Page 42 of Pistol Whipped

His possessiveness and all these threats make no sense. In all the time we lived together, he barely gave two shits about where I was or what I did. Not that I can remind him as much when his hand grips my throat and squeezes.

In the right scenario, I’m actually very pro-choking. But this is far from the right scenario, and Trey is squeezing way too hard over my windpipe. I’m not just struggling to breathe, I’m battling for every scrap of air.

“Thing is, Rain, I didn’t realize what a special little prize I had until you left. And now there is nothing I won’t do to—”

He’s cut off by the old creaking and the gush of air that always accompanies the hydronic hinges of our bus door.

Someone is coming. That’s enough for him to drop me. I heave as oxygen rushes back into my lungs. There is no remaining on my feet while I try to catch my breath. It’s all I can do, using the bus as support, to lower my ass to the ground.

Trey watches, that strange smile still affixed to his face.

“See you soon, little rat,” he whispers before jogging around the corner and out of sight. I’m relieved that he’s gone, but I can’t move. Not at all. I don’t even turn when a voice shouts my name.

“Rainy?!” someone shouts. “Rainy?!” Dallas rushes forward and kneels at my side. “Rainy-girl, what happened? Why are you out here?” There’s a note of panic in his voice I’ve never heard before. “Rainy-girl, why are you crying?”

I didn’t realize I was, but considering his thumb swipes across my cheek and comes away wet, it’s the only plausible explanation. Dallas’s blue eyes note every inch of my face, and as only he could, he puzzles the pieces together. He might not know what happened, but he knows enough to see it was bad. He doesn’t ask me any other questions as he helps me to my feet.

“Let’s go.”

He escorts me onto the bus. There still aren’t any lights on, and so my brain trips over the fact that he was supposed to be asleep. I know it’s bizarre, but the only thing I can think of to ask is, “Did I wake you?” My voice is that quiet, pathetic version of itself that I hate so much.

“Rainy—no,” he says solemnly.

“But the lights…” I reply. I hate how torn up my voice sounds. All I can hope is that it heals before the Calder show.

“I had them off so I wouldn’t disturb the guys. But then Kitten started freaking out. She was screeching and crying and ran for the door. And she didn’t stop until I got my ass up. I think she knew…”

It’s as if he’s summoned her, because Kitten runs for me. She weaves herself between my still unsteady legs, purring and meowing quietly for me. Dallas reaches down, scoops her up and pours her into my waiting arms. And when she melts into my shoulders, well, that’s when the tears really start to fall.

“Let’s get you both to bed.” Dax guards my back as I stumble down the bus’s narrow hall with Kitten still in my arms.

He stops at my bedroom door, and the absence of him at my back makes me shiver. So much so that I succumb; I give in to the lonely ache that Trey always leaves inside of me, and I fucking beg, “Dax, please…please, don’t make me sleep alone. Just…just…stay.”

Maybe it’s the way my voice cracks or the fact that my shaking is getting worse every second I stay upright, but he gives me one slow nod and steps inside, sliding the door closed behind him.

“What the fuck?!” I’m woken by Cohen’s angry voice.

There’s an unfamiliar heat at my back, that I only realize is Dax when he curses, “Oh shit,” and scrambles from the bed to chase after Cohen. As usual.

Kitten stays, she snuggles in harder, and we remain that way for the entirety of the drive. It lasts two days. And just like the first leg of this fucking fiasco, I periodically hear the guys on the other side of the door throughout the drive from Watosk to Calder. Sometimes Dutch, less so Dallas, but most of all Cohen, who shouts at the other two for no good reason that I can understand.

Even when we arrive in our hometown, I can’t bring myself to leave the bed. Or look at myself in the mirror, since there are probably bruises around my throat. Not until Tina’s head pokes through the door.

“Dutch called me, babes. It’s time to get up, dust yourself off, and tell whatever asshole is currently living in your head to get fucked, even if it’s only metaphorically.”

With her help and encouragement, I eventually manage to get up, take a shower. Then I let her and the Double Ds treat me like a paper doll. They dress me and paint my face. But they also brew me honey-and-ginger tea to soothe my throat. There’s not much Tina can do about the bruises, but that’s where Dexter steps in, fastening a lacy, Victorian-style collar around my neck. Together, they remind me how strong I am, how much I am capable of and, best of all, promise me more spicy popcorn and chick flicks after the show if I can only scrape myself together.

Which I do. Barely. Sound check comes and goes. I pretend I don’t notice, but there’s no denying the way all three of my bandmates eye me warily as if I might crack, or worse, as if my voice will.

Yet, singing has the opposite effect. My voice starts smaller than normal, sure, but with every note, it gets stronger, and by the time we’ve run through the full set list, I’ve shaken off the last of Trey’s hold on my psyche.

Still, when the actual show starts, rather than embracing the love we receive from our hometown crowd, rather than taking in the cheers and the homemade signs spelling our names, I find myself scanning the crowd for any sign of him. Vetruviut Stadium is the biggest show we’ve played to date. It’s not quite as big as our largest show ever. That was at Rothus Arena at the end of the Skids Tour. Still, it’s damn huge, and there have got to be more than 10,000 people in attendance. That’s the kind of crowd we’ll need to get used to again ahead of Deviant Dreams.

Normally, a crowd this big would be awe-inducing. Instead, I’m terrified. My pulse skitters and jolts with every movement, because I’m certain that Trey is here somewhere. With so many people around, he could be anywhere.

This is the size of venue where one man could easily slip through the cracks, glide into places no one would ever think to look. But if I think about that, my voice will retreat completely. I focus instead on the crowd.

From the side of the stage, I visually pick out a girl and her group of friends in the front row. She looks young, or younger than me at least. She can’t have been more than thirteen when our first album came out, but she’s wearing a T-shirt with my face on it, artfully done in neon purple, that was only sold during our first tour. Together with one of her friends, they are holding up what looks to be a hand-painted sign that says: WE HEART YOU RAIN!