Page 38 of Pistol Whipped

It’s meant as a warning, but it comes out far too breathy for me to heed it.

“Na-ah,” I shush. “Keep that lying mouth shut,” I order, tempting fate by resting my finger against her mouth. Before she can fight back, the way she always does, the way I know she will, I push that finger into her hot, wet mouth.

On instinct, she sucks the digit, and my cock fucking jumps for joy. But of course, letting me enjoy the tight seal of her mouth would be far too easy for my Rainy, so the next second she pulls her tongue back and bites down. Hard.

“Fuck!” I cry, yanking my hand away. There are visible bite marks on my index finger.

“No, fuck you, Cohen! I don’t need this shit tonight.”

She tries to push me away. Too bad I don’t plan on making it easy for her either. Just how she likes it when she isn’t busy pretending to be someone she’s not. Instead, I just press myself against her with more force than before. Immediately, she can feel what I feel. My dick strains against the confines of the leather, as eager as ever to get to her.

My body might respond to her, but my mind is clear as I tell her, “This isn’t about you. For once.”

Bold as brass, her hand clamps like a vice around my shaft.

“Sure feels like this is about me.”

I groan. I can’t help it. She always did know exactly the right pressure. She continues to taunt me, “What? Not getting any from that imaginary girlfriend of yours?”

I’m not even sure she realizes she’s moving her hand, but God, I am all too aware. She’s practically jerking me off through the fabric of my pants. I have to grit my teeth to keep from openly fucking into her waiting palm.

“Better an imaginary partner than the Necker trash you’ve been fucking,” I finally manage to retort without blowing my load.

It didn’t take a genius to work out that the creep from the crowd tonight was the boyfriend in question. Especially not after seeing him mouth You’re mine at her. Motherfucker was wrong as hell, because I might not want her anymore, at least not in anything other than a physical way, but Rain Gamble will always be mine despite the denial which comes flying out of her mouth.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Dutch.”

She releases her hold on me, and her features turn to iron.

“You don’t get to judge me or my choices. You lost that right a long time ago.”

The reminder of our history is like a bucket of ice being dumped over my head. My dick goes from hero to zero in a half second. But like I said, my mind has been clear this whole time, and I’m not about to lose myself in Rain Gamble again. I tear myself back from her enough that there’s space at her side for me to kick the dressing room door off its goddamn hinges. The metal of it smashes, and there’s what will likely be a permanent dent in it.

“I didn’t lose the right to judge you. You just lost the privilege of having me give a shit. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

She races from the room. Always fucking running, that girl. Probably because she can’t bear to take responsibility for her shitty choices. Not that I can say fuck all right now. I look at the door, which hangs lopsided thanks to a now-broken top hinge. I’ll call tomorrow and give the venue owner a credit card number to cover the cost of the repair because this isn’t like when we were broke kids. I’m Cohen Brady, and in addition to leading this band, I’m one of the faces of my family’s company, and the last thing I need is my reputation ruined by bad, rockstar behaviour.

Therein lies the fucking problem. Rain Gamble makes me crazy. She has this way of pulling everyone around her in, making them feel like they are the most important people in her whole world, only for her to turn tail and run so fast it’ll give you whiplash; so fast, it’ll fuck up your whole life and leave you a hollowed-out mess. The longer I’m around her, the more I revert to that mess. The worst version of myself. The version that led myself and others right into the line of fire.

So I watch her run down the hall. I let her go. Because I never want to be that person again. Although if I jerk off in the dressing room shower thinking about a certain purple-haired brat, well, that’s my fucking business.

Interlude 8

Feeling This

Cohen – aged 19

Our second album comes out tomorrow, and yet my girl’s not here beside me celebrating. She oiled out early, citing a hangover and that she and Dutch were gonna go catch a movie. Which had me fucking side-eyeing him. I sometimes think their friendship is a little too close. I don’t like it.

But mentioning that to Rain is a one-way ticket to her cussing my ass out. I made that mistake once and believe me, never again. Although it was easy enough to get her to forgive me when I got down on my knees and devoured her pretty cunt until she creamed all over my face. Little does she know that I could happily die down there, so fifteen minutes of head was nothing. Still, with how often we’ve been fighting lately, I made the decision to keep the peace by keeping my mouth shut. Besides, Dutch takes her to see all the girly romance movies that I hate, so in a way, my boy is doing me a favour. Still, it’s a bummer that we’re not out partying tonight as a band, about to have the highest-selling punk record of all time if the response to the first single is anything to go by.

The song ‘West Coast Trash’ has been getting crazyyyyyyy levels of radio play. The record label also produced a special edition vinyl that Lou told us was selling out all over. Hence the need to celebrate, get a little wild, before we’re cooped up on a bus for the next six months touring. It’s not that I don’t love being on tour. I do. Being on stage every night and hearing people cheer, seeing fans cry, signing T-shirts, every last drop of it feeds my soul. It’s also damn near exhausting, and opportunities to blow off a little steam are few and far between. Usually only a possibility if we’re in the same city for a few nights, and even then, we’re more recognizable now than we used to be. Between paparazzi, magazine covers, and the crazy interviews we’ve done recently, a couple of which have gone mega viral because of our antics, we tend to get spotted and swarmed.

According to Lou and the record label lawyers, we have to be careful now. Still, I’m going to take my shot tonight, and since Rain’s not with me, it’s more likely I’ll be able to get away with it since she’s the most recognizable out of all of us. I knock on the door in front of me. I’m here to pick up one person I know won’t abandon me.

I’ve never been to the Kelly brothers’ apartment. Hell, they’ve hardly been here thanks to our year-long tour for the first album. When Dallas opens the door, the quick glance I get of it over his shoulder is pretty sparse. It looks more like a squeaky-clean student rental than the home of two rockstar brothers.

His blue eyes are so wide, and he stutters, “C-Cohen? What are you doing here?”