Page 59 of Pistol Whipped

“You sure about that because—”

He means because she left us. He doesn’t need to finish that sentence, and I don’t let him. I finally meet Cohen’s green-eyed stare.

“I’m dead sure.” My certainty surprises even me, but somehow, I know I’m right. Not just because Rain loves this little cat, but because I know Cohen is wrong. Rain didn’t leave the band. It was the three of us who practically shoved her out the door, slammed it closed and then locked it behind her so she could never come back.

I’d have left too. Hell, I kinda did in my own way.

“Fine. Have it your way,” he huffs.

“You’re free to go, Cohen. Go back to your pool house at Mommy and Daddy’s. I won’t stop you.”

He huffs again, pouting like a child, but stubborn as ever, he folds both arms across his chest and hunkers down into the booth. Making it clear he’s staying, at least for now.

Although I’m perfectly comfortable sharing the silence with Kitten’s small snores, it doesn’t take long for Cohen to get bored. The signs of it are all there. He pulls his phone out, checks it, and stuffs it away. He gets up and paces, then plops himself down again and pulls his phone out a second time. He types out a brief message to someone, then takes a pause followed by more typing.

I don’t ask, but it’s like he can’t bear to not tell me.

“God!” he whines, “this job is so boring! Christ, it’s boring! I can’t believe I’ve survived doing this for the past five years.”

He turns his phone off, then chucks it over his shoulder. There’s a crack when it hits the bus’s floor, then it slides under the bench of seats that serves as our only couch. It’s so childish that I admit, I take the bait: “Then why have you? Stayed in that job, I mean, if it’s so fucking boring? I’m sure Kira and Zander would have supported anything you did?”

It takes everything in me to keep the resentment out of my voice. Because I know that it’s true. Kira and Zander Brady love their son so goddamn much. They, along with Grams, were always, always the ones to bail us out of trouble. They gave Cohen everything they could. You’d think having three friends with fuck all in the way of moms and dads would have made him see how privileged he is.

“You could have stayed in the music scene,” I continue to vent, “Hell, you probably could have gone solo!”

I can picture it. Cohen Brady. Rock God. Claiming the whole stage for himself.

“Hmmmm,” he murmurs.

Cohen is not one to feign humility. It’s not even like I’m the first to suggest he went solo. The press spread their fair share of rumours about it right after news of The Pistols’ break-up went public. I always thought it was bullshit, so I’m shocked when he confesses, “I tried.”

He says it under his breath. So quietly that it takes a moment for the words to register, like a silent bomb going off. He gets up, turning his back to me as he repeats it, slightly louder the second time. There’s no way for me to read his expression, but I can read his movements.

Cohen reaches for his guitar. It’s poking out from one of the spare bunks where he’s been storing it between sound checks and performances, even though it’s not the one he usually plays on stage. That one is famously purple, the same deep purple as Rain’s hair, while this one is acoustic. It’s used for writing rather than stadium performances. Yet, it is almost always somewhere nearby, on this bus, in his dressing room, side stage. Like a musical security blanket he carries around.

He drops down on the small couch and brings the guitar to rest across his knees. He doesn’t strum or play a note, but his knuckles are white from how tightly he holds the neck.

“I tried…to go solo, but I was a mess.”

I scoff, “Yeah, I remember the mess part. You weren’t the only one, Co. We were all six different kinds of fucked up back then. Some of us still are.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t long after…” The break-up, I mentally fill in the blank. “Lou came to me, told me he was starting his own label and that he wanted me to sign with him.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Just me, Dax. He said just me.”

Awareness dawns.

“So, what, ditch the Kelly brothers and you can keep all the money and fame for yourself? Was that the offer?”

He nods, avoiding eye contact. His fingers brush the strings, letting the thrum of notes bridge the silence that follows. Ever the king of ignoring his own shit, he eventually continues like I never said a damn thing.

“I tried. But everything I wrote sounded like dog shit. Without your help, the notes wouldn’t come. Without the three of you, I couldn’t do it. And that only made me spiral even more. Until I fucked things up so bad that Lou cut me loose.”

“Join the club,” I spit bitterly. “Difference is some of us didn’t have parents and a pool house waiting in the wings.”

We relapse into mutual silence for a while after that. Or mostly silence. Periodically, the odd note emanates from Cohen and his guitar. What starts as a single G chord drifts to C, then he adds a D.