Page 19 of Pistol Whipped

There’s nowhere else I’m running to,

’cause in the dark,

that part of me will find its way to you.”

The tempo picks up as the chorus comes in fast:

“My body’s in rush

The crash is coming

Crush

Me

We’re happening at light speed.”

The way the melody is written, the song’s titular lyrics are meant to be screamed, so that’s what I do, but I’m jarred when the next note is sharp, and followed by a guitar being slammed down. I already know it’s Cohen. He picked this goddamn song. Even though he knew what it was about. He knew the crash in question.

I spin just in time to hear him mutter, “Fuck this,” before he storms out, not back into the sound booth, but to the only other door hidden in the panels on the far left of the room. All of us in the studio watch him go. Dallas tries vaguely to catch him, but Cohen shrugs the other man off easily.

For the first time in a long time, Dallas looks back at me from across the small room. The blue of his eyes holds the same vulnerability it used to, and then some. He gulps, blushes, blinks, and that’s all I get before he chases after Cohen.

Dutch sighs, “Goddamn children.”

I expect him to follow the other guys since he made it clear that day in Lou’s office whose side he was on, and he does, but when he gets to the door, he holds it open for me. “C’mon Rain, at least some of us can try to be mature about this whole thing.”

I nod. Because not only do I not have a choice, years of sobriety have taught me that I can either deal with things head-on or by drinking them away. Old me chose one way, new me chooses the other and mumbles a quiet, “Thank you, Dutch,” as I drift easily under his outstretched arm and through the door.

On the other side, I find Cohen pacing in a small circle, while Dallas is slumped in one of the metal chairs. This room lacks all the comfort of our former studio and rehearsal space. There, the writing rooms were designed to embrace you, give you a vibe. This room is basically half corporate boardroom, half high school cafeteria. There’s a large table and several metal chairs in the centre, and a bunch of vending machines along the far side. There are no windows, and there isn’t even any goddamn art on the walls. Reallllllll conducive to writing music.

I can sense Dutch’s tall frame behind me, closer than I expect. His proximity gives me instant goosebumps, something I could easily blame on my lack of comfortable clothing. There’s a low hum of approval from him that I can’t quite make sense of before he strolls around me and joins his brother at the table.

I wait for the sound of the door clicking closed; only Lou slips through at the last second. “Problem?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem,” Cohen says. “You. And her.” He points at me even though I’m still pinned like a statue between the table and Lou.

“But mostly, you. Get the fuck out of here, Lou. We have shit to sort out. As a band.”

Lou huffs, but when he’s greeted by not just a hardened stare from Cohen but from Dutch too, he relents and heads back through to the studio. He only takes the smallest of seconds to cut me a special look of my very own before slamming the door behind him and leaving The Preaching Pistols alone together for the first time since we were in our twenties.

Cohen’s pacing stops, and he flops down into the chair beside Dax. There’s only one chair remaining on Cohen’s other side. I round the table and move to join my bandmates. But any hopes of a civilized discussion are dashed when, at the last second, Cohen kicks the chair out from under me. Sending me crashing to the floor.

It’s like a flash-bang pops behind my eyes. I get up, straighten my skirt. Refusing to let him rattle me, I do my best to stand tall, or as tall as I can—kinda grateful the guys are seated since it evens out our heights a bit—and peer down at the man even if he’s acting a lot more like a teenage bully right now than any kind of man.

“Do you want me to go, too, then, Cohen? Am I not allowed to be here because your highness says so?” The sarcasm is laid on like butter in my questions. I always did have an easier time letting my brattiness out to play with these guys, and my next questions really let it fly, “Am I allowed to sit down? Do I need to ask for your special permission? Or are the chairs only for Dutch and Dax here since they’re your special little bitch boys now?”

That does it.

“I don’t give a fuck where you sit,” Cohen snarls, “Go sit in Dutch’s lap for all I care.”

And maybe because of my own pissy attitude or because Dutch is the only person who’s been even remotely polite to me today, I do exactly that. Strutting over to Dutch, I let my ass sway as I walk so my skirt flutters and swishes enough to give Cohen the barest glimpse of my ass and the exposed skin of my legs. He can say what he wants, but the Cohen I remember always loved to see my matching thigh tattoos in motion. He always claimed the twin cobras that coil around my thighs were his ultimate temptation. I may not be the pretty young ingenue I was, but my ass is still a thing of beauty, so right now I hope that temptation is killing him.

Dutch catches on quick. As I twist my way around the table, he pushes his chair out just enough that I can easily hop onto his lap, or really just straddle one thigh. He doesn’t say anything, but eyes me with a twinkle of mischief. I said nicest, not that he was actually nice or friendly. But since he doesn’t kick me off immediately, and since Cohen looks ready to freak the hell out, I consider it a win.

He can’t seem to help himself. Or stop staring. I smile back innocently, even batting my eyelashes like I am some naive fawn. A groan nearly slips out, but then he stops himself by slamming his fists into the wooden table we’re all sat around.

“Enough bullshit!”