Page 62 of Pistol Whipped

“Your father and I are coming home. We are signing the paperwork with Evgeny Sidorov tomorrow at noon, and then we’ll be on the next flight to Calder. In the meantime, I suggest you take another look at that contract you signed with Orange County Records because McQuaid Senior is seriously concerned that shit isn’t as kosher as it seems.”

Told you the woman had no issue with swearing. And although I don’t love being lectured by my mother now, any more than I did at seventeen, with the wisdom of hindsight I know she was almost always right back then, and she’s probably right now.

From the jump, my spidey-senses have been going off about this new contract with Lou Braun. I wish her and Dad good luck with the signing, and the second I hang up, I make my way to the pool house. Lou had no choice but to give us copies of our contract, and I know for a fact mine is still sitting beside my bed from the day Dax and I signed. Looks like it is time for a re-read.

An hour later, my eyes burn from squinting at the pages over and over again. I might not be a contract lawyer like Travis McQuaid Senior, but I know enough to know the deal we’ve signed isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Worse still, it’ll be our downfall.

Chapter 31

Over My Head

Rain

We took a cab back to the stadium and the tour bus. I hardly noticed the entire drive because I was too distracted by the warmth of Dutch’s embrace and, okay, maybe by the way his muscles rippled under those chain-link tattoos of his. It was like being in a happy little bubble.

One that popped the second I came face-to-face with Cohen again. And even worse, I had to watch Dax’s face fall as Cohen stormed off without even so much as a goodbye.

Kitten is still in my arms as I step towards the other Kelly brother and thank him for taking care of her.

“It’s nothing,” he whispers. His shoulders are already hunching inward, and I have no idea what to say, so I glance back at Dutch, hoping he’s got some answers for me. He juts his chin towards the bedroom at the back of the bus, and mouths, Go, as he wraps his arm around his brother.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Kitten and I retreat to the small, but familiar room, and in mere minutes we are both snuggled up amidst the sheets. I’m still in Dutch’s clothes, so his big sweater plus the duvet means that we are in comfort-city. Only, once we’ve settled, it becomes impossible to ignore the conversation happening on the other side of the door.

“Congratulations, brother, you finally got the girl.”

It’s not only the most words I’ve heard Dallas say to his brother since this whole crazy thing started, but it’s also derisive as hell. If I wasn’t so cozy or interested in what Dutch and I walked in on, maybe I’d go out there and give him shit. Instead, my head drifts back on the pillow, and I listen.

“Because I told the truth, brother. I finally told Rain exactly how I feel instead of waiting for her to read my mind.”

Dallas doesn’t respond beyond a scoff.

“Seriously, you should try it sometime; the truth might just set you free. And even if you don’t like the outcome, at least maybe then you could move on.”

Move on from what? Or does he mean from who? Eavesdropping on them like this is definitely wrong, but my circumstances and curiosity make it impossible not to. I’ve always thought that Dallas, with his history, just wasn’t that interested in sex or romance or any of it. Nobody could blame him, but Dutch’s words made it sound like that is not the case.

“You fuck Rain one time, and suddenly you’re some love guru?” Dax snorts. “A goddamn hypocrite is what you are, brother.”

“No.”

There’s a thud, like Dutch has bumped his hand against the table out there.

“No, little brother, what I am concerned about is all of this.”

That statement is followed by more sounds; this time it’s the faint rustling of paper.

“You’re pulling this big brother, superhero shit all because Cohen and I wrote some music together? Did you forget we’re in a band? That’s what we’re supposed to do.” Dax’s annoyance with his brother is clear as day. And in all fairness, absolutely correct.

From the moment Grams and Mr. Brady handed us instruments, Dallas and Cohen have been writing music together. It’s their thing.

“It’s not about the music, Dax, and you know that. It’s this obsession. I hate what it does to you!” Dutch insists.

“I’m not a little kid anymore; you don’t need to save me!”

“I don’t?” Dutch’s deep voice morphs into something darker. There is also an undeniable skepticism in that question, and it’s clear why, when it’s followed by plain old anger.

“Then why is there a dose of Naloxone in my truck at all times, huh? Why can I list the symptoms of withdrawal like they’re lyrics I’ve memorized? Why do I know what it looks like to watch you die?”

That last question is followed by a beat of silence, then another, before Dax’s voice strains, “You want to talk about obsession, brother? You’re the one who’s obsessed with being the hero. For me. For Rain. When are you going to realize that we don’t need it? Maybe if you’d have less time being a self-sacrificing bitch and more time trying to get the girl, you wouldn’t have had to wait twelve years!”