Raining Down Rules Read Free Page A

thought, and so much brighter than the future of Jordan Capshaw and White Shadow.
    Jordan’s slurring of his words and stumbling onstage made it obvious he was drunk and probably high, not to mention his band looked like they wanted to skin him alive. I’ve heard White Shadow was floundering but what I just witnessed wasn’t floundering; it was flat out failing. And I can’t help but feel sorry for all of them.
    The arena clears out and I’m about all that’s left hanging around, and for what, I don’t know. My inner fourteen-year-old self still holds some sort of candle for Jordan Capshaw, I guess, even though he is obviously way beyond saving. I know there is nothing I can do for him other than hope he will clean up his act. I can’t fix what’s broken in him, whatever that may be. He has to be willing to help himself, but by his performance onstage tonight, it will be a long time before that happens. If ever.
    It’s interesting watching the crews pick apart the stage bit by bit, almost like animals eating the meat off the bones of their prey. Slowly they gnaw at the muscle and sinews until finally nothing is left but the metal skeleton, leaving the arena looking hollow and larger than life. The lights dim and an usher stops to ask if I’m okay and then he escorts me out of the building to my car parked alone in the lot.
    “I’ve never had someone stay as long as you,” he says with a smile, probably thinking I’m hoping to catch up with the band later.
    “Thanks,” I mumble, and then start my car. I check the glove compartment for Gran’s meds, which are still safely tucked in there, before pulling out of the parking lot. I’ve been to Warner many times, but driving at night can sometimes turn me around. Compared to Torrance, Warner is New York City. Where Torrance is neatly tucked along a small river and is compact and friendly, Warner is sprawled out between two mountains along a wide valley and tumbles over a large river. There are countless stoplights, roads, and turns.
    I drive along, thinking back to the other two times I’ve seen White Shadow in concert, wondering what has changed so much over the years that the band is falling apart. Jordan Capshaw is on a downward spiral to who knows where, dragging his friends with him. As I pull down an unfamiliar street and debate turning back, I see a figure stumbling down the street. It’s a man, and from the looks of him, a very drunk one. He’s holding a bottle of something he keeps taking quick swigs from. His brown, summer bleached hair shines in my headlights and my heart speeds up in my chest.
    “Jordan Capshaw.” His name floats from my lips like a whisper as I shift my car into park and swallow hard before stepping out. He stops inches from the hood, takes a long drink from his bottle, and sits down on the front bumper of my Honda Civic.
    “Um, Jordan?” I ask quietly. Shortening his name feels foreign on my lips. I’ve always called him by his full name and the informality of using just his first name makes my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “You do know this is a street, right?” I ask.
    Jordan turns my way, but looks through me. He’s so wasted he probably has no clue he’s even outside, let alone without shoes. “Can I take you somewhere?” A warning chimes in my head—it was a leading question, and one a mostly sober Jordan would have taken to his advantage.
    “I’m all used up, baby,” he singsongs while taking another sip. “Three is my limit.” He slips against the hood of my car, almost falling to the pavement, but catches himself at the last second.
    “Let’s go,” I say as I help him to his feet and walk him to the passenger side of my car. He spills onto the seat, dropping his almost empty bottle of Everclear on the floor mat below his feet, instantly making my car smell like the crap he’s drinking. “Watch it,” I warn as I reach around to click the buckle in place. His hands slip up the back of my shirt,