Page 22 of Pistol Whipped

“Cohen, man.”

I’d forgotten how low and rough Dallas’s voice could sound. It transformed right around the time he hit puberty, not long after we first met, and it’s only gotten deeper since. Some of that can be attributed to whatever drugs he’s been using. I might not know exactly what, but I’m a girl from The Neck, so I know an addict when I see one. And Dallas Kelly has shown every sign of someone going through withdrawal.

“Co,” he repeats, grabbing him by the elbow, “We don’t have time to find someone else now. Besides, it’s just a cat, and I think it’s kinda cute.”

His soft blue eyes, always a little downcast, find Kitten, and he gives the smallest smile, barely there and then gone. I know better than anyone that Dallas deserves to find some softness, even if he never actually speaks to me again. Effectively, with that one sentence, Dallas manages to end the stare-down between Cohen and me.

Dutch weaves around the other two, stepping into my personal space. In a voice so low my stomach bottoms out, Dutch commands, “Get on the bus, Rainy. You and the cat,” before waving me towards the open door.

Ian hands me my bags, and we share a small wave before I follow Dutch’s advice. Cohen Brady can suck my metaphorical dick if he thinks I would leave someone I love behind. Not again.

Chapter 12

Crazy for This Girl

Dutch

That funny little black kitten struts onto the bus first, and Rainy’s not far behind. Nor do I stop myself from creeping on her sculpted thighs, round ass and sweet little waist. For the last week, thoughts of those thighs and memories of her suppressed mewls of pleasure as I rocked her on my leg have kept me up at night. I refuse to wash her scent from those jeans, and I’ve jerked off so much my dick might have tug-burn.

It’s gotten worse with each practice. God only knows what she’s playing at, but every damn day she’s turned up looking like a candy I want to lick to the centre of. I’m not the only one either. Just like I’m not the only one watching her climb the steps into our tour bus now.

What I am, is the first to follow her. Considering Cohen is still being a bitch, and my brother isn’t exactly speaking to me, I’ve decided I’m switching teams.

It’s not just those two idiots pushing me towards Rain. Nor am I thinking with my dick. Well, not entirely. Call it curiosity. Call it hedging my bets. But something is going on with Rain Gamble. Between her panic-stricken face yesterday, the clothes, or the way she’s managed to interrupt Cohen every single time he’s so much as mentioned Lou’s equally weird-as-shit behaviour, I’m fucking suspicious. Now, with three days on the road ahead of us, I’ve got nothing but time to find out Rainy’s new secrets. Her old ones, most of them at least, are mine already.

The bus is made up of one long central hallway. At the front is a small dining space. Calling it a kitchen would be an insult to kitchens everywhere. There’s also a bank of something that’s supposed to be a couch. Rain is already at the end of the hallway, past the couch and dining area, and standing in the doorframe of the only full-size bedroom. That’s the thing about these buses: there’s only ever one.

Used to be Cohen would claim that as a couple, he and Rainy had exclusive rights to it, while Dax and I were relegated to the cots. Cots that fill cut-outs on either side of the bus. They’re about three feet wide and seven feet long, with a thin mattress and nothing but a curtain for privacy. I never really gave a shit, except for all the nights I had to listen to the sounds of my Rainy screaming out her pleasure, knowing it wasn’t at my hands.

I’m about to call out to her when there’s the clambering of footsteps behind me. She takes one look over my shoulder and slams the bedroom door. One second later, the lock clicks into place.

Looks like the only one sharing Rainy’s bed these days is that cute little cat. I don’t know what Cohen’s problem is with that thing, but I plan to make as many pussy jokes as possible just to fuck with him.

None of us have even had time to put our bags away properly, but that doesn’t stop Cohen from dropping his and storming through the bus. He balls his fists and slams them against the bedroom door, all while shouting, “Oh hell no! Get out here right now, Rain Gamble!”

“Brother, you might as well just pick a bunk; we all know she ain’t comin’ out,” I say.

Taking my own advice, I stow my duffel bag in the storage compartment adjacent to the lower bunk I’m claiming as my own. I don’t like heights. Even little ones. Dallas, too, has resigned himself to our current reality, and I start to get a glimpse of my brother coming back when he shakes his head at Cohen, “Shoulda been nicer to the cat, Co.”

He doesn’t bother to look at me, even though we’re standing side by side while he throws his stuff onto the upper bunk above mine. It’s likely just out of habit, one we’ve had for a very long time.

The first foster home I was ever put in belonged to the Montgomeries. It was one of the better ones, even though they were this strict old couple. The wife was a real bitch to us, but only when her husband was around, because he was a bitch to her first. The two things it had going for it, at least in my six-year-old brain, were bunk beds and the fact that there was only one other kid in the house. And that kid was Dallas.

By the time I got there, he had already been with them for months and had claimed the top bunk, which was fine by me. I happily threw the black trash bag of belongings, and it was always a black trash bag, onto the bottom bunk. That first night, he poked his head over the edge of his mattress and looked down at me with his slightly sunken blue eyes and whispered, like he always did back then, “We can switch if you want?”

We were with the Montgomeries for another six months after that before we were moved on to the next place. The Carvers. They didn’t have bunk beds, but by then Dallas and I were inseparable, and I’d been able to convince our social workers to keep us together. From then on, though, right through until the day The Pistols crashed and burned, we had an unspoken rule: if there were bunks, Dallas took the top. The fact that he’s choosing it now gives me a scrap of hope that he’s almost done hating me for pulling his ass from the gutters of The Neck.

Cohen doesn’t bother to listen to either of us. He’s still pummelling the door, and I guess Rain gets sick of it because she finally shouts back, “Go away, Cohen!”

“Not a chance, Rainy!”

“I’m not coming out!”

“Yes, you fucking are! I will break this door down if I have to!”

“With your scrawny-ass arms?! Ha!”

Above me, Dallas chuckles even before I do. Cohen is scrawny. I mean, he’s strong too, just doesn’t look it. I’m the only one of us who resembles a football linebacker. Cohen and my brother both have slimmer, sprinter-like builds. The alt-rock and punk scenes aren’t exactly swimming with jock-types. Dallas has never seemed bothered by it. Cohen, on the other hand, has always been self-conscious. And we all know it. Including, of course, Rain.