Page 63 of Pistol Whipped

That’s the most words I’ve heard from Dallas in a row, maybe ever. It’s also an admission that at least he, and probably Cohen too, knew exactly how Dutch felt about me the whole damn time.

“You know what, Dallas, maybe you’re right. Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m going to go get that girl.”

The drag of Dutch’s footsteps gets closer, and in an effort to pretend I wasn’t openly listening to their argument, I hike the thin comforter all the way up and over my head.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Dutch breathes, sliding the thin door closed behind him even while he acknowledges the reality of the bus’s very close quarters.

I inch the coverlet down to check he’s not pissed. I should’ve known he wouldn’t be. Though there’s a slight sheen along his brow that he wipes away without looking at me, and it dawns on me that he’s embarrassed. My man needs some reassurance.

“I’m not. Although I feel like such an idiot for not realizing how you felt, when clearly everyone else knew.”

“I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. Because having even a little bit of you was enough for me. Or at least I thought it was.”

He rushes for the bed with a big grin and grabs me round the waist. I choke and laugh at the unexpected move but settle just as quickly once I realize he’s not letting go and has managed to manoeuvre us into a cozy-as-hell cuddle.

His words vibrate from his chest, right through my back as he says, “But now that I know how it feels to hold you like this, I’m realizing I was wrong. So fucking wrong.”

I won’t apologize for something I didn’t know. And truthfully, if he had told me back then, there’s a chance he is right; it might have ruined our friendship. But I can acknowledge how he makes me feel right now.

“Then hold me tighter, Dutch.”

He does as he’s asked, tugging me even closer until his body wraps around mine protectively, perfectly.

Sleep never did come easy, and though I drifted off with Dutch’s arms wrapped around me—I mean, who wouldn’t—I still wake up easily at the sound of a phone ringing. Especially when it’s a ringtone I don’t really recognize. Kitten whines the second I slink from the bed. Dutch, thankfully, doesn’t wake, though he does mumble a little before rolling onto his back. I’m halted by the sight. In the low evening light, I can still see him.

Perhaps I’m seeing him more clearly than I ever have. He’s the solid one. The dependable one. Young Rain would’ve called those things boring. She was an idiot. Or naive. Actually, both. After years of living without any kind of stability, financial or emotional, adult me recognizes how much strength, persistence, and resilience it takes to maintain that. Dutch Kelly is the one who holds us all down. And none of us have ever given him any fucking credit for it. But I will. First thing tomorrow morning, he’s getting the thank-you blowjob of a lifetime. But for now, I let him sleep.

I’m barely out of the room when my chest bumps against Dallas’s. Between my thin tank top and his, the heat of his chest steals my breath. Though he’s the smallest of my bandmates, I still have to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes.

They’re humourless even as he jokes, “Our nighttime rendezvous are becoming a bit of a pattern, Rainy-girl.” He seizes my wrist.

Without realizing it, my right hand had snuck up his side, unconsciously reaching for the ridged scars I know are hidden beneath cotton.

“I wonder what my brother would think?”

His head tilts, and there’s the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth that brings at least a little life back to his face. As if the idea of taunting his brother amuses him. After what I overheard this afternoon, I kind of understand why.

Maybe because Dallas’s smiles are so rare or because I also get off on taunting Dutch, just a little, I’m on the verge of suggesting something I shouldn’t when the ringing starts again.

“It’s Cohen’s,” Dallas explains. He backs up towards the small living space and only then does he release his hold on me. Before I know it, he’s kneeling at my feet, his blonde hair falling across his face, making it seem like he’s bowing before me.

My breath hitches again. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s the quiet or the unexpected touches, but my lungs and brain are not cooperating right now.

Dax pulls the cell out from under the sofa just in time for the ringing to stop. The screen is locked so we can’t even see who was calling. Though I can guess when my own phone rings from inside the bedroom. It wakes Dutch with a start, and Kitten screams her displeasure at being disturbed. I’m doubly spooked, because it means Lou is trying to reach us. He’s the only person with that number, and if he’s trying this hard to reach us, my gut screams it’s with bad news.

I yank Dallas to his feet, grabbing his hand this time and pulling him behind me into the bedroom. If Dutch is surprised that I’ve hauled his brother in here with me, he doesn’t say anything. In fact, no one says anything as I clamber over the bed to accept the call.

“Lou?”

“Where the hell is Cohen, Ray-Ray? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping him busy?”

My guts roil at the suggestive way he says, “Busy.”

“He, umm…”

There is no real way to explain, and Lou Braun already holds enough dirt on us; I refuse to let him have any more. So, I opt for the simplest version of the truth.

“He left.”