Page 9 of Pistol Whipped

What I did note were the dates and commitments. Several pre-tour shows, which is a smart move considering we haven’t performed together in a long time. But nothing outright suspicious. Not that Lou needed to know that.

“We’re interested, but I’ll need to get this reviewed by my lawyers first.”

Lou’s smug smile dips, but only for the barest second before he catches himself and sticks it right back in place, “Of course, wouldn’t expect anything less now that you’re not just some punk kid but a director of Brady Construction and Development.”

From the other side of the room, Rain’s eyes zing and it’s my turn to fucking smirk. Because I’m not done. She never should have shown up here. The fucking audacity of her, after everything she put us through.

“Just one condition.”

The whole room draws in a breath.

“Find us another singer.”

Because there is no way in hell I can spend the next six months listening to Rain Gamble sing our songs. Or any songs for that matter. If I have to hear a single note leave the thin, regal column of her throat, I’ll cry. Or kill her. It’s fifty-fifty, which.

Interlude 2

Always

Cohen – aged 18, thirteen years ago

It’s getting harder and harder to pretend that watching Rain sing isn’t a huge turn-on. Literally harder. We’re mid-practice, and I’m having to readjust my junk again as her voice hits the high E note I wrote into ‘Gut Punch’, the song I hope will become the lead track on our first-ever studio album.

Her pitch, her intensity, it’s all perfect. The way the music melds with her words is nothing short of magic. But only when Rain does it.

Anyone else, and the whole song would be ruined.

She came to us with the lyrics a couple of weeks ago. Then Dallas, or Dax as we all call him, and I set to work on writing the music. This morning is the first time we’ve put the two together. If all goes well, we’ll get to record it. Properly. Not just on our phones for another viral video. But actually lay the tracks with a producer so it can eventually go on our first album.

Every part of that sentence feels surreal as hell. So does our setting. We’re in this nondescript warehouse building on the outskirts of Calder. It’s set back from the highway amongst a large industrial estate. From the outside, you’d assume this was some sort of factory, and not a studio space owned by our label. Inside, the rooms are filled with music equipment we could have only dreamed of six months ago. Beautiful Fenders, Gibsons, every type of drum, and microphones, and soundproofing, and mixers and…just and, and, and. I’m pretty sure Dallas nearly cried at the sight of all the new unplayed basses they had lined up for him when we arrived.

Aside from the actual recording studios and sound booths, there are a few rooms that look more like my parents’ living room than anything music-related. They have comfy couches and thick carpets. Others look like something out of a sixties dreamscape, with big square pillows tossed all over the floor and silk curtains that drape all around the room.

According to Lou, who gave us the tour a few weeks ago, they are writing rooms, and it turns out he was right when he said we would be spending a lot of time using them over the coming weeks and even months. Dallas and I have spent plenty of days and even a few late nights playing catch-up to Rainy’s insane lyric writing.

She’s unstoppable. A poet. When we’re not practicing or recording, she scribbles away nearly every minute in those little notebooks of hers, her long dark hair hanging around her so she can shield herself from the world while she writes. All of it is a deadly cocktail for yours truly that leads me right back to my current problem: it’s tough to play the guitar properly when it keeps knocking into my hard-on.

I’m bricked up, and the longer Rain sings, the worse it gets. I don’t even notice when the sound tech in the booth cuts over our mics.

“Cohen,” the garbled voice calls through the built-in speaker system, “Are you planning to play that thing?” Through the glass, I can see him gesturing to the guitar strapped low in front of me.

“Ugh, yeah, I just um…”

I always have this problem. I swear, my brain knows what I want to say, but can I make my mouth actually shape the words? No ma’am. At least, never right away. Although after a gentle, “What’s up?” from Dallas, who’s right at my side, I manage to say, “I think I just need a bathroom break.”

More like a jerk-off break. But no one needs to know that. Nor do I wait for anyone to question why I don’t take the guitar off before lumbering out of the studio.

Ten minutes later, I leave the men’s toilets feeling about a million times better, or at least like I might be able to manage my own dick for ten whole minutes. Only, I find a crouched Rain in the hallway. She’s not a tall person even standing up, but she’s curled up so tightly in a ball that most people would probably trip right over her. Not me, though. From the day we met, I have known exactly where Rain Gamble is at every moment of every day. My body can sense her, track her, feel her. Always.

“Rainy?” I lower myself to kneel beside her. “Rainy,” I repeat, “What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in the studio?”

“I’m sorry, Co. If you didn’t like the song, you could have just said. That’s why you left, isn’t it? Because my words just didn’t sound good.”

This girl. I could shake her. Because like I said before, her words are award-worthy. But I can’t exactly explain to her why I left either. Not without embarrassing the hell out of myself, and also making one of my best friends in the whole world super uncomfortable. She’d think I was some kind of weird perv. So I say the only thing I can, “No, not at all. I really just had to take a piss. I swear. Your words are everything. They are awesome. Where do you even come up with this stuff?”

“It’s about you,” she whispers.

My brain hears her. But once again, my dumbass mouth fails me because I keep stammering on about how much I like the song, how much I like every song she writes.