Page 32 of Pistol Whipped

“No, you’re not. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you like knowing I’m out here.”

Smart girl. She doesn’t deny it and only counters with a question of her own.

“So why did you stay?”

I frown and say nothing, because my only response would make me sound like even more of a freak than I already know I am. Thankfully, Rain lets the subject drop. She slips down the wall until she’s seated beside me. Our shoulders touch, and she whispers, all her snark gone, “I just got done fighting with Co; I don’t want to fight with you too.”

“Didn’t you just get done fucking?” I tease. I keep it light because, truthfully, I don’t want to fight either. I expect her to laugh a little. The four of us have spent years teasing each other about everything under the sun, and I suppose when you share a tour bus as living space for half the year, that only gets worse. Yet, all she does is sigh,

“Fucking and fighting, that’s about all we do lately.”

“At least you’re doing the first part,” I mutter. My reaction earlier shouldn’t have come as a surprise given that I’m basically a born-again virgin. Imagine if the press found that out. I can see the headline now: Punk rock’s biggest pussy: Dallas Kelly can’t get hard unless it’s while he’s spying on his best friends.

“So why don’t you, Dax? Fuck, I mean?” Rain asks. There’s a hint of curiosity there, but when I look into her eyes, there’s no sign of judgement. She tangles her fingers with mine. We’re so close that she doesn’t even have to move to do it.

“I see the girls, Dallas. I see them there after every show, fawning over you and Cohen and Dutch.”

“And sometimes over you, too,” I counter.

She offers me a sad smile. “I think we both know how Cohen feels about sharing. But that’s a problem for another time. We’re talking about you right now.”

She squeezes my hand, offering me a little encouragement. And maybe because we’re both still a little bit drunk and I can delude myself into thinking she won’t remember tomorrow, I admit the truth. Well, half the truth.

“I see the girls, too, Rainy. And believe me, I want to…” There’s no denying I want to; my voice is desperate and hoarse even now. “I wish I could do what my brother does…” Like he’d done tonight, Dutch picks up a girl, sometimes two, after every single show. And just like tonight, they always look or dress like Rain. How she hasn’t noticed is beyond me. “I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried, but every time I get close, it just reminds me of her.” I shudder on the last word.

The image of HER is still as clear in my mind as it was then. She still makes appearances in my nightmares, like a bad recurring guest star. The woman in my past that I never talk about. Never mention. That I refuse to acknowledge ever existed.

“What did she do to you, Dax?”

I squeeze her small hand back so hard I worry I’ll hurt her, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away or interrupt or make a sound while I tell her my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad secrets.

“They all remind me of her,” I barely manage to utter. My heart is hammering too hard, and my throat is clogged, with all the secrets she told me I was never to say out loud. When I use my left hand to pull my hair in front of my face, a bad habit I have when I’m anxious, she reaches with her right and brushes it back, a refusal to let me hide but not before checking in, “Do I remind you of her? Is my touch okay?”

When we’re not onstage or when she’s not arguing with Cohen, Rain sounds a lot more like a church-mouse than the lead singer of a rock band. I nod and confirm that her touch is okay.

“You’re Rainy. I know you’re Rainy. So that’s what makes it okay.”

Her hand leaves my face, and unlike all the other women who’ve ever tried to touch me, I actually miss her warmth. But some of it is still there, in our tightly clasped hands. We stay that way, just holding on to each other by that single point of contact, not saying a word. After a few minutes, Rain starts to sing, not in her usual style, but in a low humming melody. The words are soft, sleepy, a lullaby that somewhere out there good moms probably sing to their little boys, and they work their magic on me too. Rain’s voice does the impossible; it keeps the nightmares away.

End Interlude

Chapter 16

Decode

Rain

I had hoped that our little heart-to-heart would mean no more cold shoulder from Dax, but he’s as standoffish as ever. Except for the morning after, when I let Kitten out of the bedroom, Cohen was two seconds away from freaking out until Dallas put his foot down.

“Kitten stays out.”

His hard expression leaves no doubt that he means it, though it’s almost unheard of for Dallas to stand up to Cohen, so much so that Co’s emerald eyes widen in surprise. Though because it’s Dallas who said it, he doesn’t fight back. He grimaces and pouts because he’s a man-child, but from that day onward he hasn’t uttered a single complaint. Kitten is thrilled, and she’s explored the whole bus since then. She’s also taken to rotating between my bed and Dallas’s bunk. I caught them both stretching out this morning. With his thin, often graceful frame, Dax is pretty cat-like anyway. Seeing it side by side with an actual cat just makes it all the more obvious. She seems to be the only one enjoying herself.

I can also admit I’m a bit jealous. He’s got all the time in the world for my cat but can’t even have a conversation with me unless it’s in secret in the middle of the night. Well, it’s not a complete secret. Dutch clearly overheard at least part of our little chat because he’s taken to watching me with the same anxiety I see in his grim face whenever he looks at his brother, like he’s waiting for our demons, as we call our bullshit, to start acting up.

I know I’m also a big fucking hypocrite because despite encouraging Dallas to talk about what haunts him, I’ve kept my lips zipped about Lou for weeks. Hell, I’ve kept my lips zipped about a lot of things. Not that I haven’t thought about it, about the past, which can’t be helped, and what to do about Lou right now.

Hell, I’ve had nothing but time to think. On the bus, the days all blend together, and in the aftermath of our first show, they’ve been eerily quiet. Even though I’m no longer hiding out with Kitten in the bedroom and all of us spend our days milling around the bus, no one speaks to each other.