Free Raining Down Rules by B.K. Rivers Page B

conversation. It’s only now I see the way his fingers twitch and the muscles on his upper arms spasm. It’s possible he could be suffering a mild seizure. God, I hope not. As I walk closer and sit on the lid of the toilet, I notice beads of sweat lining his forehead and upper lip and dotting his chest and shoulders. He begins to shake violently in the tub as he sits up, wraps his arms around his knees, and shivers uncontrollably.
    “Water,” he stammers. “I need hot water and a shot of vodka.”
    Water I can do, the vodka I can’t and won’t. I turn the faucet all the way to hot and run the water until it scalds me and then reduce the temperature and turn on the shower. I angle the showerhead so the water sprays down over his head and back and then close the shower curtain. Hot water and steam should hopefully help him warm up.
    “Vodka!” he snaps, pounding a fist on the side of the tub.
    “Jordan, no,” I say firmly. “You have to get through this without alcohol. This won’t last forever, I promise.” Can I really promise him that? I’ve never dealt with anything like this, nor do I know anyone who has. I am on such foreign ground right now. “Just take as long as you need here in the shower. You’ll feel better soon.” His jeans and shirt are lying on the floor, and knowing these clothes are all he has, I figure now is as good a time as any to ask him for his underwear so I can wash his belongings.
    “Um, Jordan?”
    He grunts in reply.
    “I’d like to wash your clothes for you…” There’s a stretch of painful silence. “I’m going to need your underwear.”
    He moves in the tub and soon his hand pops through the shower curtain and he’s holding his boxer briefs.
    “I’ll be right back,” I say as I leave him to shower in the steam and hot water.
    The washer and dryer are next to the kitchen and on my way I pass Gran, who is knitting some kind of scarf or something in her blue chair. She looks up at me over her glasses and raises a brow.
    “I don’t want that man naked in my house, Jemma,” she warns as she knits one and purls two.
    “Sorry, but his clothes smell awful and they’re the only ones he has. I’m going to wash them.”
    “What’s he going to wear in the meantime?”
    “Maybe we could see if something of Grandpa’s would fit him?” A part of me nearly cowers at the mere mention of going through his things, but Jordan needs something to wear, even if it’s temporary.
    A muscle near one of Gran’s eyes twitches and she pulls off her glasses. I’m afraid she’s going to yell at me for my suggestion, but instead she bites down on one of the earpieces and closes her eyes.
    “I suppose those clothes would do more good on someone rather than sitting in a closet,” she says after her moment of silence. “But don’t go expecting me to let him keep them, they belong to your grandfather.”
    “I understand, Gran. Thank you.”
    The shower finally turns off after almost an hour. He must have run out of hot water. I’ve found a couple pairs of golf shorts and some of Grandpa’s old work polos that will hopefully fit Jordan, all of which I’ve laid out for him on the sink counter. Sitting in my room allows me to hear him rustling around in the bathroom, and then, as though he knew I was sitting right next door, he calls for me.
    I spring from my bed and rush to the bathroom, only to catch Jordan once again in only a towel. I swear under my breath and turn around quickly, hoping to avoid the stirring in my belly and rising temperature. Nope, too late.
    “Stop smiling at me.” I can feel his slightly crooked smile and knowing stare.
    Jordan laughs through his nose and says, “Thank you for the clothes. I usually have a personal shopper buy my clothes, so maybe I can give you some money to buy me some?” He clears his throat and then studies his wet cast. “Not that I mind wearing your grandpa’s clothes. I’m sure they’ll work for a couple days.”
    “You really