Page 41 of Pistol Whipped

Yet here he is, sitting in a chair, backlit by the makeup mirror and the bright white lights that surround it. The shadows make the too-tight skin of his face appear even more ghoulish than in the light of day. None of which is improved by the words that crawl out of him either.

“I see Tina’s doing her job. You look downright delicious.”

His eyes roam over my body despite the fact that I don’t acknowledge his comment.

“Do the guys know you’re here?” I ask, but I can’t help but twist to look at the door behind me. It’s already closed, so I know it’s naive to hope that Dutch, or Dallas, or hell, even Cohen might appear, but I can’t help myself.

“Oh no, no, no.” He shakes his head as he leaves his seat and slinks in my direction. He passes within an inch of me, and I freeze. My legs lock. It’s like they no longer work. Even though he doesn’t touch me at all, I freeze. Even though I want to run, I freeze, and when he positions himself between me and my only exit, it stops mattering. There’s nowhere to run, anyway.

“I came to see you, Ray-Ray.”

The way he tracks my every movement is so familiar, so predatory that goosebumps erupt over my arms. Not in a good way.

“I think I’m due an update on my little investment. How are you getting on, Ray-Ray? Keeping Cohen Brady sufficiently distracted?”

Weirdly and unintentionally, I think I am. And Trey’s presence is definitely helping with that, though I don’t mention that to Lou.

Finally, he asks the direct question, “Have his lawyers called?”

I hesitate. Cohen’s phone certainly rings more than the rest of ours, but I don’t really recall him ever answering it. Texts, yes. Maybe emails too. Anytime we aren’t actively performing or practicing, his fingers fly over his phone screen the same way they do over guitar strings.

Cringing, I finally answer, “I think so.”

Lou’s arms shoot forwards, his fingers desperately clawing for me, but I jump backwards out of reach just in time to reassure him, “B-b-but, I don’t think he’s actually answered, or spoken to anyone. I don’t think he’s even called them back or checked his voicemail. Definitely not in the last few days!” I insist.

That is one hundred percent true because the drive from Barrett Hills to Watosk runs right through the middle of nowhere. It’s all thick forests, followed by empty prairie highways. Hell, there was a whole day there when our bus didn’t pass a single other vehicle on Highway One. Lou knows that and relaxes a smidgeon.

“You better keep it that way, baby.”

The threat is barely veiled. But his use of the term baby makes me gag. So much so that I make for the toilet the second he leaves the room, which is exactly where Tina finds me five minutes later. Like last time, it’s all of two seconds before I’m pouring out my soul to her, who once again listens with the patience of a saint. When I’m done rambling like the hysterical mess I am, she takes one look at me and says, “It’s official, you need a break from all these men.”

Which is how I learn that she and the Double D’s have their own smaller bus that follows us around. The inside of which looks like a slightly goth drag performer’s closet exploded. There are black sequins everywhere. A sewing machine where apparently Dexter is actively making me a shirt for our show in Calder. He makes me promise not to peek at it. And best of all, they actually have a TV on board and a whole slew of girly movies to choose from.

Since we aren’t starting the drive back to Calder until morning—the Rockies aren’t safest to drive through at night, at the end of winter avalanche season—they convince me to hang out. We watch a movie I last saw in theatres with Dutch when I was fourteen. Derek makes popcorn for all of us, and they even have jalapeño powder, so I douse mine in the stuff. The spicier the better is a motto I live by when it comes to food.

After the credits roll, we spend another hour gossiping. Tina tells us about her partner, Xena, and I learn that Derek and Dexter met at a bar in the Gay-bourhood, the so-dubbed area of Barrett Hill’s because of its many queer-friendly cafés, clubs and restaurants. For the first time in my adult life, I think I might be making friends. Friends who aren’t my former boyfriend and bandmates. Just the possibility makes my heart sing, and when I leave the “Back-up Bus” as they call it, I practically dance my way back towards ours. The lights are all out inside, so it looks like everyone is asleep, even Dallas. I don’t want to risk waking him or the others, so I move super slowly to push my key into the door. Only my hand never reaches the handle.

Chapter 20

This Ain’t A Scene, It ’s an Arms Race

Rain

My hand is ripped from the door and my vision swims. Doubly so when the back of my skull ricochets off the bus’s metal grill. I have no idea what’s happened until a too-familiar voice asks, “Where are you scurrying out from, my little rat?”

My vision is still blurred thanks to how hard I’ve been shoved, but I manage to shake my head. Trey’s hand grips my chin and steers me until I’m looking right into his bloodshot eyes. Any joy I’d held in the idea of newfound friendships is dead on impact, thanks to the man staring down at me. After getting tossed from the venue, he must have waited, hoping to catch me alone, and I finally gave him his moment.

“Where were you? Fucking some little bitch? Or maybe repeating history with Cohen Brady? Never too fussy were you? Always willing to let anybody fill that empty hole inside you?” He chuckles cruelly, even as one of his hands cups between my legs.

Never have I ever been more thankful that my outfit tonight involved pants rather than a skirt because his grip is angry and possessive. Still, I feel violated. More so as he leans in and forces his tongue past my lips, there’s a too-sweet taste in his mouth that I don’t recognize, and I do what I can to try to push him back, but it’s futile. He’s stronger than I remember, and each second I resist just makes him push harder. Eventually, he’s the one to end the kiss, robbing me even of the power of denial. His eyes are dark and bloodshot.

“Trey, are you high?” I ask. My voice wavers and cracks from the adrenaline still racing through me.

He doesn’t answer, not at first, not beyond a chilling smile.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” He presses ever closer. I’m so repulsed by the feeling of his hardness. I cannot believe I ever let this man touch me.

“What you should worry about is what I’m going to do to those boys if they touch what’s mine.”