Page 14 of Pistol Whipped

“Your brother seems to think that the band getting back together will be some sort of magic cure for your…”

When he trails off again, I lose a little more patience. “For my disease? For my addiction? You can say it, Co. I do. I’m an addict.”

Certainty rings through my words, because I’ve learned by now there is no point in denying it. But Cohen lives in denial, so he sweeps my statement aside. “Yeah, well, I don’t see how getting The Preaching Pistols back together would solve anything.”

“I do,” I whisper.

It hits me all at once. How much I miss music. How much I miss playing bass. How much I miss being on stage. How much I miss having something, anything to focus on, other than just my nightmarish past or getting high.

Rockstars might have a certain kind of reputation, and sure, we had the occasional bit of fun, but it was never a problem until the band entered its downward spiral.

Cohen watches me. Whether he’s waiting for me to say something else or just trying to judge if I’m lying or not, I’m not sure. He stutters a little. A condition from when he was young, that only comes out now when he’s anxious or unsure.

“You s-s-s-ure?”

I nod. And maybe it’s because I can almost feel the weight of the bass in my hand, or maybe it’s because I’m a dick to everyone when I’m coming off a high. Or, maybe I just sense that my best friend needs a push, some trigger that will force him out of the comfortable, boring-as-fuck beige bubble he’s built around himself here.

“Consider it your way of paying me back for all of this,” I gesture to my body, noticing for the first time in a long time how thin my arms, my chest, even my legs have gotten. I’m always kinda scrawny; bad nutrition and shitty foster homes will stunt your growth like no other, but now I’m downright frail.

Cohen curses loudly, “Fuck!” But when he unrolls the contract that’s been clenched in his fist this whole damn time, I know I’ve succeeded. Even though it hurts, I manage a small smirk.

Cohen groans and points to his bedside table. “Fine, toss me that fucking pen.”

It’s a weak toss, but he manages to catch it. His long guitarist fingers wrap around it before he sits on the edge of the bed. He uses his knees as a table, resting the contract there so he can sign it. He doesn’t seem to notice how close my feet are to his left thigh. Or he isn’t bothered by it. But I am. Bothered by the way my toes instantly stretch to get closer to my friend, while he flips through each page without really reading, initialling at the bottom before stopping to sign the last one. I know he’s thinking of the last contract we signed and of everything that came after.

Him, Rain, the love, the pain. I’m thinking of it too. Remembering the unique form of torture that is watching your best friends fall madly in love only to break up, and sewer your whole career while they’re at it. Did I mention that one of the best friends in question is the man you’ve loved in secret for most of your life?

Now, I lay here, knowing I’m the reason he’s signing. Knowing that I’m throwing him and Rain back together again. Knowing that, no matter how much he claims to hate her, he’s never really moved on either.

Yep, this confirms it. I have a pain kink.

Interlude 4

Caffeine

Dallas – aged 17, thirteen years ago.

Stupid Cohen. That curly-haired dork doesn’t know how lucky he is. He doesn’t even realize how much he takes for granted. Not only does Rain pour her love for him into every word she writes—Dutch and I knew she was in love with him long before our idiot friend ever did—but, increasingly, I’m realizing she might not be the only one who sees Cohen as a muse.

You see, my best friend and I have been sitting in the writing room beside the studio for hours. Nothing unusual about that. Ever since this crazy ride started, ever since we taught ourselves the notes, the chords, the progressions, Cohen and I have been writing partners. Not words. That’s not us. But the music, yeah, that’s ours. And for me, the notes always flow better when he’s sitting beside me. The melodies we craft only work when we do it together.

Most of the time it’s just Co and me. Although today, Dutch and Rain joined us just a few minutes ago. She’s written a new song that she’s super excited about, and while she’s busy explaining to Cohen, my brother won’t stop watching me. He thinks I don’t notice, but I do. I notice that when he’s not watching me, his eyes are always, always fixed on Rainy-girl. He might suspect what I’m currently fighting, but I know without him ever needing to say it that he is totally and completely fucked over Rain Gamble.

What we have in common is that both of us will never say or do anything about our feelings. Not when we’re both painfully aware of how happy our bandmates are. Not when we both know that they exchanged ‘I love you’s after our recording session last week. Not when I know that they had sex for the first time that night. I’d shown up at the Bradys’ little house the next day, as usual, and sat there while Cohen told me about it. Not the details, thank God, but enough that my brain and body were confused as hell.

For all we’re trying to be rockstars, we’re still just kids, which means that I’m a big fat virgin who doesn’t know who or what he wants. Sometimes, when Rain laces her pinky finger through mine on one of our hard days, all I want is to pull her closer. Other times, like while we were partying at Club Vix two weeks ago, when Co and I were both high as kites on MDMA, and I watched Cohen suck the spot just below her left ear and twist her hair in his fist, I wished I could push her out of the way and take her place.

We’re also just kids from The Neck, which means that even though Dutch and I dropped out of school after he aged out of the foster system and took me with him, Grams and the Bradys insist that Cohen and Rain get their diplomas. So today’s writing session is squeezed in between the end of the school day and Dutch’s overnight shift at eleven. It’s the first for our second album. We’re currently signed with Lou and Conquer Records for a three-album deal, so even though it’s only May and our first album doesn’t come out until the start of August, we’re already back at it. And as if hearing about it once from Cohen wasn’t enough, it is clear as fucking day that the lyrics Rain has written, the ones she’s sharing with us right now, are about her and Cohen’s first time.

She doesn’t say that. But c’mon. Her body’s in a rush, the crash is coming, it’s a crush or something like that…it doesn’t take a genius to know what that’s about. Meanwhile, the only orgasms I’ve ever had have come courtesy of my right hand and some downright confusing fantasies.

End Interlude

Chapter 8

Sidewalks

Rain