Page 29 of Pistol Whipped

Lately, I’ve been trying to stuff that cavern with music during the day and food the rest of the time. Every second we’re not practicing or performing, I’m stuffing my damn face. I’m the one who made us stop like six different times on the drive here. For convenience store snacks, burgers twice, fried chicken, sub sandwiches and finally Mexican because I was craving burritos.

Apparently Rainy-girl was craving them too, since I heard her slink out in the dead of night and eat the one I ordered specifically for her. The girl must have no taste buds left because she’s the only human I know capable of consuming that much hot sauce. Her appetite is also the only one that comes close to mine, now that it’s coming back, that is. Magic, or Mephedrone to use its actual formal title, is a hell of a drug. It robbed me of my love of food and stripped me of about twenty pounds, too. Which, I suspect, is why neither Cohen nor Dutch said shit when I ordered four burritos to their two. Not that I mentioned one was for Rain.

That same Rain who stomps up behind us now. She was the last to leave the stage, while Cohen, who left first, is nowhere in sight. I assume he’s already on the bus waiting for the rest of us since we’re leaving for Cambria tonight.

“We need to talk,” Rain says, darting out in front of us, causing my brother and me to stop short. Her unique eyes are riddled with concern, and she looks between Dutch and me. “All of us.”

“I’m guessing that includes our missing guitarist?”

Dutch eyes her carefully. When it comes to Rain Gamble, my brother is determined to know everything there is to know. The only problem is that I suspect knowing Rain Gamble completely, this adult version of her, might be like throwing yourself into the storm and then trying to predict where the lightning will strike. Impossible.

She gulps at the mention of Cohen but eventually nods, and in an awkward silence the three of us cross the last few feet of the parking lot.

Dutch reaches the bus first, holding the door open for Rain and me. The lights from inside the living space illuminate the short staircase. Though I hate the brightness, it’s not that that makes me wince a second time.

It’s the laughter. The distinctly feminine laughter that punches me right in the gut. The impact it has on Rain is obvious too. Her whole posture hardens. Her spine is rigid from where I’m standing right behind her. I already have an idea of what we’ll see if we go further. Rain is braver than me and doesn’t let that stop her. If anything, she moves faster, leaping the steps two at a time until she reaches the top and gets a crystal-clear view of what’s happening.

Despite my dread, that worsening emptiness inside me, I’m urged to follow her by my brother’s footsteps at my back. I barely crest the top step when Rain snorts, “Fucking hypocrite,” and storms forward. She doesn’t wait for Dutch and me to catch up before I hear her bedroom door slam.

My brother mumbles, “So much for our little chat then.”

I don’t reply. Because in the time between, I’ve taken another step. I see what Rain saw. And I don’t move. I can’t. Because what I’m witnessing makes no sense.

I blink. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I blink again, hoping the image in front of me will change. It doesn’t.

Seated on the small banquette couch is Cohen. He’s got an open beer in his right hand, and that arm is flung around a blonde woman. On his other side is a man. Equally blonde. But none of that is what I latch on to. It’s Cohen’s hand, resting so fucking casually on another man’s thigh. Not his knee, not somewhere friendly. His thigh. His jean-clad, ready-to-be-gripped thigh. Too stunned to speak, I just stare open-mouthed.

My brother has no such issue.

“At least you found age-appropriate groupies.”

“Shut up, Dutch. Just because you’re too busy chasing after pussy you can’t have, doesn’t mean we all should.”

My brother rolls his eyes. He also mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Who says I can’t,” but that’s the end of his reaction. Unlike Rain, Dutch isn’t easily ruffled.

“Hey! I have a name!” The girl pushes out from underneath his arm. “Let’s go, Jake!”

The guy’s disappointment is obvious as he looks Cohen over one more time. Yet, he gets up too. They traipse past me, but not before this fucking guy looks back at Cohen one more time.

“He’s not a fucking meal,” I grumble, earning myself a sneer from both of them as they exit the bus.

Cohen’s too busy arguing with Dutch about their presence, when what they’re actually arguing about is our lead singer. Neither of them notices that the strangers have left until the bus door slams.

“Man, you just killed any chance I had at getting laid.”

My brother ignores him. I don’t.

“Pretty sure you did that all by yourself, Co. Calling it ‘chasing pussy’ is one thing when you’re some teenage douchebag. It’s a whole other when you’re a thirty-year-old man.”

“Sue me, Dax,” he sighs, slumping against the seat. “I just wanted to get some.”

“No. You wanted to piss Rain off. Mission fucking accomplished.”

I shove past him and my brother, heading for my bunk. There’s no reason for me to be so angry right now. Cohen doesn’t owe me anything. We’re just friends. Best friends. Of course, it’s natural he’d be keyed up after the show and want to get laid. But why did it have to be with…them? Why didn’t he tell me?

The questions firing through my head make me spiral even more, and I need something to drown them out, or I’ll risk walking my ass right off this bus and straight to the sketchiest bar I can find. Sketchy bars and hard drugs go together like peanut butter and jelly.

“Why are you so angry about this, man?” he calls after me. I can’t answer that. How do I explain that seeing him hold a man’s thigh like that, owning and possessive, is everything I’ve ever wanted him to do to me? Then he just goes and does it to some stranger? Like it was nothing, and not some twisted-up version of my wet dreams and worst fucking nightmares. Watching from the sidelines while he was with Rain a decade ago was awful. But she was our Rain, and I loved her too, so I said nothing. But strangers? Fuck that. Fuck Cohen. Fuck his questions.