Page 11 of Pistol Whipped

And no one, not even her Grams, knew where she’d gone.

Maybe that was what pissed me off more than anything: leaving her grandmother, the woman who raised her, hell, who raised me, all alone in The Neck to fend for herself. Fucking selfish.

To make up for it, I did my best to check up on Grams, or I had, until looking after my brother became its own full-time job. A brother who, now that we were outside in the daylight, is increasingly green in the face. Knowing what I do about detox, and specifically Dax in detox, we have about ten minutes until he becomes a big fucking mess. Or starts begging anyone who will listen for a hit.

“What now?” I ask Cohen, warning him that we are up against a Dallas-based time clock.

“The pool house?”

“Fine. But he’s going in your car.”

I’ve already had the pleasant experience of cleaning my brother’s vomit out of my own car seats earlier this week. He’d called me mid-shift at Rothus, and in his slurred, strung-out speech, begged me to come pick him up behind some dead-end Irish bar in The Neck. Since Cohen is so determined to take up his position as leader of the band again, let him deal with it this time.

As kids, we would spend a ton of time at the Bradys’ house when we weren’t at the park or at Gram’s place. Only not this house.

Their old house in The Neck was by far the nicest on their street, wayyyy nicer than the foster home that Dax and I were living in at the time. Though, in that part of Calder, nice just meant not a fucking drug den or gang hangout.

This house is in The Head. It’s big and surrounded by others that look exactly like it. Or damn near. They all resemble some magazine’s version of a ski chalet, all wood beams and stone. I follow Cohen’s silver Prius in my beat-up pick-up and wonder if his neighbours think I’m his gardener or some shit. My guess is: probably.

It wasn’t until we were grown that the Bradys found themselves with money. They’d been quietly working on it for years and scored their first big contract with the City of Calder not long after our first record came out. Between Cohen’s payouts from the label and that contract, the Bradys were able to leave The Neck behind. Betcha fifty bucks, Cohen doesn’t even think about how lucky he is, how few people, let alone whole living families, ever make it out of Calder’s drug-infested city centre.

Look at me. Yeah, Dax and I managed to buy a small apartment on the edge of The Neck and this truck, but other than that, I have fuck all to show for our time as the biggest band in the country other than my brother’s life. I’m generally smart with my money but rehab is expensive. And when you have to pay for it multiple times over, that shit adds up.

Cohen calls my name, “Oi, come help me!”

I squeeze my steering wheel tight, just once, praying for patience before I get out.

“Dax passed out on the way. Help me get him into the pool house.” Cohen gestures to his backseat, where my brother is 100% out cold. His clothes hang off his frame in a way that makes me sick, and I don’t even really have to help as Cohen drags his limp frame into his arms.

It’s fucking weird watching one of my oldest friends carry my baby brother bridal-style, but I don’t say shit about it. I’m too distracted looking at the nice furniture and fancy pieces of art that line the walls of the Bradys’ house. Everything is clean, neat, and tidy. And no wonder, when we pass a woman in an obvious housekeeper’s uniform vacuuming the ultra-beige living room.

Cohen doesn’t even notice. This has all become so normal to him. We wander through the kitchen and out into the most incredible back garden I’ve ever seen. Backyards are a luxury in The Neck, and where they do exist, they definitely do not look like this. There’s a wide poured concrete patio with a beautiful round pool in the centre. It’s covered over, probably because it’s only April, but the whole garden looks out over the wider Calder Valley. You can see everything for miles around the city, every home, every tree, right out over the ocean. Something no one in their right mind would take for granted. Except Cohen, who doesn’t even look up before kicking the door open to what I guess must be the pool house.

I follow him, forcing myself to tear my gaze away from the stunning views of my hometown. They say everything’s better in The Head, and based on the last two minutes alone, I’d say they aren’t wrong.

The so-called ‘pool house’ is about three times the size of the apartment that Dallas and I share. It’s just as neat and tidy as the main house, with a large, comfortable couch big enough for our whole band to fit on, let alone Cohen’s lanky ass.

There’s a small staircase that leads to an open-plan kitchen overlooking the main living space, and on either side are doors I can only assume lead to bedrooms, since Cohen makes a beeline for the one on the left and when he returns, his arms are empty. He makes a point of gently closing the door behind him.

“Let’s let him sleep it off in there,” Cohen whispers softly.

My eyes roll all on their very own, I swear.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms and pouts. He’s been acting like a toddler since we saw Rain; why stop now? When I call him on it, he only sticks his bottom lip out more.

It’s hard not to laugh, because unlike Dax and me, you’d never know Cohen was anything but the straightest of edges. Clean-cut, dressed all preppy. While we Kelly brothers, gutter rats that we are, are covered head to toe in tattoos. Many of which were done long before we had the money to pay credible artists, so they’re rough and fading.

“It means, Co, that you don’t just sleep off addiction. Trust me when I say he’s going to be a right bastard when he wakes up.”

“I know,” he grunts.

Because he does. Because he was the one who hauled my brother’s busted ass out of the gutter of The Neck the last time. After Dallas refused my help one time too many, and I threw him out. Because they’re best friends. Like we were too, once. Not anymore though. Now, it’s that loose kind of friendship, where we only call when we need something. And only the obligation to a past that’s long-fucking-gone keeps us tethered together. Which is why I’ve never been here, never stepped foot inside this McMansion or his fucking pool house. I doubt I’d have even gotten an invite if Dallas wasn’t such a trainwreck.

I’m still standing in the entrance. Haven’t even closed the door behind me because who knows how long I’m staying. How long I’m welcome in Cohen Brady’s new little slice of paradise. He doesn’t say shit about it, just drops his ass into that big couch of his. It must be nice quality, judging by the way the pillows shift around him. He lets them, sighing as he sinks back into the cushions, slapping the contracts from Lou down on his fancy glass coffee table as he goes.

His eyes even close for a second. Which I use to my advantage. Two steps and I easily grab not one but two of the contract packs. The rustling of the paper makes Cohen’s eyes bolt open.

“You’re not seriously going to sign that?!” he protests. He lurches forward, trying to reach for the contracts. Too bad that office life has slowed his reflexes because I yank them away easily.