Page 24 of Pistol Whipped

Meanwhile, I can’t get Dutch’s question out of my head. The pit of shame in my gut is so fucking big it’s enough to swallow me and this whole damn bus. Because he was right to ask. Because it turns out Dutch was there, taking care of Grams while I wasn’t. Then, when I finally did turn up, did reach out, it was too little, too late. But at least I did, for Grams sake. And then all of them, bar Dutch, fucking ignored me. They ignored Grams. That broke me all over again just as I had finally gotten myself together.

My past is so littered with days I’d rather not remember that picking out the good ones is like trying to find the needle in a goddamn haystack, made of needles. Yet, it was the time leading up to her passing, and the months that came after that are among the worst of the worst in my minefield of bad memories. They might even take the number two spot. The top spot on the pile has been secured for a long damn time.

I’m so lost in that shame that Kitten and I don’t leave our room on the bus again that day. Not overnight. Nor the next day. I survive on tap water and a pack of granola bars I had stashed from the Seascape minibar. Kitten’s fine because her toys and kibble were in my bags anyway. However, she keeps wandering to the door and trying to get her tiny paws underneath it. She’s a cat; curiosity is kind of a default setting.

The next day passes much the same. By the time the sun sets, its orange glow peeking through the one tiny window in my room, my stomach is growling like crazy. I give the box of granola bars a just-in-case shake. The empty foil wrappers inside it crinkle a little, confirming that I did, in fact, eat the whole box.

By the time midnight rolls around, I can’t take it anymore. We won’t get to Steelsville until tomorrow at noon, when we’ll be going straight to the venue for sound check. Even I can’t survive that long on air and water alone. Crawling on tiptoes, I inch toward the door and place my ear against the plastic panelling. It’s designed to look like wood, but it’s not fooling anyone.

No voices or sounds jump out at me, so I pull a Kitten and drop to my knees so I can peek under the crack for any signs of life. All that greets me is the faint yellow glow of the built-in night light that all tour buses have for safety. This one is over the small dining table.

My stomach growls one more time.

“I’m working on it,” I whisper out loud to the stupid organ before I crack the door a fraction and wait. The curtains are drawn across all three bunks, so I open it a little more. Just enough that I can slip through. One quiet footstep at a time, I make my way to the kitchen hoping there’s something in the fridge that I can scavenge.

What greets me when I open the little mini-fridge is a complete, but very welcome, shock. There’s a neatly rolled-up burrito with a Post-it Note stuck to the wrapper that reads, Don’t worry, there’s extra hot sauce—D. I can’t immediately tell from the handwriting if ‘D’ stands for Dallas or Dutch, since both of them have what you could call ‘chicken scratch,’ but based on actions alone, I’m putting my money on the latter.

I could microwave it, but that would definitely wake up at least one of the men I’m sharing the bus with, so I skip that step. Besides, a cold burrito is far from the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth. On that thought, I shudder, close the fridge and sneak my way back to the bedroom. As I pass the bunks, I swear I hear the smallest swish of fabric, and my eyes dart around for any sign of the curtains shifting. But I’m greeted by no movement at all.

Sound and silence reign instead, so I hustle my ass and only manage a full breath once the door is closed behind me.

Kitten’s green eyes flicker open from where she’s curled up amongst the blankets. She gives one soft meow in my direction, as if she’s ordering me to get my ass back to bed. Bossy little thing. Seems she’s gotten used to using my body as a pillow, and because I’m a sucker for that tiny cat, I obey. It’s my bed, and if I want to eat a cold burrito in my underwear while snuggling a kitten, that’s my fucking business.

I’m startled awake by another round of Cohen hammering on my door.

“Rain! Sound check! NOW!”

As it turns out, that burrito put me into a food coma. The wrapper is still sitting on my chest when I bolt upright.

Throwing on whatever clothes I can reach, I toss a scoop of food in the bowl for Kitten, then rush, make-up free into the venue. I’m dressed as if I’ve never seen a mirror before.

“Nice of you to make an appearance,” Cohen chides.

He also takes an extra second to sneer at the ratty T-shirt and sweatpants I’m wearing. Sue me if I didn’t dress up just for the two-minute walk from our tour bus into the venue.

Sound check goes smoothly enough, minus the fact that I am bombarded by memories from the last time the four of us were on stage together. The fear, the open chasm of ache, the shame, the hatred and fire in my chest, the anger, the just…everything, until eventually there was nothing left but the numbness. The blessed, blessed numbness that came from the steady stream of alcohol poured into my body for weeks afterwards, months afterwards, and for a few years after that.

It’s not until the four of us are crowded into the venue’s lone green room—Flamingos isn’t exactly huge—that it really dawns on me that I’m about to perform. Live. Again. In front of people, for the first time in ten years.

Nor am I the only one affected. Cohen is pacing and mumbling to himself. About what, I have no idea, though he keeps tossing his hands in the air like he’s having an argument with a ghost. The Kelly brothers are seated on opposite ends of the room’s only real piece of furniture, a plaid brocade sofa with tears in the fabric and that, even from where I lean against the door, stinks like rancid mixed drinks. The whole room does, actually. And with the past and present colliding hard, I won’t deny that temptation is scratching at me like an ugly fucking itch.

Just one. A refrain that’s been repeating in my brain ever since we finished mic-ing up. Except that’s a lie all addicts tell themselves. One hit. One drink. One time. It’s always, and I mean always, bullshit, which is why I’ve left the door open behind me, hoping that the small whiff of fresh air from the bar’s back door will help me stay strong.

As a distraction, I let myself get lost in watching Dax and Dutch. Their similarities and contradictions. They are yin and yang in so many ways, but at least as long as I’ve known them, always united. Only now, neither speaks. It’s a new pattern I’ve noticed since our band was brought back together.

To any outsider, Dutch would look completely relaxed. I know better. He’s got his muscular arms crossed over his chest, and thanks to the lack of sleeves on his cut-off muscle tee, I can see the chain tattoos that run up and down his arms. Chains that were designed to be broken. Many of the links are snapped, while others have flowers blooming from within them. His head is thrown back over the top of the couch, and the only sign he’s awake is the minuscule movements of his mouth. He could be asleep, except what he’s actually doing is repeating every beat of every song in his head.

Dallas is the opposite. He’s downright twitchy. The movements start at his fingertips, which are moving in fast-forward, making the shape of each chord. He’s slumped forward so his blonde hair, shaggy as ever, hangs in his face. But it’s the hood on his Sticky Icky band sweatshirt that he’s really using as a shield. His lips are downturned as always, but he too is fighting an invisible fight against cravings.

We always did have too many things in common, he and I. Our struggle with addiction is clearly the least of them.

The brothers prove such an effective distraction that I don’t notice the trio of folks at my back until I’m jostled sideways by one of them. Two dudes push into the room, each with a full rail of clothing in their extended arms. Then comes a girl. She’s got a similar build to my own, petite with hips and thick thighs that are hugged perfectly by her jeans. The difference is she’s got beautiful Mediterranean skin where I’m paler than the ghost of Christmas past and my pin-straight hair would never, and could never, do what her curls are currently managing.

Lou claps, drawing our attention and pronounces, “Right, Pistols, let’s make you stage-ready.”

The three new bodies scurry into action. The dudes grab my bandmates while the chick swings a toolbox the size of a suitcase out from God knows where.

“What the hell, Lou?” Cohen and Dutch ask in unison.