3. Chapter 3 #2
The day Lou came into our lives still goes down in my books as the worst thing that ever happened to us. I remember it like it was yesterday. His big black car, fancy driver and all, pulled up outside Gram’s place and offered to get us “outta’ this dump.”
Cohen, of course, said yes. Where Cohen Brady went, the rest of us followed. We were teenagers, not even out of high school and naive as hell, but so fucking excited. Lou Braun was going to make us, a bunch of rag-tag nobodies, rich and famous.
Only when the day came, and Lou arrived to pick us up, I couldn’t shake the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
His driver parked this big black town car at the end of Gram’s driveway, and he held the door open for all of us.
The boys dove in headfirst, but the closer I got to his car, the more I shook, and the more I shook, the more Lou looked at me like I was a basket of fries he couldn’t wait to devour.
The wink he tossed me right before the door closed made me want to run back up to the front porch, back to Grams, and the comfort of a world I understood.
I should’ve listened to my instinct. But teenage hormones make you dumb, and when Cohen stuck his face, all bright green eyes and brown curls, out the car door and called, “Yo, Rainy-girl, get in already!” I was helpless to resist.
Looking back, that was the beginning of the end.
Those four wild children were still there inside of us. All it took was a little bit of money in our hands and the tiniest taste of real fame on our tongues to bring them out. Egged on by Lou-fucking-Braun.
All of which sent me crash-landing right back into The Neck, right back to Grams. But even that didn’t last long. And I can’t last much longer sitting out here in the dark.
My teeth chatter, and my toes, long gone numb, make my steps slow as I meander my way back to Flynn’s.
By the time I get there, I have totally convinced myself that Lou’s appearance at the bar, his song choice, all of it was some kind of sick coincidence.
One I’ll collapse into bed and forget about.
I let myself in through the back door. Last call was hours ago now, and the bar is quiet.
There’s no sign of Resa or Mickey or anyone else, so I don’t bother doing a sweep before climbing the steps up to our apartment.
All while praying Trey is already asleep so I don’t have to listen to him give me some sad-sack speech about how he and Resa “weren’t doing anything.
” The door creaks only the tiniest bit as I slip through it, and I know just where to step on each of the ancient floorboards to keep them from making a sound.
Needlessly, as it turns out, the light from the bedroom is casting a shadow down the narrow hall and into the apartment’s kitchenette—you can’t really call it a kitchen when it has nothing more than a microwave and a hot plate.
“Rain,” Trey’s flat voice calls, and though I round the corner to follow it, it is with all the wariness in the world.
Nothing like fighting with your boyfriend at 4 a.m. to remind you of your rockstar days.
The difference between then and now is that, unlike with Cohen, Trey and I almost certainly won’t be having make-me-cum-so-hard-I-see-God makeup sex after whatever fight we’re about to have.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at me with hard empty eyes, is Trey.
It’s his balled hands that draw my notice.
He’s never hit me before, but there’s a first time for everything.
Unlike his eyes, his hands aren’t empty.
Clutched between the fingers of his right hand is a familiar yellowing envelope, the sight of which sends my stomach plummeting through the floor.
My nest egg.
My rainy day—yes, I get the joke—fund.
The one I’ve been keeping secret.
He’s off the bed and moving, coming at me with his shoulders hunched.
“What the fuck is this?!” he screams. “Have you been fucking hiding this from me?!” He shakes the envelope in my face. “What the fuck, Rain?!”
I step back, only to miss the doorframe and end up with my spine glued to the peeling paint of the wall instead and a boyfriend I’m not even sure I like anymore looming over me.
“I told you the landlord was raising our rent! And you’ve been fucking holding out on me this whole time?!”
Trey crowds my personal space. His hot breath hits my cheeks, and it stinks of tequila. I very nearly retch, or maybe I almost inhale, because sober and drunk Rain want very different things.
“Where’d you get this much cash, anyway? You whoring yourself out? You turning tricks like the corner girls, huh, Rain?”
I don’t have time to answer before I hear it. The crunch of his fist hits through the wall centimetres from my ear. The money, my money, so neatly stored a second ago, flutters around us both.
I don’t dare move or speak. But inside I’m screaming.
Kicking and screaming while Trey scrabbles for every single bill.
He even drops to his knees and crawls around the floor like the desperate creature he is.
Maybe we’re both desperate, because seconds later I’m crawling too.
But I never get the chance to pocket even a single bill before my wrist is snatched up between his tattooed fingers.
“I don’t fucking think so, baby.”
The term of endearment is not comforting in the slightest.
“If you want somewhere to sleep tonight, you’re going to let me take every last cent,” he hisses, and my fingers freeze.
Grams always said there was a disconnect between my brain and my mouth.
“You’re real quiet on the outside Rainy-girl, but inside, I know you’re screaming,” she used to say to me anytime I got annoyed or frustrated. Anytime I felt anything really. She was the only person who could tell what I was feeling. Except when I sang.
Then everyone knew.
Good thing I don’t sing anymore. Or Trey would know how close I am to dying inside while I watch him pick my money off our shitty broken floor. He stuffs most of it into his pockets, while some of it is still clutched in his left hand.
“At least now we’ll make May’s rent.”
We will. And I’ll be stuck now for who knows how long. It took me over a year to amass that amount of money, and it’s gone, along with my dreams of leaving Trey, of leaving Flynn’s, of leaving The Neck. All I can do is stare after it as Trey gets to his feet.
“Oh, and Rain, don’t think I forgot about your little temper tantrum tonight. That guy you were running from left a little note for you.”
He thumbs in the direction of the folded piece of paper still sitting on our bed.
“The guy looked like he had money. God knows, you could probably use some.” He laughs to himself like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard, only to return to the terrifying monster he was moments ago. “Whatever he’s offering you, take it.”
His cheerful statement belies the threat of “or else” that sits at the end of that sentence.
It doesn’t bear saying out loud. It’s laced into every syllable.
Only, I can’t keep up with the mood switches in his brain, because he’s all smiles again, “I’m crashing at Resa’s.
Go see Mr. Moneybags but make sure you’re back in time for your shift tomorrow. ”
He leaves, and only when the door slams behind him do I start screaming.