Page 27 of Pistol Whipped

He leaves out that this short tour is just a run-up to Deviant Dreams. It’s a tactic to drive ticket sales for these first shows. And judging by the response from the crowd as each successive city is announced, it will probably work.

Cambria, Nova Scotia. Huge cheers explode and don’t stop as Lou announces the other cities.

Mont-Royale, Quebec.

Barrett Hills, Ontario.

Watosk, Alberta.

And finally, finally, Lou calls out, “Calder, British Columbia.”

The volume inside the club reaches new levels. Even I cheer. Because it’s our hometown show, and hometown shows are always special, but this time it will be even more so, because that’s where we’ll do the big headline reveal.

With a final announcement, Lou stares down the barrel of the TV crew I’ve only just noticed smack in the middle of the floor, “Tickets go on sale tomorrow at 10 a.m.”

He then scurries backstage. Cohen follows, but not before lifting his guitar in the air and waving it for the crowd. Dallas follows shortly after; more shy than Cohen always, he gives the tiniest wave and smiles too. Finally, there goes Dutch, but not before he joins me near the front. His smile is beaming, a mile wide, and I fight with my own eyes not to stare at the way sweat glistens along his every muscle. There are these veins along his arms, in particular. The sickest part of me wants to lick the sweat from them before he can shower it away. Maybe it’s just the high of the performance, though, because he doesn’t look my way. He’s got both of his drumsticks in hand. He yells to the crowd, “Who wants ’em?!”

The floor shakes from the hundreds of fans jumping and crying out. Pleased with their response, he lifts the sticks and, one at a time, tosses them across the room. Both times the crowd shifts and cheers again when two fans on opposite sides of the bar are rewarded for their good hand-eye coordination. Dutch, then too, gives one last wave before following his brother off stage. I can’t bring myself to walk away, not yet.

Up here, I’m Rain Gamble, singer, rockstar. Away from the fans and the bright lights, I’m just Rain. The girl who made so many mistakes, who hurt so many people. Herself most of all.

There’s a final roar from the crowd just before the lights finally dim, and the curtain drops. Reality sets in. I’m alone up here, and I hate it. This is my second chance. Our second chance, and I don’t want to be the one to ruin it. Secrets and fear sent me spiralling the first time around. Not this time. If I tell them everything now, while the high of performing is still fresh for all of us, there’s a tiny fraction of a chance they’ll forgive me.

Interlude 5

Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have

Rain – aged 18

We storm off stage as one big group. I’m tucked under Cohen’s arm, and behind me, Dutch is whooping and hauling his brother with us.

“Number one, babyyyyyyy!” Cohen cheers. He temporarily removes his arm from around me, and from somewhere, someone hands him a bottle of champagne. He opens it violently, sending a spray of fizz all over us. Even Dallas can’t fight off a laugh. We’re all celebrating tonight.

We’ve just played our biggest show ever. The Rothus Arena. Calder’s biggest stadium. Not to mention that our album debuted yesterday at the very top of the Hot 100 charts.

We have officially made it.

So, yeah, of course we’re celebrating. Technically, only Dutch is of legal drinking age, but as we leave the venue by the back doors and stumble together into the limo waiting for us, there’s no way we’re letting that stop us, just like there was no way that the promoter who owns the Kitty Kat Club was turning us away when we showed up at his club ready to party. Not when our faces are also splashed across billboards all over Calder. Plus, this place was Lou’s suggestion because apparently this guy is a pal of his. He shakes Cohen’s hand and introduces himself as Bruce Cooper. His hand looks equal parts doughy and sweaty, and I’m not interested in touching it. But before I can dart past him, he grabs my wrist.

Unlike Cohen, I don’t get a handshake. The guy lifts my fingers to his lips and kisses them like I’m some kind of princess. Thanks to the music pumping out of the club, no one can hear me gag.

I do, however, catch Dallas’s eye, and he mimes being sick back at me. Dutch, too, has his lip curled in disgust, enough that he grabs my other arm and steps into my place in front of doughy old Bruce.

“Lou said you’d have a private booth and bottle service for us?” Dutch is doing his best scary-man impression. People see a big Black man and make assumptions. Dutch usually hates it because he is, in fact, a teddy bear. Occasionally though, if it wards off creepers, he’ll lean into it. Judging by the slight tremor in Bruce’s voice when he replies, it works. Next thing we know, we’re being escorted by Bruce and one of the club’s security guards up some stairs, past a series of tables. Some are curtained off, so it’s unclear if anyone’s using them. Others are filled with groups of people, their tables littered with expensive-looking liquor bottles. We even pass one where a girl is draped across the table with two men and one woman seated around her, dripping what looks to be vodka over her skin.

My eyes linger on the sight of it and a new flame of heat burns low in my core. It’s rude to stare, Grams would tell me, but when Bruce settles us in at the table next to them, I can’t help it. Nor can Cohen, it seems, who slides into the booth beside me.

We both watch as the two men glide their hands up the woman’s long, tanned legs. Meanwhile, at the head of the table, the other woman wraps the table girl’s long sandy curls around her fist and uses her grip to pull her into a passionate kiss.

All the while, my skin feels hot. Too hot. I’m turned on and jealous. I’m not even really sure who I’m jealous of. Do I want to be the girl at the table or one of the other three? I also worry I’m witnessing something wrong and all too right. One of the men notices me staring and winks.

That’s enough for Cohen.

“Ugh”—he tugs me close to his side—“Ignore them, babe, that’s so…” His voice dies out, but his features scream disapproval. Which is confirmed when he spins me back to face the table in front of us, where Dallas sits with his head hung forward. All the post-show happiness is gone. Dutch watches me with the same irritated face he had when talking to Bruce. Ever oblivious, Cohen can’t help but spout whatever’s in his head at any given moment. “So glad you’re not like that, babe.”

He goes to kiss my head, but his comment rankles, and I pull away.

“Like what, Cohen?” I hear myself ask. The heat in my gut curdles when he answers, “I don’t know, just like…that. Like her.”