Page 77 of Pistol Whipped

One word from him is all it takes for them to scatter like good little boys and girls. Likely in search of someone else to leech off. Even with their departure, the things I have to say to Cohen are best kept between us, so I’m grateful for Bruce’s design choices. The man might be a slime ball, but he understands his clientele. All the VIP booths in the Kitty Kat Club are hemmed in by thick, black, velvet curtains that can be left open or drawn completely closed. I make quick work of pulling the fabric into place, while Cohen watches from his makeshift throne.

Once we’re surrounded, the booth isn’t completely soundproofed, but it does dim the music enough for us to have a conversation. One I’m realizing is long overdue.

“Cohen, I—”

“I know, you’re sorry. Of course I forgive you, Dax. Come here.” He has the goddamned gall to pat the bench beside him. “I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.”

His voice is loose. He’s not drunk yet, but he’s definitely on his way, and as always, his innermost feelings seep through, so he also sounds relieved to see me. The only problem is, his words make me feel so fucking pathetic that I snap.

“I didn’t come here to apologize.”

Cohen is momentarily stunned silent, and for once, I’m the one to fill the vacuum. No one else is here to do it for me.

“You’re the one who fucked up tonight, Co.”

Snapshots of the last few weeks, hell of months and years too, play like a music video in my head.

“In fact, you’ve been part of fucking everything up for a long time. Rain. The band. Me.” I spit the last word out because part of me still doesn’t want to ascribe any of the blame for my problems to the man before me.

His mouth drops open, and he lurches forward, ready to hurl his response back at me from across the table. “Are you seriously blaming me for all this shit? It sounds like you think what happened to Rain is my fault!”

He can’t say the words. Not really. If he says it—rape—out loud, he can no longer feign ignorance or ignore the role he played in getting us here.

I take a deep breath, fighting to keep my normal level of calm as I explain, “No, the blame for that last one sits entirely with Blue Grace and whoever helped him do that to our Rainy. But”—my voice turns pleading—“surely you see now the part that you played, that we all played in what came after?”

I say it because I can own that I’m not innocent in this either. I have a lot to atone for where Rainy and my brother are concerned.

“Why are you being like this?” he questions in return, and all hope I have of Cohen Brady committing to some self-reflection is dashed.

“Why am I being like this?” My lips twist into an unfamiliar expression. To an outsider, it would probably sound like I’m asking the question in jest. But anyone who knows me or looks close enough would know that’s a crock of shit.

“Yeah, Dallas, why,” he stresses, “are you acting like such a dick? You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

That’s it. So black and white with him. Always the assumption that there are no shades of grey.

“Best friend, ha,” I laugh once. “Sure, that’s what we are.”

He looks back at me, clueless. “Of course we are.”

He can try to play dumb all he wants, but I’m done with the act.

“Best friends, huh?” I snort. “How many times have you run your hands through my hair, Co? Or had your fingers in my mouth?”

There’s a flash of recognition in his dark green gaze. I want more than a flash. Tonight, I need Cohen Brady to own up to a truth we’ve both spent too many years ignoring.

“You ask me why I’m being like this, but for the better part of two decades you’ve kept me leashed to you like I’m your goddamned puppy!”

“You’re my best friend,” he repeats, though his eyes are screwed shut and he won’t stop shaking his head because all of that is easier for Cohen than looking at me.

“I am,” I confirm, sliding into the bench finally. “But I’m also—”

My intention was to move to his side. To help him face the reality of our messed-up situation by being close by. Like I always have been for him. Except Cohen cuts me off before I can say more.

“No, you’re my best friend. That’s it. That’s all.”

It’s like he’s trying to convince himself. There’s too much denial. When we caught Cohen with those groupies on the bus, I’d jumped straight—ha—to the assumption he knew what he was doing. That he was conscious of what it looked like.

“Cohen, I’m going to ask you something now,” I warn before posing the question with all the seriousness it merits, “Have you ever been with a man before?”