Page 37 of Pistol Whipped

Cohen’s too drunk to notice that I’m vibrating with fury. It’s not just the mess, or the fact that they’ve embarrassed the whole band in that interview just now. It’s all of it.

“What the fuck?!” I finally spit. It’s directed at Cohen, because he’s always the ringleader. Rain and Dax would follow the idiot off a cliff if I wasn’t there to pull them back. So I know this all started with him.

“What?” he asks, as if he’s bewildered by my anger.

“Oh, I don’t know, Cohen, maybe the fact that this place stinks? Or looks like a goddamn frat house!” I’m yelling. And I fucking hate yelling. Because I know what it looks like to people when I do. Angry Black man, that’s what people see. But I also know the three people I’m yelling at don’t. They just hate it when I yell, because deep down they know I’m their collective voice of reason.

“So what, Dutch? We had a little fun. I don’t get what your fucking problem is?” He shrugs as a low growl claws up my throat.

Rain hears it and steps in again, pulling Cohen by the arm. “Co, babe, come hereeeeee,” she pleads, drawing him towards the banquette seats. His limbs are all loose from the booze-weed-who knows-what-the-fuck-else combo, so she has no trouble manoeuvring him into the seats.

“Oh yeah, Rainy.” His voice pitches down a level. “Did you need something?”

“Yessss, please,” she whines a little, and though I’m still pissed, my brain splits in half. Half that wants to stay angry, and half that cannot stop itself from cataloguing every word and sound out of my girl’s mouth. Even though she isn’t mine, as I’m reminded all the fucking time..

“Please, Cohen,” she pleads again, as she slides into the bench too, straddling him in front of us. I watch, my blood boiling as his hands grab at the meat of her thighs. His hold on her is always so possessive. And I hate that she likes it.

She leans in and kisses him, and it isn’t long before I’m watching that fucker get dry-humped by the woman I love. Like a bad car wreck, I want to look away, and can’t.

Not even when it hurts, especially not when they break their kiss and while Cohen’s mouth flies to Rain’s neck, her violet eyes burn into mine.

I’m not sure what she sees. Whatever it is makes her blink and break the connection. It also makes her slide off Cohen, who seems momentarily dazed by her absence. He’s not just drunk; he’s love drunk. Enough that when Rain pulls on his arm again, he rises with her, and as she pulls him down the hall with only the barest resistance, she takes a moment to look back at me and mouths, I’m sorry.

Rain succeeds in persuading Cohen to follow her to the bedroom. Not that the thin walls do much to stop my personal torture. They pick up right where they left off. Rain’s beautiful moans haunting me.

At least I don’t have a front row seat to it right now. Especially since Cohen grunts out, “Look at you, baby,” loud enough that neither Dax nor I have the luxury of pretending we didn’t hear. Predictably, because I’m not the only one in hell, Dallas starts to collect the bottles scattered around the room. He has this impulse every time Cohen and I argue, which we do sometimes, or whenever any of us is upset. Or whenever he senses something is wrong. Or whenever they’ve partied too hard. He’s getting rid of the evidence. As if by tidying up he can pretend that nothing ever happened.

It’s as good a distraction as any, so I open the small cabinet under the kitchenette sink and pull out a black garbage bag and join him in his efforts.

As we finish working our way around the room, my brother drops the last of the bottles in the now very full garbage bag in my hands. With the space clean, he finally makes eye contact with me. His big brown eyes are bloodshot and watery. He never sleeps well. Combine that with all the booze and drugs, and I’m sure his brain is scrambled.

“Dutch,” he says, easing the garbage bag from my hands, “I’m sorry about all this.”

Whether it’s the mess or something else he’s apologizing for, I don’t know. But I am incapable of staying mad at Dallas. I pull him into a hug, patting his back a couple of times before I release him to explain, “You don’t need to apologize for having fun, baby bro. I just don’t want that fun to destroy us. Or you.”

I try to be gentle with my warnings, but with my brother’s history, I worry that too much “fun” will lead him down a path he can’t come back from. Something tells me we’re walking that path already.

End Interlude

Chapter 18

Addicted

Cohen

Oh fuck no. I’m already putting up with the cat. There’s no way I’m dealing with some boyfriend as well. The bus is cramped enough with four of us, and I intend to tell her so.

I’m still sweaty from the show. Stage lights give off a shitload of heat. I haven’t even had a chance to change, and the leather pants Dexter dressed me in are so goddamn tight you can see the outline of my cock. I can’t wait to get out of them and back into jeans because I feel fucking ridiculous even if they did accomplish the “panty-tossing” Dexter claimed they would. There was a handful of thongs on the stage by the time the show ended.

Right now, though, I need to nip this little boyfriend problem in the bud. I intercept her as she tries to creep past my dressing room. Nice try, Rainy. Using surprise to my advantage, I dig my fingers into her hips and spin us both through the door.

This woman. She thinks I don’t know her anymore. She thinks only Dutch ever knew her secrets. Wrong on both counts. He might know some of them. But I know others. I know exactly who Rain Gamble is when the lights are low, and no one is watching. And I know the kind of secrets of hers that no one else can ever know. Not Dutch Kelly, and sure as shit not some loser boyfriend. It’s high time she remembered that. So it’s high time for a private conversation.

With her back pressed against the now-closed door, we are firmly alone, and there’s nowhere for her to run. Judging by the way her head and shoulders slump backwards into the door, she knows it. Still, there’s no telling with Rain, so I keep one hand on her hip, digging my fingers in even harder. Playing guitar makes for strong fingers. My other hand comes to rest on her heart, if only to confirm that it still beats a special rhythm that is all fucking mine.

Rain’s full lips part and she gasps at the electricity of my touch.

“Cohen…”