Page 69 of Pistol Whipped

I might be a stubborn asshole in a lot of ways, but I can hear my mom in my head reminding me to believe women. And I want to. God, do I want to believe my Rainy, because the sight of her crying undoes me. I long to hold her, to comfort her, and the thought of Blue Grace doing something like that to the girl I love is so downright horrifying it makes me want to rip the hair out of my head.

Yet days go by, and I can’t get that smirk of Blue’s out of my mind. And the sight of Rain, naked in that sex-tossed bed, fucking forget it. That is burned into the back of my eyelids forevermore. Both images play on repeat over and over again.

My phone won’t stop ringing. I ignore it.

My parents won’t stop knocking on my bedroom door. I refuse to come out.

Blue’s voice won’t stop saying, “Quite the girl,” over and over and over. Before too long, Rain’s voice is there too, telling me things I should know aren’t true. Things I know she didn’t say, but I wonder if she thought all along.

“You’re just too much, Cohen.”

“I wanted him more than I want you.”

“You’re not worthy of my love, Cohen.”

“All those songs, and you’re still not worth it.”

Even though I hear each statement in Rainy’s voice, I know it’s not her. So I start to think of it like the devil on my shoulder.

Only days later does the angel on the other shoulder pipe the hell up. He sounds a lot like Dax and reminds me that I don’t want to be the kind of man who treats people I love and care about with the mistrust I’ve exhibited over the past few weeks. He reminds me that I can’t rely on that; I need more.

I need proof. Solid concrete proof that what Rain said is true. It makes me sound like a monster, wanting to see some fucking evidence to prove that the girl I’ve loved since I was a teenager was raped. But I can’t tell the angel and the devil apart anymore. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

I’ve even taken to watching our old viral videos over and over again just to prove to myself that The Preaching Pistols existed. Do exist. I think.

Again, a tiny voice inside me that sounds a fuckload like Dallas tells me what to do, and for once, I buck tradition and do it. I call Lou Braun.

The first clue my brain is totally fucked over is that he actually shows up. He knocks on my bedroom door and says, “Cohen, can I come in?”

For the first time in days, I crawl from my bed so I can twist the doorknob. When the door opens, Lou Braun is there, and my parents are right behind him. Their faces are riddled with so much worry that I cannot possibly handle it, so I ignore them and sweep back enough to allow my manager to enter. The second his feet are through the door frame, I slam it, preventing my obviously caring parents from saying a word.

I spin back to Lou. “Show me,” I order.

“Now, son—”

“Don’t call me son.”

Lou lets my rebuff slide. “Are you absolutely sure you want to see this?”

That question makes my skin itch. However, I am absolutely sure. When I called Lou, it was to ask if there was any video, any evidence from the party to prove what happened to Rain. I might not know much, but I know that house was owned by Viktor Vetrov, and that that man was likely to have cameras everywhere. I grab my laptop from my childhood desk, the one I used to do homework on but that I’ve outgrown since we left The Neck.

Lou as good as confirms my fears when he brandishes a disk from behind his back. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Cohen. Are you sure you want to see this?”

My jaw tightens, and I barely manage to growl, “Yes.”

“Okay.” He slides the disk into the laptop I’ve handed over.

The two of us watch, standing there like helpless pylons while we watch together as my girlfriend, my Rain, visibly smiles as Blue Grace seats himself inside of her.

This isn’t a video of a girl in pain. But it is the video that rips my world to shreds.

End Interlude

Interlude 14

Stay Together for the Boy

Dallas – aged 20, three weeks later