4. Chapter 4
Ocean Avenue
Rain
Not all of The Neck is a complete shithole. It’s just so rare that I come to the part that isn’t, that I tend to forget it exists.
I’m not saying it’s a big part. It’s basically just one street.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Shorefront Street, so-called because it runs parallel to Calder’s oceanfront park.
From the glass-fronted skyscrapers to the luxury condos with high-end brunch spots at their base, every building along this street offers stunning views out over the ocean.
The only thing I can guarantee is that none of these buildings have windows that face the opposite direction, because then the rich motherfuckers that spend their days down here and their nights up in The Head would have to actually face the truth.
That their palaces of chrome are built on the backs of our suffering.
I should have known this is where I’d find Lou. Not that I’d been looking for him. He was always so fucking cock-sure, so smug, so certain that the world owed him the power and money he craved. Judging by the tall column of a building in front of me, it seems like he finally got his wish.
From across the street, I watch dudes in suits and girls in too-tight pencil skirts come and go.
I’ve been sitting on this city bench for over an hour.
Meanwhile, I’ve watched at least five different women kiss their banker husbands goodbye only to get straight into different, though still expensive, cars with much younger men.
And in one case, the hottest woman I’ve ever seen in real life.
No judgement from me. Hell, I wanted to applaud them.
Bartenders work hard, but sex workers work harder.
Too bad there’s only so long I can sit here. I have five more minutes to decide on a course of action. Do I get up, stomp my broke ass back to The Neck proper where I’ll have to find a new place to live and probably a new job too? Or do I walk my dusty-looking self into Ocean County Records?
Last night, I didn’t have the energy to read Lou’s note. I was too busy crying myself to sleep. But at the crack of dawn—really eight a.m.—this morning, I finally did, and though I’ve re-read it twenty times since, I can’t help but run my eyes over it one more time.
No need to run from me, Ray-Ray.
There are many iterations of my name that I love: Rainy, Rainy-girl, Rainy-bear, but let me tell you that Ray-Ray is absolutely NOT one of them.
You weren’t easy to find, but I’m sure you remember how resourceful I can be.
The stomach-turning feeling from last night has nothing on how I feel every time I read those words.
I remember the look in your eyes the day I cut The Pistols loose.
It was the right call. No hard feelings, and all that.
Only, things have changed. And now that I’ve finally tracked you down, I can piece things back together.
In fact, I’m offering you a chance to get away from The Neck and back to everything you ever wanted.
All you have to do is show up. Who knows, you might see an old friend. Or two. Or three.
Lou’s never been as subtle as he thinks he is, and his note is proof. I know exactly the mess I’ll be walking into, but what choice do I have?
The clock in the lobby is striking the hour when I finally gather up the courage to approach the reception desk.
The three girls sitting behind it are all younger than me, better dressed, and can’t help but eye my torn-up threads with suspicion.
I don’t blame them. I looked in the mirror this morning.
I know exactly what kind of a mess I look like.
Between the heavy purple bags under my eyes and my stringy, unwashed hair, it’s not good.
I grit my teeth, swallow what little pride I have left and say, “Um, Rain Gamble here to see Lou Braun. I, uh, have an appointment?”
The girls all look as skeptical about that as I sound, so much so that their ringleader picks up the phone and dials.
“Mr. Braun, there’s a woman here”—she eyes me up and down again—“she’s claiming to be Rain—”
She doesn’t get to finish her sentence. Whatever Lou says makes her eyes turn the size of dinner plates, and now she’s watching me with shock and awe. A look that stays glued to her face as she ends the call with a sycophantic, “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir.”
No one is more surprised than me when she gets up and comes around the desk. Her tone is completely different as she takes me by the arm, like we’re suddenly old friends.
“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Gamble.”
She starts walking, guiding us down the hall towards three elevators lined up waiting for us.
Her heels click on the tiles, white and polished within an inch of their lives.
Every single surface in here shines from the floors to the walls to the glossy chrome doors of the elevator.
There is no escaping my reflection until there’s a ding and the doors open.
Thankfully, the walls inside the elevator are painted so I’m not treated by my own exhaustion at every damn turn.
Only now, there’s no escaping the receptionist’s chatter.
Where before it was all side-eyes and suspicion, now she’s morphed into the biggest Pistols fan in the world.
I fight the desire to roll my eyes as she swears that our song ‘Sneaky Love’ is the best and how “It just means so much,” because of some shit from her past. If I thought for a second that was true, I’d say thank you.
But I’m willing to bet this girl does this with every last artist that walks through the door.
I miss exactly what makes my song so special to her because I’m too busy staring at the digital screen over our heads.
We’re moving fast. The numbers keep rising.
Fifth floor. Tenth floor. We don’t stop.
When the doors finally open at the twentieth, I realize we must be on the executive floor, and I haven’t heard a damn word the woman beside me has said in minutes.
It’s all lost to the static buzzing in my ears, to the hammering beat of my heart and rhythmic cries for help that are trapped in my throat as we leave the safety of the elevator.
There are too many eyes on us the second we step out of the lift.
From inside their glass-fronted offices, I can’t exactly see anyone, other than the odd assistant scrabbling past us, hands full of coffee or files.
It’s the weight of their stares that I feel.
It coats my skin, all the questions and curiosity and doubt. Always doubt.
Doubt that I could be the same girl who used to be so damn famous. Doubt as to my purpose in this building. Stretching further back, there are deeper doubts. Ones about what happened to me, to my band, or the rumours about my relationship, my voice, my words, and songs.
Every chorus I’ve ever written has been called into question.
Some DJ on the radio asking if it was Cohen who actually wrote the lyrics to ‘West Coast Trash’ or Dax who actually came up with the title of our second album, because no eighteen-year-old girl would think of calling it Skids in Skateparks.
The simmering frustration threatens to bubble over when I almost stumble into the receptionist, who has now stopped and knocked on a solid black door.
“Come in,” comes the call from inside. Lou’s voice once again causes my body to seize up against my will. No running this time, though, so I guess I could consider that a sign of improvement.
The girl enters ahead of me. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Braun, I’ve got Ms. Gamble here.”
I don’t look up. I can’t. If I have to look into Lou’s eyes, I will split again. And fuck myself royally in the process. So generic office carpet it is.
“Thank you, Caitlin.”
“It’s Cather—”
“You can go now,” he says.
She exits to my left, and I hear her mumble to herself, “I’ve worked here for five years,” as she shuts the door.
Same old Lou. The little people don’t matter. I don’t matter, not really, not beyond whatever selfish reason he has for getting me here today.
“So glad you could join us, Ray-Ray. I take it you got my little note?”
His voice is light, but with an undercurrent of victory. Like he’s won some sort of game I don’t even know the rules for. And I guess he kinda did because when another voice cuts in from the far side of the room, I don’t just look up, I don’t just freeze. I die inside.
Lou did warn me they’d be here. But it’s been nearly ten years since I’ve seen them. Now all three of my former bandmates, former best friends, are right here in front of me.
Judging by the way Dutch’s hand rests on my ex-boyfriend’s shoulders, and the way Dallas slips a little deeper into the leather chair he’s occupying, neither of them cares to acknowledge my presence.
Without looking at me once, and with all his usual sarcasm well intact, Cohen Brady drawls, “Care to tell us what the fuck this is about? Because if history is anything to go by, we have about two-point-five seconds before Rain over there does something to fuck us all over.”
Forgiving and forgetting never was Cohen’s style.