Page 36 of Pistol Whipped

Her lower jaw twists, she licks her teeth, and she’s striding back to me and jabs me in the chest. Oh, now she’s all piss and vinegar.

“You don’t get to question my choices, Dutch. You weren’t there!”

Fuck her accusations. I push back against her finger until her back hits the wall again. Unlike that bastard, I don’t cage her. I won’t. I never could. But I will correct her. Because she’s fucking wrong about one thing.

“I was there. Rain. I wanted to be there, and you goddamn know it! Grams knew it! So don’t accuse me of being absent. That was all you, baby girl. You’re the one who was fucking MIA.”

That shuts her up real quick.

Just like every other time I’ve mentioned Grams, she clams up. I shake my head because I can’t believe what I’m about to say.

“You know what, Rain. That asshole was right. Always keeping your secrets. I hope they’re good company, because right now, I’m done.”

I back up, back away, before smashing my fist into one of the metal shelves. The pain doesn’t register, though I’m sure it will later. I’m so fucking angry. Not at Rain, not really. But I have to walk away before I say something I can’t take back, before I confess to things I know she’s not ready to hear. So I rip myself away from her and stomp down the hall. I need to collect some shit from my dressing room, and it’ll give me a chance to cool off before I have to share a bus with that frustrating woman for the day-long drive to our next show in Mont-Royale.

Halfway there and I’m still fuming, so much that I don’t notice anyone coming towards me until I crash into them.

“Whoa, Dutch. What the hell, man.” Cohen is close enough to me in size, or at least height, that our little collision doesn’t trip him up too much.

“Sorry,” I grunt, ready to rush past him, until Cohen grabs me by the arm and stops me.

“Did you find Rain?”

What a goddamn question.

“Yeah, I found her.” I clamp my lips shut before I go running my mouth. Only my pent-up frustration can take so much, so when Cohen asks, “So where was she?”

I answer the only way I can think to, “With her fucking boyfriend.”

Interlude 7

Little Things

Dutch – aged 20

Officially, we’ve delayed the album release because we’re putting “final touches on it” but it’s the second time we’ve pushed the date, and that shit’s starting to look suspicious. It’s not because the album isn’t good. In fact, Skids In Skateparks is a pop-punk ode to our teen years that I suspect will resonate with every kid that ever got picked last in gym class, or couldn’t get a date to the school dance, or whose mom had to drop them off in some busted car instead of daddy’s fancy 4x4. I’m damn proud of all fourteen tracks.

The problem, and reason for the delay, is that my bandmates are too much of a train wreck to do proper press junkets. A tipsy interview with Rain and Dax giggling their faces off was one thing. An interview where Cohen storms in and flips out after the interviewer asked Rain about rumours of tension between them, that’s a whole other thing. Three ruined interviews—that is a goddamn problem.

But that’s what’s about to happen if I don’t interrupt this shit right now. I scrub my hand through my braids and walk across the entertainment show set. Aside from my empty chair, vacated because I had to take a piss, there’s Dax, whose eyes can barely focus and whose jaw won’t stop twitching from whatever shit he and Cohen took last night. Co’s not much better, but at least he’s trying to answer the poor reporter, though his words are slurred. Rain sits between them, red-cheeked, giggling and unsteady even in her chair, because while they got high, she got shit-faced.

“Sorry folks,” I call from the far side of the room, “it’s time we were on the road.”

Where the fuck is Lou? Why is it always my job to be the adult in the room?

Leading my brother and bandmates out of the television studio, I look like a mother duck leading three very drunk ducklings. Behind me, Rain is already hiccoughing, though she’s putting up an effort to hide it.

“Jesus Christ, guys, it’s not even noon,” I grit out. I try to keep my voice low because we’re in the centre of Calder’s entertainment district and there are people and press everywhere. Cohen doesn’t bother.

“It’s sex, drugs and rock’n’roll for a reason, Dutch. Don’t be such a downer,” he shouts.

Both Dax and Rainy finally pipe up. Thankfully, they attempt to shush Cohen so that our antics don’t end up the headline on tonight’s show. It works long enough for us to get on our tour bus.

With all the promo we’ve been doing for the second album, we’ve been travelling around the country and all over the States too. But we’re home in Calder today. Last night we finally got a break from being chained to the bus’s wheels. I used the night to sleep in a real fucking bed instead of my little cot. Judging by the state of our bus, though, I’m the only one.

There are empty bottles everywhere. Everywhere. All over the small table, on the furniture. It reeks of stale beer and the thick cloying smell of weed. Not surprising, because there is a stack of burned-out joints on a plate-turned-ashtray.

I like to burn one as much as the next person, especially after a show. The only rule, though, the one we discussed a hundred times over, was that no one smokes on the bus because the airflow in here is shit.