Raining Down Redemption (Raining Down Series Book 2)

by BK Rivers

  The bathroom door swings open, and the drummer from the band who just finished performing nods his head in greeting and then takes a piss in the urinal. I’m still standing here at the sink, my hands gripping the edge of the cultured marble countertop, letting my face air-dry. The guy stumbles over to me, digs through the front pocket of his jeans, and pulls out a small plastic bag containing a fine white powder—most likely cocaine.

  My mouth begins to salivate, tempting me to pluck it from his fingers. My nose runs in anticipation of the high I know would feel amazing. My jaw clenches, hands tighten into fists, and I know I should get out of this place before I do something stupid.

  “Jordan Capshaw! You jonesin’ for a fix, my man?” the drummer asks with a smirk, and then proceeds to pull another bag from his pocket and hand it to me. “Have one on me, for old time’s sake.”

  It’s weightless in my palm, yet it feels like a ton of bricks. I stare at the bag—maybe for hours, I really don’t know. I keep telling myself I don’t need it, that I’ve been clean for twenty months now and I’ve beaten the addiction.

  But.

  The coke is practically singing to me, lulling me into a familiar pattern, urging me to take the release I’ve been depriving myself of for so long. I know exactly how it would make me feel, how it would zip through my body, lightening my step and putting my head in the clouds, relieving me of drama that just took place in the staging room.

  But.

  My hand fists around the bag, crushing the mesmerizing thoughts. Instead, I focus on all I’ve accomplished in the past twenty-one months and how I feel when I’m near Reggie. She doesn’t need to see a wrecked Jordan—I’m better than that. I will be better than that for the rest of my life.

  Jeremy pokes his head inside the bathroom; his jaw is tense. “We’re going on in five,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me. Like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, I’m riddled with guilt for just holding the bag of coke. I can’t exactly throw it in the trash without him catching a glimpse, so instead I turn toward him, casually drop my hands to my side, and shove the bag into my back pocket. I’ll get rid of it after the set.

  On stage, we perform like we always do. The energy is high, the songs are solid, and the audience goes crazy. Singing onstage, no matter the size of the venue, is a high of its own. Who needs the artificial high sitting in the back pocket of my black jeans, taunting me like a monster lurking in the corner? I know it’s there. I can feel its presence as though there’s a spotlight pointed at my ass, alerting my band of the illegal substance hiding there.

  I want to tear off these pants and burn them along with the coke, but I feel like I’d be betraying the drummer from the other band. I mean, he willingly gave me a cut, and it would be wrong of me to throw it away, wouldn’t it? What would it hurt if I held onto it for a rainy day?

  The guys and I head off stage, slapping shoulders and teasing each other on our way to the staging room. The coffee shop has a couple guys to tear down the equipment, and no more than twenty minutes pass before the van is loaded up with the gear.

  The coke is all I can think about. I don’t even hear the conversation happening around me or notice when we pull into Eggceptional. I’m in a haze while we sit in our booth and order food.

  “What the hell is that?” Jeremy says as his palm slaps down on the back of my hand, pinning it in place. The bag of coke slips out of my fingers onto the table in view of the band. I don’t even remember taking it out of my pocket.

  It’s like we’re transported instantly into a bubble and the only sound I can hear is the lack of breathing. No one is breathing. Not even me. Eyes. There are so many eyes boring into me, it feels like I’m shrinking. Or maybe they’re all getting bigger.

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” Jeremy says as he fists the coke in his hand. “Twenty-one months. Have you been using all this time?” He shakes his head in disgust. “You’re an asshole.”

  I know I have a voice. It’s in here somewhere. In this body that wants so badly to betray my sobriety. I open my mouth to speak only to have a bubble of air pop out instead.

  “I’m out of here,” Jeremy says as he stands. “I really thought you’d cleaned up your act, man.”

  A fish out of water—that’s what I am. Air is clogging up my lungs, locking in the words that should be forming. Instead, Drake, Grant, Carson, and Eddie join Jeremy in leaving me behind in the diner. Before Jeremy walks away though, he makes sure to throw the bag of coke on the table, once again giving it the ability to taunt me.

  But.

  I pull out my cell and dial.

  “Hello?” Thankfully he answers. I need him right now.

  “Roger? Shit, man. I’m in a tight spot, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Chapter 16

  Reggie

  I’ve successfully not thought about Jordan probably six times in five days. Which means he’s pretty much constantly on my mind. I’ve picked up my cell half a dozen times and started a text to him, only to delete it about five seconds later. I feel stupid. It’s irresponsible of me to want to see him again, to crave his lips on mine. Just thinking about it sends shivers down my spine. So when a hulking figure looms outside my door at the rental agency, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself in check. I’d know his silhouette anywhere.

  I shift papers around my desk to make it seem like I’m busy, check my reflection in the mirror I keep in the top drawer, and pop open the top button of my blouse for good measure. Was that really necessary? Shit. My cheeks heat with embarrassment at being so forward and, as I’m reaching to button my shirt, the door swings open.

  Jordan’s eyes roam over me, stopping at my hands resting on the top button, and his lips curl into a cocky half smile. Damn. That smile alone makes me want to tear my shirt right off so he’ll keep looking at me like I’m the only girl he sees. Like I’m a precious stone he wants to carry around in his pocket for safekeeping. The pocket of his skinny jeans that hug him perfectly.

  “By all means,” he waves his hand at my fumbling fingers hovering over the button, “take it off.” He closes and locks the door behind him and steps around the desk. His palms rest on my shoulders, shooting wanton heat through my body, and if it weren’t for us being here at my job, I would most definitely have done as he commanded. Instead, I button up, mentally kicking myself for unbuttoning it in the first place.

  “It came undone while I was…while I had…” Lies don’t fall easily from my lips; they never have.

  “While you were doing what? Imagining my fingers running over your smooth skin, teasing you?” Jordan dips his head to mine, his lips a breath away from my ear. “You left in such a hurry the other night, we weren’t able to finish.” His whispered words flutter against my neck, sending goose bumps down my arms. Warm hands caress my shoulders once again, and then a finger burns a trail across my skin, following the line of my blouse to the top button. It pops open as though it has a mind of its own. Traitor.

  Jordan’s fingers slide down the center of my chest and then his thumb brushes over the front of my bra. I gasp, close my eyes, and revel in the way his hands feel like velvet on my skin.

  “Come to lunch with me,” he whispers. His lips brush against the shell of my ear and then trail down over my jaw.

  “I can’t,” I say breathlessly. I don’t trust myself with him right now. Every touch is too much, and it’s corrupting my ability to think rationally. Jordan’s lips hover over mine while his fingers trace the lace of my bra.

  “Please come.” He smiles, and I’d be a fool if I didn’t catch the innuendo he’s tossing at me. What I wouldn’t do for a release like the one he’s offering. Years. It’s. Been. Years. It’s not natural, and maybe even unhealthy. I should google to see what the effects of going years without sex does to a woman. “Reggie-bug,” he whispers against my lips, and I melt. Yep. We collide. My arms wrap around behind his neck, pulling him hard against me. He parts my lips with his tongue, pulls
me to my feet, grips firmly around my waist, and sits me down on the edge of the desk. Our arms are tangled, fighting for purchase, and our lips devour each breath. Heat explodes where Jordan’s body presses against mine—hard meets soft and it’s enough for me to know I want so much more despite all my hesitations.

  Following my impulses, my hand trails down his shoulder, over his hard chest and down toward the hard lines of his stomach. My fingers graze over the bulge in his jeans, and a moan spills from Jordan’s lips and falls into my mouth, where I swallow it and smile knowing just how much he wants me. He drives his hips into the palm of my hand, sending sparks of heat through my core.

  “Regina, I have the Parkers here to see you.” Reagan’s voice rings out over the phone’s intercom feature, breaking Jordan and I apart. I glance around the room, kicking myself for not keeping a clock on the wall.

  “Shit,” I say, scrambling off the desk and glancing down at my unbuttoned blouse. I forgot about my 9 a.m. appointment. Jordan laughs while I glare at him while buttoning back up. His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen, and the bulge in his jeans is quite obvious—I can only imagine what I must look like.

  “Lunch?” he asks as he runs his fingers through my hair.

  I can’t hold back the smile as I agree to meet him after my appointment with the Parkers is finished. Jordan leaves, kissing me quickly on my cheek, not satisfying me nearly enough. The tease. I give myself five more minutes before I greet the Parkers, a cute young couple expecting their first baby. We tour four nice condos in their price range before they settle on a three-bedroom, one-bath condo in Tempe near a great park.

  When I finish with the Parkers, my stomach has officially tied itself into knots. I have to remind myself that we’re only meeting for lunch. It’s a public place, plenty of other people around. I feel like such a fickle idiot. One minute I’m rubbing Jordan’s crotch and wishing that he’d just take me in my office, the next I’m nervous about eating lunch with him for fear of what might happen. I’m a grown-ass woman and should be able to do whatever I want. Or whoever I want. Why do I feel so guilty for wanting him?

  I meet Jordan outside the office, and he surprises me by walking—instead of driving—to our lunch destination. Working downtown gives me an array of restaurants to choose from, and when Jordan opens the door to Bambino’s Subs I raise my brows in approval. Bambino’s has the most amazing pastrami on rye I’ve ever had. They pile on the meat, and the bread is made fresh daily. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. The line to order reaches the door, but I don’t mind waiting. The food is worth it.

  Finally, with food in our hands, we sit at a small, round table and eat. Both of us ordered the pastrami sandwich, and Jordan moans when he takes his first bite, reminding me of being in my office with him this morning. My insides suddenly light on fire, and I can hardly concentrate on anything but Jordan’s lips and how he licks them after every other bite. Or how his eyes roll into the back of his head as he takes another bite.

  “What have you been doing lately?” I ask when I can’t listen to him moan again.

  His lips quirk into a smile as he leans back in his chair, studying me. “The guys and I just performed at The Roasted Bean last Friday and, honestly, it wasn’t my finest performance.” A muscle in his jaw ticks at the memory.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Roger says it’s good if I do. Says it will help me stay clean.”

  “Is Roger your—”

  “Sobriety coach. Counselor. Whatever. But yeah, he’s a good guy. I was at the coffee shop in the bathroom, and this drummer handed me a bag of coke. It was one of the worst nights of my life.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, hoping the fear in my chest will leave. Drugs? I don’t know what to say or do. I knit my fingers together under the table and let him continue.

  “I didn’t use, if that’s what you’re thinking. My band all thought I did, because I couldn’t throw the coke away. I had it in my pocket all night, and it consumed my thoughts. After the set, while we were at Eggceptional, somehow I had taken it out of my pocket and was playing with the bag on the table. The guys seriously freaked out and left me in the diner.”

  Jordan’s face is blank and pale, like he’s reliving the night all over. I’ve never done drugs of any kind and have no idea what he must be going through now that he’s clean. But I can imagine holding the very thing he’s trying to stay away from must have been extremely difficult.

  “What happened? Are the guys still pissed at you?”

  Jordan shakes his head. “No. I called Roger in the middle of the night, and he met me at the diner. We talked for a couple hours, and then he brought me back to my condo. I woke Jeremy up, and Roger and I talked to him. Everything’s fine with the guys now.”

  I blow out a breath and realize just how fragile Jordan is. Will he always be like this? Will he always struggle with the cravings to use or to drink? It didn’t appear to bother him too much when he was at Rowdy’s, and everyone but him was drinking. Guilt suddenly tugs at my chest.

  “Jordan, I’m so sorry I was drinking that night at Rowdy’s. I should have been more considerate when you showed up.”

  He smiles, reaches for my hand, and I give it to him willingly.

  “The only thing I wanted that night was you,” he says while squeezing my hand. This man. Goo.

  Every.

  Damn.

  Time.

  Chapter 17

  Jordan

  Each time Reggie and I go out, she insists on meeting me wherever we decide to go. I’m beginning to wonder if she has some secret at home she’s hiding from me. I know she lives with Stacey, so that can’t be it. Maybe since they’re both chicks they always have bras lying all over the place, and she doesn’t want me to see them. Or maybe she’s no longer the neat freak she was back in high school and it embarrasses her. Whatever it is, it kind of pisses me off that I can’t go pick her up like a proper gentleman.

  What the hell?

  Since when have I ever been a proper gentleman? Or spoken like one for that matter? I shake all thoughts of being proper out of my head, letting my long bangs swish over the bridge of my nose. I’ve been a little lax on hair care as of late, and since Reggie and I will be going out again today, a haircut and beard trim are in order.

  Phoenix is a pretty large city, especially since the outlying areas have all grown together, leaving little space between zip codes. And therein lies the problem. There are hundreds of places I can go to have my hair cut, but most of them will probably sell me out to the paparazzi. That’s the last thing I want, dozens of paparazzi trailing me around my city. After making some phone calls, Jeremy and I pull up to a fancy brick building in a ritzy part of Phoenix. Apparently they cater to the wealthy and keep their profiles low.

  “Dude, this place is the shit.” Jeremy whistles as we enter the building; some herbal mixture that would normally piss me off immediately assaults our senses. But instead, the scent is soothing and almost makes me sleepy. The walls look like vanilla ice cream; the floors sparkle like milky diamonds. What kind of place have we come to?

  “Welcome to Rohipsy, Mr. Capshaw. My name is Brandy.” What is with this place and all the cream? The woman greeting us has hair the color of the walls, a tan she must have bought, and a smile straight out of a magazine. “We’re so glad you’ve come to us today. Won’t you both follow me?”

  Brandy struts her Manolo Blahniks across the floor and shows us to a steam room where she explains the process of Rohipsy. Two and a half hours later, I’m thoroughly steamed, washed, cut, and trimmed and smell something like the lavender and eucalyptus they feed through the air vents.

  “Well. That was something,” I say as Jeremy and I climb into the car. He only nods, and when I glance back at him, he’s looking a little green. “You okay?”

  “The chick who cut my hair,” he begins, becoming paler by the second. “I, uh…we. She was the girl from Rowdy’s, dude.”

  “Th
e girl from…” Oh. “Did you remember her? I mean, you know, you were pretty wasted.”

  Jeremy groans, clamps his eyes shut, and lets his head fall back against the headrest. I take that as a no.

  “She asked me out.” His throat bobs, and I laugh. I can’t help it. He looks sick, like thinking about going out with this chick might kill him. His fist connects with my shoulder as I pull onto the road.

  “Is that a bad thing? She looked pretty hot, and there wouldn’t be any awkwardness between you guys since you already hooked up.”

  “I don’t hook up, dude. That’s always been your thing.”

  It was what I always did. I’d been doing it for years since going on tour and never giving it half a thought. But when I met Jemma, everything changed. Sobriety really makes you look at life differently. I’ve hated that part of myself for a long time now and wish I could take all of it back. At least I was smart enough to wear a condom every damn time. Even drunk and high as a kite, I made sure of that. I don’t know what I would do with tiny Jordan Capshaws running around. I shake my head at the thought and shudder.

  “Sorry,” Jeremy says when I don’t respond.

  “Hey, don’t worry about it. I deserved that.”

  He shakes his head. “No. You’ve turned yourself around, and you should be proud of yourself.”

  Am I proud of myself? Does staying clean for almost two years mean I’ve hit some milestone that says I can pat myself on the back and forget past wrongs? It wasn’t even a week ago I held a bag of cocaine in my hand and couldn’t throw it away. No. I’m not proud of myself. I can’t stomach myself sometimes.