Page 13 of Pistol Whipped

She squeezes me again, just once more before letting go. And I let it be enough.

You see, I’m Rain Gamble’s best friend. Her secret keeper. The one who knows everything about her. Not Dallas, even if they sometimes share quiet moments I don’t understand. Not Cohen, even if he’s the one who gets to kiss her and whisper sweet words into her hair. I love her in every way it’s possible to love someone. I love her enough to stay her best friend, and nothing more. To keep her secrets and my own. To help Cohen make her happy. I love her enough to endure the torture.

End Interlude

Chapter 7

I’d Rather Overdose

Dallas

So much arguing. My brother and my best friend. Arguing again about Rain-fucking-Gamble. Same as always.

What year is it again?

How many times have they had this exact argument?

More than once. That’s for damn sure.

It is too much, between that, the shivers, and the bone-deep ache in every single fucking part of my body; I can’t sleep. Not really. Can’t keep food down, either. Even water makes my stomach turn.

There is only one thing I want. And I want it more than anything. Magic, Meow, or its chemical name, Mephedrone and the brief euphoria that comes with it. But I made a promise. This time, I promised Dutch it would be the last time. That this time, if he helped me, I would get sober for real, for good.

Only getting sober means surviving detox. Right now, that is seeming less and less likely by the second. But if I can get through the first forty-eight hours, it will ease. Not go away. The craving never goes away. It’s always there, worming its way beneath my skin. But I know from previous experiences that the first few days are the worst.

The last time I got clean, I made it six whole months. My longest stint ever. The time before that was only a week. The time before that, a month. The times before that, I didn’t quite keep track of because they weren’t even long enough to count.

Though their voices are muffled by the closed door, I can still hear Dutch shouting at Cohen. Maybe the sound is so familiar that that’s why I finally drift off.

I wake up again hours later when the bedroom door opens. There are only two people who would dare come in here, but thanks to the light from the hallway I can tell the shadow isn’t big enough to be Dutch. Cohen, it is.

“You okay, man?” his shadow shape asks.

“Yeah, man,” I snap back, “Just heaving my guts up and wishing for death or drugs, but you know, other than that, I’m fucking great.”

Sheepishly, he answers, “Sorry, stupid question.”

On stage, Cohen might look the part of a rock god, but off it? The guy puts his foot in his mouth more often than anyone I’ve ever met. I should feel bad for being a dick to him when I’m sleeping in what I’m pretty sure is his own damn bed, judging by the crisp linen and woodsy smell of the sheets. But I can’t help it. Nor can I help noticing that it’s just him. No signs of my brother.

“Where’s Dutch?”

“Work,” my best friend answers without making eye contact.

“I heard you arguing,” I say bluntly. Cohen doesn’t deny it or say anything at all, really, and maybe because I get off on the pain, I push, “It was about her, wasn’t it? Rainy?”

He doesn’t answer that either, at least not right away.

“Yes, okay, yes. Because Dutch refuses to see that this whole reunion thing is a bad fucking idea, at least if she’s involved. Look at what happened to us, to you, because of what she did!”

He gestures to me, pale and shaking, like I don’t know how shitty I look right now. I catch his wrist mid-air, the first sign that maybe the drugs haven’t stolen all the strength in my hands that came from years of playing the bass. That forces him to look at me. I wait until his green eyes are locked on mine to say, “My little problem is not Rainy’s fault.”

It pains me to admit it, but I do know that’s the truth. Even though it is easier to blame her for my problems, for all of our problems. And ninety percent of the time, I do. Consider this a rare moment of detox-induced honesty.

“No, it’s mine,” Cohen replies, finally pulling his hand and gaze away with a pinched expression. I can’t help the way my eyebrows lift. Apparently, we’re both feeling extra honest today.

“But I don’t think us getting back together—The Pistols, I mean—I don’t think that’s…”

“What?” I ask.