.” My mouth forms an
O
and she gives us a polite little smirk as she leaves the room.

“Are you clean?” Jordan asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Have you shot up or anything in the last twenty-four hours?”

“Uh…what do you think?”

Jordan rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“Come with me to the bathroom. You can piss in the cup and give them your sample.”

“I’m not doing that,” I say in horror. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“I’d do it for you. That is, if I didn’t have a plethora of goodies pumping through my veins.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

Jordan shrugs his shoulders and winces when the motion passes to his broken hand.

“In that case, you’ve got to come with me anyway. I’ll need help with my zipper.”

My cheeks light up like Christmas lights and I have no choice but to follow him to the bathroom. The small room has tile from floor to ceiling in a horrible baby blue color. Even the sink is baby blue. My armpits begin to sweat and my hands feel like they’re made out of rubber spatulas. How am I going to unzip his pants without having some sort of nervous spasm?

“Fine! Give me the stupid cup.”

Jordan smiles, hands me the cup, and leans against the tile wall.

“You’re not going to watch, turn around.” He turns and I take care of business and hand him the cup. “Here.” He takes the cup from me and places it in the little silver door near the sink. Why do I feel like I’ve just committed a massive crime? “I’ll go back to the waiting room and wait there,” I say as I leave the bathroom with my glowing cheeks.

While I wait, I catch up on Facebook and go back and forth between posting my status as
Hanging with Jordan Capshaw in the ER
or
Jordan Capshaw punched the wall of my barn and broke his hand!
Though I decide it’s not my place to announce where Jordan is, and Gran can’t be exposed to salivating teenagers who would surely come flocking to our house anyway.

“Hey, stranger,” a deep voice says in front of me. I glance at the black boots, thick yellow pants with a reflective stripe climbing up his legs, and then make my way up his chest. Which coincidentally is covered in a yellow t-shirt and yellow suspenders. His dimples make my stomach flutter.

“Where’s your monkey?” I ask, wondering if he’ll catch my reference to the Man in the Yellow Hat from
Curious George
.

His dimples grow deeper as his smile increases. “My monkey is well hidden, and my yellow hat is in the truck.” Vic sits beside me and bumps me with his elbow. “You just can’t stay away from me, can you?”

“I think you have it backward.” I glance at my knees and notice how his are touching mine. “So, you’re a fireman?”

He nods and my stomach flutters return and I find myself quietly enjoying the smell of smoke and flames from his uniform. Okay, his hotness level just increased by a whole heck of a lot.

“Who are you here for?” he asks as he scans the waiting room.

Suddenly, I’m seriously hoping Jordan doesn’t walk out from behind the doors. I don’t want either to get the wrong idea.

“A friend hurt his hand, so I’m waiting to see if it’s broken.” There, the truth, but not in its entirety.

“He, huh?” Vic’s shoulders slump a little.

“He’s a friend.”

“So, if I were to…say, break my leg, would you wait here for me?” He’s fishing for information, but why?

“Are you planning on breaking your leg?”

His dimples return and heat floods to my cheeks. “Nah, just checking my friend status.” He stands, towering over me, and my face gets a front and center view of the front of his pants. And I’m sad to admit it, but I really want to know what he has on under his thick yellow pants.

“See you around, Jemma,” he calls as he walks out of the waiting room. I take a deep breath and grab my phone and send a quick text to Trish.

Hottie from HS is a freakin’ fireman.

She answers back almost immediately.

Get on that!

Chapter 10

Jordan

Jemma’s face is priceless when I meet her in the waiting room with my hand in a small pink plaster cast. I had my choice of two colors, pink or blue, and I chose pink to be a rebel.

“So, it’s broken?” she asks, and then slips her phone into her small purse. A girl with a tiny purse tends to have little baggage. I like that. There’s less drama.

“That’s what the doctor says,” I say as I attempt to wriggle my fingers in the cast, though all I succeed in doing is sending a jolt of pain up my arm and into my stomach. Jemma jumps to her feet and grabs my elbow and then drops it as though it was an accident that she touched me. The pills the doctor gave me must be kicking in because the pain is dissipating and I’m feeling damn good.

“Listen, babe, you can touch me all you want.”

Jemma takes a few steps back and looks at me with a scowl and says, “Do not call me babe. Are you done here?”

My eyelids grow heavy and my smile grows wider.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Let’s go.”

Jemma grabs my elbow and drags me through the hospital doors and into her car. The sunlight burns my retinas and with the hurried speed she’s pulling me at, I’m betting the sun is hurting her eyes too.

“Get in.” She slams the door, jarring my elbow, and leans against the trunk of her car. She’s moving as though she’s having an in-depth conversation with someone on her phone. I can see her waving her hands in frustration and then her shoulders slump as she jams her phone back into her purse. She pauses just before she opens her door and climbs in the seat beside me, landing with a harrumph.

She shifts the car into drive and squeals out of the hospital parking lot like she’s fleeing from an impending explosion.

“Everything okay?” I ask while I hold onto the
oh shit
handle above the passenger window.

She purses her lips, clenches her jaw, and slides around a sharp corner. “Oh, everything is just peachy,” she says through her tensed jaw. “It’s not like you didn’t have me break the law by peeing in that cup for you. Or the fact the doctor prescribed a drug addict prescription pain pills. Or—” she takes a breath and continues her rant, “—or that you’re a complete ass who I should just dump off at the next corner and be done with. But oh no, you had to go and get your addicted ass kicked out of your band, and manage to alienate the only people who you could have called your friends. And, not to mention, you’ve gone and broken your hand by punching a hole in my hundred-year-old barn wall!”

At this point, I’m not sure this girl is entirely human. I mean, no girl should be able to speak that fast and raise her voice octave after octave. I mean, not even freaking Mariah Carey can do that.

“Are you done?” God I hope so.

“Am I done? Seriously?” She slams on the brakes and I lurch forward, missing the windshield by millimeters. “I’m stuck with you! Jeremy, your
manager
, says you’re my problem now. I mean, who ruins their life so badly that his friends want nothing to do with him? You’re like a virus, infecting all those around you, destroying the good that surrounds you.” She takes another deep breath and I don’t think she’s anywhere close to finished with tossing out her insults. “And pink! Oh my God, could you be any more irritating and…and…”

“And?” I ask when it’s obvious she doesn’t know what else to say. Two breaths pass her lips before she continues driving. “I thought you were going to keep going, all the way back home.”

She groans and leans her head back in her seat. Is it wrong I’m kind of turned on?

“Home? Gran’s house is not your home; it’s mine. You’re a guest, and a temporary one at that.”

“Is there a bus station in this boring town? You could just drop me off there and I’ll be on my way.”

Jemma’s mouth drops open, her bottom lip quivers, and a small, breathy squeak escapes. Yep, I’m definitely turned on.

“Isn’t that what you want? To be rid of me?” I’m testing her now. I can tell by her inability to speak that she’s unsure of what she wants. I’m going to dig until I get an answer.

“There is no bus station in Torrance—it’s too small of a town.” Her voice is soft, almost hesitant.

“So…you don’t want me to go?” Why am I egging her on? What is it I want from her?

She steers the car quickly to the right and pulls into the parking lot of a small grocery store. She parks the car, grips the steering wheel with both hands, and breathes silently through her nose, all while staring at the automatic doors of the building. We sit in the car for several minutes and watch as at least a dozen people enter and exit the store. I feel almost as though I’m intruding on some strange personal ritual or internal war. It’s strange to watch this girl tap her fingers nervously on the steering wheel, how her eyes dart from the grocery store door to her hands and then the door handle like she doesn’t know if she can go inside.

My legs are growing antsy, bouncing at my heels. After about the twentieth person has exited the store I’ve had all I can stand.

“Are you going in or should I?” I say so abruptly that Jemma jumps in her seat.

“Huh?” she says, as though she’s just come out of some sort of trance.

“The store? We’ve been sitting here for almost ten minutes. Did you need something here or are you just waiting for me to get out?”

She blinks several times, clears her throat, and then sits up straight. “Give me the pills,” she says while still staring at those damn doors.

“That would be a negative.” My hand automatically goes for my pocket where the pills are safely tucked away. “I need them for the pain.”

Jemma finally turns and looks at me but I can’t read anything in her face. Her rich, blue eyes look lost and the color has drained from her cheeks.

“The way I see it, you have two options,” she says firmly. “Option number one is to hand over the pills and come back with me to my house where you can sober up, get clean, and then be on your way.”

“And option two?” I ask, not really liking option one.

“Option two is keep your damn pills and get out of my car right now. Leave Torrance, forget where it is and that you ever met me and Gran. Be on your way and continue ruining your life and the lives of your friends.”

I consider her options, and somewhere in there, there has to be an option three. The box she’s created is too confined, too small for someone like me. She believes she’s offering something small and normal, but what she doesn’t realize is it’s something huge. But that part of me—the part of me that would have chosen that life a few years ago—disappeared the moment I chose life on the road, losing home and stability.

My bandmates became my family, and the crazy shit we did in the beginning was only fuel to my growing hunger for more. More of everything. Jemma’s first option strips all of that from me, tears away the part of me that keeps me going, keeps pushing me to do one more show, swallow one more pill, or find the next high. I’m not willing to give that up.

On the other hand, what choice do I have? Those who I have called family for the longest time have abandoned me; they’ve called it quits. Which is funny, because if it hadn’t been for those same guys, I never would have done half of that crazy shit. It’s like they led me to water and forced it down my throat until it was the only thing that kept me going. And now they’ve grown tired of the monster they created.

“I’ve got to run inside and grab a few things. I hope you’ve made your decision by the time I get back.” She turns off the ignition, pockets the keys, and leaves me in the car to think. The way I see it, I’ve got two choices: stay in the car or get out. Why would I stay? If I left, what would I do? Where would I go? Why the hell have I put myself in this position?