by B. K. Rivers
“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 coul
d 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.”
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 a
s 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.
