Page 64 of Pistol Whipped

“He LEFT?!” Lou bellows, “Why? To go where? When is he coming back?”

The questions are laced with equal parts frustration and suspicion.

“I don’t know,” I grit out between locked teeth.

“It better be fucking soon. Tomorrow night, specifically. Because the label is hosting a party in your honour to announce your triumphant return to Deviant Dreams. There’ll be press, a red carpet, the whole fucking thing. I expect all of you to be there.”

There’s an ominous pause. “Or else, Ray-Ray, I’ll drop you right back in the gutter I pulled you out of.”

Back to Flynn’s, back to Trey, back to nothing.

“Understood.”

The call terminates, and both Kelly brothers stare at me for answers. I, on the other hand, look to Dallas.

“Any chance you know where Cohen may have gone?”

Dutch and Dallas take turns exchanging looks before replying in unison, “We do.”

Nothing more. Dallas stalks out without another word, leaving Dutch and me alone, because sure enough, Kitten follows Dax. I’m kinda glad she does too, because the slump in his shoulders is back and I hate the idea of him sitting out there, awake and alone all night.

“We’ll get Cohen in the morning.” Dutch tugs on the hem of his sweatpants, the ones I fell asleep wearing.

“Where did he go, Dutch?” I ask as I let him pull me back into bed. I snuggle into the wall of muscle that is his chest, so I feel it when he sighs deeply and presses a kiss to my hair.

“Somewhere the rest of us don’t belong.”

And on that enigmatic note, the two of us fall into silence. Together, but lost in our own thoughts.

Chapter 32

Emo Trash

Rain

Regardless of what Dutch said last night, I wasn’t expecting the sandstone mega-mansion we visited this afternoon.

Our bus driver dropped us off, not up in The Head but at Dutch and Dax’s apartment building. From there, the three of us made our way to the parking garage and jumped into Dutch’s beat-up truck. It’s not that old or that rough but compared to the sleek black cars we pass as we wind through the hills, we might as well have slapped a billboard on the side of it that reads: Emo Trash.

From the front seat, Dutch and I made the executive decision, via one very loaded look, not to get out of the car. We left Dallas to fetch our last and almost certainly angry band member. It took an hour, but eventually he returned, leading Cohen Brady down the garden path behind him.

They jump in the back, and there is no denying the atmosphere is tense. No one says a word, though in the quiet car, Cohen grinding his teeth speaks volumes about his mood. My own isn’t much better as we retrace our steps past houses so large they could fit Gram’s in them twice over.

Though with every kilometre, the houses shrink, get less grand, and the cars we pass get more normal. At the same time, clouds settle around us and over Calder, creating a clear divide between the have and have-not parts of this city. Like from above, even Mother Nature can tell the difference.

We’re headed back into downtown. Lou texted me again this morning with the address for the party. It’s at the Kitty Kat Club. The exact club we used to go to all the time back when we were the bright young things. Now, it’s been years since I stepped foot in that place. Too loud. Too tempting. Too many memories. But Lou didn’t exactly give me, or any of us, a choice about the location for tonight’s big announcement.

Outside the truck, the thick rain clouds make it seem later than it actually is by the time we pull up outside the club. It looks the same as it ever did, for the most part. Except the last time I was here, there weren’t flashes going off everywhere, nor was there any kind of red carpet. Or should I say, a purple one. Well, not perfectly purple. Swirls of blue run through it too. Not that you can really see much of it because every square foot is taken up by industry types. Men in suits with women half their age and half-clothed hanging off their arms. All of them posing, trying to be seen.

Personally, I’d prefer to sneak in the back. Or better yet, tell Dutch to turn the truck around and run. But we agreed that showing up in Dutch’s truck rather than the limo Lou tried to send would better suit our image. Show our fans that though our skin might sport a few more lines these days, deep down we’re still the same rough-and-tumble kids from The Neck. Yet, the looks of confusion as we pull up are obvious.

Dutch puts the car in park, and the two of us spin only to find both Dax and Cohen looking back at us. Inside this car, on the bus, backstage, our personal issues cloud every interaction, but we all know it can’t be like that out there. The second the venue’s valet reaches for my door, the four of us inhale. And when the doors open and the cameras go off, we move as one unit. One band. A single, united front.

The photographers outside bellow our names and scream questions at us. We pose for a few photos as a band but hustle our asses inside as quickly as we can.

I immediately wish we had stayed on the carpet. Lou is right there waiting for us. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he narrows his focus at each of us in turn, like he’s counting to make sure we’re all here.

“Ahhh, The Pistols,” he finally shouts, barely audible over the thumping bass emanating from the other side of a pair of swinging doors, “Glad you could finally make it.”