Page 60 of Pistol Whipped

Kitten meows from my lap. It’s a frustrated little squeak that interrupts my listening and makes me realize that somewhere along the line, I joined in. Subconsciously, I’d started humming a low baseline and using my fingers to drum out a beat on the table. Poor cat was tired of getting jostled, enough that she jumped off my lap and stalked off to Rain’s bedroom in a huff. Like mother, like Kitten.

Her departure makes Cohen’s fingers still. Only briefly, however, and once she’s out of his line of sight, he repeats that same chord progression. This time, though, my ear is more finely tuned to it, appreciating the patter he keeps repeating until his fingers falter again.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” he replies. His shoulders are curved. His whole body adopts a defensive posture since I called him out for being a kept boy.

“It didn’t sound like nothing,” I prod.

It sounded like so much more than nothing. Enough to get me off my ass. I retrieve my bass from that same extra bunk. I sling the strap over my shoulders and then approach Cohen. After a small nudge, he shifts into the corner, creating enough space for me to sit too. It’s a tight squeeze. Our knees knock together. He eyes me, under his dark lashes, with so many questions written all over his beautiful face.

“Play it again, Co.”

And play, he does. Somewhere after the third time, I join in. My bass adds depth, an underlying current of something darker that I can’t name, yet the juxtaposition of the lower bass notes and the high, more pop-friendly ones coming from Cohen create a great sound.

“Again,” I challenge when our current rift ends. We play that same riff over and over, adding pieces each time.

Side by side, the afternoon slips away. It isn’t until a ray of evening sun temporarily blinds me despite the bus’s tinted windows that I pull the guitar off my lap. Not because we’re done. But I need a notepad or a phone or something, anything, where I can write our composition out. I’m halfway to my bunk when Kitten dashes through my legs. Her magic cat-hearing trumps ours, and she’s nearly at the door before I even hear it open.

My faith in Rain from earlier today is validated. She strides onto the bus first, and behind her I can just make out the top of my brother’s twists. Rain’s ready and manages to catch Kitten when she jumps into her adoptive mom’s arms. Rain nuzzles her face into Kitten’s fur, and both girls seem to sigh with relief.

“I’m sorry I was gone so long, sweetheart,” Rain coos. “I’ll always come back for you. We’re a team, you and me.”

The cat presses in closer against Rain’s chest, but the woman herself lifts her gaze and captures mine. “Thank you, Dallas.”

My name on her lips sounds exactly the way it did when we were kids. When she’d take my hand. A familiar vice tightens around my heart, only this time I’m glad it’s there. For a brief moment, we’re caught up in that vortex of past and present, of the two sad kids grateful to have found someone else who gets it. But like I said, brief, because Cohen, as usual, is the one to snap us both out of it.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?!”

That’s when I look closer beyond my Rainy-girl’s face. I take in her clothes, or should I say Dutch’s clothes on Rain’s body, and the way my brother’s hand is nestled at the curve of her ass and for another brief second, I could almost be happy for them. Until Cohen’s expression registers too and I watch his heart fracture in real time. For Rain. Again.

“Fuck this. I’m outta here.” He shoves between the two of them and storms off the bus. All three of us watch him go, but I’m the only one who knows that he could have left hours and hours ago and instead chose to stay. Like the naive, ever-hopeful idiot I am, I thought he stayed for me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He stayed for her. It was always for Rain. It always would be.

Chapter 30

Downfall of Us All

Cohen

“Fucking idiot,” I cuss myself out for the umpteenth time. My dumb ass left all his shit back on the bus, phone and wallet very much included. And since Vetruviut Stadium is on the fringes of downtown and there’s no show scheduled tonight, I had to hoof it to Ocean Ave and Calder’s main strip. Between the busy waterfront, the many businesses, and the restaurants, there are always cabs and ride-shares kicking around.

I managed to snag one, thankful he didn’t say shit about payment until we pulled up to the house. Only for me to realize that my keys were yet another item I left behind. Hence, my newfound title of “fucking idiot” because even though my parents always keep an envelope of spare cash in the dresser by the front door, that’s kind of impossible to get to without a goddamned key. Pretty embarrassing to watch a man in his thirties break into his own house like a petty crook.

But after swearing to the driver that I am coming back, that’s exactly what I do. I hop the fence—something that was a hell of a lot easier when I was eighteen and sneaking out to meet Rain and the guys. Now my left knee aches a little from the drop. Then again, the fence back at our old house in The Neck wasn’t anywhere near as tall as this one. Back then, Mom and Dad didn’t have much worth stealing.

Our cleaner has a bad habit of forgetting to lock the back doors that lead out to the pool. I know Mom’s spoken to her about it in the past, but when the door handle gives way under my palm, I make a promise to take the blame from here on out.

Once the cab driver is paid, though, there is nothing left to distract me from my own thoughts. Thoughts that are plagued by images of Rain and Dutch together. Questions rampage across my mind.

Did they have sex?

Did she let her inner brat out to play?

Did she submit to him with a fight like she always did with me?

And worst of all: Does she love him? Does she love him more than she loved me?

All stupid things to be worried about considering what she did. Considering we’ve been broken up now way longer than we were ever together. I wish that I could let it go. I wish I could pour everything I’m feeling now into my guitar.