Page 50 of Pistol Whipped

A hand brushes through my hair, tucking it behind my ears.

Dutch is watching me. His tongue is tracing his teeth, and for the first time ever, I see real fear in his eyes.

His voice breaks a little. “Don’t regret it. Please, Rain, don’t regret me.”

In an instant, my heart shatters, and the tears from earlier, welp, they are back with a vengeance and spill over instantly.

“I d-d-don’t,” I manage to stutter, “b-b-b-but it’s just tonight…and everything…and I…and now we have to go back to the bus-s-s-s.”

The words finally come out, though it takes a while through my body-wracking sobs.

“Fuck the bus. I’m taking you home.”

I don’t know what he could possibly mean. I don’t really have a home anymore. Except, after what just happened, after the way Dutch held me like I am precious, like I’ve always been precious to him, tells me that maybe I could have had a home in him all along. If I’d only just had the courage to ask for it.

Chapter 25

You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid

Lou Braun

I couldn’t have planned it any better myself. If I was a more generous man, I’d send that loser boyfriend of Ray-Ray’s a bottle of scotch. Him turning up only to piss Cohen Brady off to the point where the man’s inner animal came out to play. Deeeeee-licious.

I bumped into the rat-faced fucker lingering outside the stadium tonight. At first, I assumed he was another homeless Necker crawling out the gutters for spare change. He was pacing and charging at the backstage door like his ass was tweaked out on something. I like a little fun as much as the next guy, but these junkies take it too far. No fucking self-control, that’s what my buddy Bruce-y boy always says, and considering the mountains of drugs that run through his clubs every damn night, I’m guessing he’s right.

In the interest of getting him the hell out of my way, I’d dug for my wallet and offered him five bucks.

Credit to him, his response made me chuckle, “I’ll take your money, man, but what I really want is a way inside.”

He pointed to the door again, behind which were the tunnels. Concrete corridors that led to every corner of the stadium. Most concert-goers don’t realize that behind the stage, the seats, the concessions, all that front-of-house shit, there is a whole maze that makes shows like The Pistols even possible. It’s not something any old Necker would think about, and my curiosity was piqued enough to ask, “Why?”

“Because my girlfriend is in there.”

He went on to explain who he was and what he was planning to do if I let him in.

All I saw were dollar signs. An on-stage proposal? The inevitable fight between this dude and Cohen? All that drama? It was priceless. Drama breeds press, and press means ticket sales, and ticket sales for Deviant Dreams mean Viktor Vetrov will finally be satisfied.

And me? If I play this just right, we might just hit the fucking jackpot.

To that end, once I finish talking to Calder PD and put one nearly-dead Trey McCoy into an ambulance, it’s with great joy that I sit my ass in the back of my car. One quick order to that old driver of mine, and we’re winding our way back to The Head.

The drive gives me the perfect opportunity to send a text.

Me

Seen the news?

Bruce is the first to respond, probably because Blue is too busy fucking some bright young thing that isn’t his wife, Delilah, to answer.

Bruce Cooper

Oh, I saw. Saw Rain Gamble too. Still looks as good as ever.

I don’t need to see his face to know exactly what memories are coursing through his mind when he thinks of Ray-Ray.

To my surprise, the next text does in fact come from Blue Grace.

Blue Grace