Page 65 of Pistol Whipped

There’s so much ice in those words, and all of it is directed my way. Yet Cohen is the one who interjects.

“You’re lucky I’m even here, old man.”

Lou chooses to ignore him, but mumbles something along the lines of, “Better late than never,” and gestures for us to follow him into the pit of the club and towards a set of stairs near the back.

The four of us trail behind our manager. Dax, with his head down and silent. Cohen, seething. Me, eyes pinging everywhere, and anxiety ratcheted up to eleven. Only Dutch is smiling. He walks right beside me, and although we aren’t touching beyond the occasional brush of my shoulder against his side, I long to reach for him properly. The idiot only makes that longing worse when he leans in and says, “You just had to wear an outfit like that?”

“Like what?” I whisper back, feigning innocence. I know how I’m dressed. In fact, I called Tina and the Double Ds this morning and told them I needed to look hot as fuck tonight. Boy, oh boy, did they come through.

The mini-dress is a deep red and borderline indecent, made more so by the thigh-high, laced platforms.

“You look like my personal cherry lollipop.” Dutch’s stare dances appreciatively over my body. My skin heats everywhere his eyes touch, but I nearly burst into flames when he finishes his sentence. “And I intend to lick my way to the centre.”

My greedy cunt feels some type of way about that. “Let’s leave right now,” I suggest.

What’s said as a half-joke becomes a serious wish when a familiar voice greets us at the top step.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t The Preaching Pistols. Welcome back to my humble club.”

That voice chills the fire Dutch lit inside me. Lou shifts sideways, just enough to reveal the overweight, sweating frame of Bruce Cooper. Because, of course, this is his club. He and Lou are old cronies. It’s one of the reasons we always partied here back in the day.

Bruce leans back with a big sweep of his arm. “I’ve got your VIP table right over here.”

There is a table, cordoned off by a velvet rope but otherwise surrounded by people.

“Just like old times, isn’t it, Rain?” Bruce says over my shoulder after he steps in behind me. The four of us are now trapped between him and Lou. If it wasn’t for Dutch’s position at my side, I’d already be out the door, but there’s nowhere to run with Bruce standing uncomfortably close at my back. His hot breath spiders its way up my neck. Then we get to our table and things only get worse.

Dax freezes at the sight of it. His already pale skin turns ghostly. My blood roars. The table is covered, and I mean covered, in booze. Years of working behind Flynn’s bar have numbed me to the presence of alcohol most of the time, but the key word there is: ‘behind’, not laid out in front of me like the spoils of war.

“Drink, Ray-Ray?” Lou offers.

It takes everything in me to shake my head. Meanwhile, Dutch growls on my behalf, “She’s fine.”

I’m not. And I know he knows that. But after our chat barely twenty-four hours ago, he knows that I don’t share my sobriety journey with just anyone.

Nor am I the only one struggling. Dallas can’t seem to look away from all the bottles, but it’s when Bruce adds, “Or perhaps you’d prefer some of my other party favours.”

Our bassist starts visibly shaking. Dutch’s arms flex at that suggestion too, and thank God, I manage to catch his hand in mine before my man starts swinging.

Your brother, I mouth, with a nod in Dax’s direction. It’s a reminder that a fight won’t make this any easier on Dallas and me. Surprisingly, Cohen helps by telling Bruce to fuck off. Off he fucks, though it’s with a smile that oozes nothing but slime, leaving the four of us to slide into the booth under Lou’s watchful eye.

Once we’re seated, Cohen makes several attempts to get our manager’s attention, but just like at the door, Lou ignores him. At this point, he’s either oblivious or willfully pretending he doesn’t notice. Despite Cohen repeatedly calling his name, Lou’s attention darts between the other industry people surrounding the table.

It only comes back to us briefly to give an order. “Drink. Relax. God, you’re all so fucking uptight now.”

Maybe because we’re not those naive, malleable kids you used to control.

“I’ll come back and get you when it’s announcement time. In the meantime, mingle. Have some fucking fun.”

Before Cohen can say another word, Lou flits away, vanishing into the tangle of bodies. The space he occupied fills in immediately. Two girls, who can’t be over twenty, lean in, flashing cleavage in Cohen’s face. He tells them to fuck off too, without even a single look their way.

The same cagey silence from the car returns, even though we’re surrounded by strangers, even though the people around us are drunk and dancing, flirting and in some cases, even dry humping. The four of us just stare at one another miserably and definitely not like four people about to get a second chance at their dreams.

That silence persists. For every second it does, Cohen’s expression gets stormier, Dallas shakes before my eyes, and Dutch has to squeeze my hand harder and harder to keep me grounded in the present. Only when the pounding music screeches to a halt am I reminded that we aren’t just here to be part of the party; we’re here to be the rockstars. The pulsing club lights steady and swing until the stage in front of the DJ booth is lit in blues and purples. Beneath those lights is a single mic stand.

Lou struts to centre-stage. There’s a smug smile firmly affixed to his face. He’s almost too pleased with himself as he talks directly to the crowd that gathers in closer.

He pauses for dramatic effect, and the DJ adds to the suspense with an audio effect, a bursting dun, dun, dun like you hear in old horror films. This whole thing is choreographed within an inch of its life. It’s so fucking fake, it sets my teeth on edge. It wasn’t always like this. Or was it, and I was just too young, drunk and distracted by falling in love that I didn’t notice?