Raining Down Rules Read Free

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