6. Chapter 5
Amnesia
Cohen
I wish she didn’t still smell like raspberries.
I wish that my body didn’t track her from the second she walked in this room.
That I didn’t have this disembodied awareness of her for every second of every minute we’re forced to breathe the same air.
Most of all, I wish I could forget the soft press of her lips, the warmth of her small frame tucked under my arm, or the way it felt to fall asleep with her glued against my chest.
The fact that I can’t do any of that shit just pisses me off and makes me that much keener to get the hell out of this room.
The only reason I even agreed to this stupid meeting was out of some twisted sense of obligation to help Dallas who doesn’t even seem to register where we are.
According to Dutch, the hope is that getting back to music might give him something worth staying alive for, worth staying clean for.
Seems idiotic now considering that he is strung-the-fuck-out in the chair beside me.
“C’mon Lou, let’s get on with it,” I urge again after my previous prompt did nothing but make him chortle behind his fancy fucking desk. This office, with its leather furniture and ocean views, is a long way from where our story with him started.
“As you wish,”
Lou spreads his arms and open palms across his ludicrous crystal desktop. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you that this year is the ten-year anniversary of A Thousand Hearts.”
I am about to grunt, because of course I’m fucking aware. I wrote the damn music after all. Only a gasp from Rain beats me to it. Guess she had no trouble forgetting. No surprise there, considering the way she conveniently forgot about our relationship the second she got a better offer.
Call me immature. Call me whatever. But at thirty-one years old and nearly ten years on, I’m still pissed.
Rain Gamble was my first kiss, my first love, my first everything.
She was the girl I planned to marry. She was the girl in every song I wrote, the taste of her embedded in every single note until I learned, in the hardest and most painful way possible, that the feeling wasn’t exactly mutual.
Let her gasp.
“And what does that have to do with us?” Dutch is the first to return us to the topic at hand.
“It’s not like we’re those same kids, Lou. Hell, I haven’t picked up a drumstick in years.”
My body jolts at that little piece of information.
My gaze flicks to Dutch, who simply shrugs at my shock.
It is hard to believe it’s been that long.
Then again, it’s been over a year since I’ve seen the guy.
The only time he calls these days is to warn me that Dallas is back on his bullshit and refusing his brother’s help.
Something that has happened on and off again over the past ten years, and right now, is very much on again.
My eyes shift from one brother to the other, only to find my best friend shivering in his sleep. At the sight of him, I back Dutch up. “Yeah, and I’m not exactly writing much music these days.”
That’s because the day I lost the girl on the far side of this office was the day the music died.
Hearing my confession is enough to finally force Rain to look at me.
She still doesn’t utter a word. Quiet as always.
The only times she isn’t is when she sings, or when she’s being such a fucking brat, or when I was making her scream her way through orgasm after orgasm.
My green eyes meet hers, and her stare is as violet and violent as I remember.
Ignoring the weight of those hypnotizing eyes has me stammering, “We’re busy.
Well, at least me and the boys here. We’ve got lives.
Real lives. We don’t have time to play pretend anymore.
We’re adults. With jobs. And girlfriends. ”
Suck it, Rainy. Okay, the girlfriend part isn’t true, at least not for me, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Lou left me no time to gloat.
“If you’re not interested…” he says, leaning back in his chair so the sun’s rays bounce off the Pacific Ocean halo around him. The man watches me with a smug smile that hints he knows exactly what my next question is.
“Interested in what? You still haven’t told us what this is about.”
Cagey as ever, but with a shit-eating grin on his face, he answers, “You know what else is celebrating its ten-year anniversary this year?”
OH FUCK.
Deviant Dreams. The biggest show in punk-rock history.
Basically, a travelling rock’n’roll circus, where a full lineup of punk bands tour the country playing in giant festival grounds to crowds bigger than any stadium could hold.
The moment we hoped for but never got. My white-fucking-whale.
We were finally booked to headline when our band self-combusted a month before.
I blink and on the inside of my eyelids is a vision of the stage, lit bright blue.
Dutch behind his classic Elektric Brand drum kit.
Dallas, with his long scruffy blond hair side-swiping his wry smile.
And Rain. Rain, in her big black boots, with hair down to her ass glowing purple under those lights, and the microphone poised against her perfect Cupid’s bow, ready to launch into one of our songs.
None of which ever came to be, because in-fighting, drug use, and the big ugly realities of fame got to us first.
For the second time, I’m too lost in my thoughts to respond, so Dutch asks the question on my behalf.
“What are you saying, Lou? Spell it out.”
“I’m saying that in honour of the ten-year anniversary, Deviant Dreams Festival is running an all-star lineup and taking the show on tour, around the world. The organizer’s an old pal; he reached out asking if you’d be interested. So, what do I tell him, folks…are The Pistols interested?”
The words fly out of my mouth, “Of-fucking-course we’re interested.”
And like he’d known all along exactly how things would play out, Lou finally flips open the folder that has been resting under his hands this whole time and passes out a contract to each of us.
Rain won’t even step closer to take hers, and of course, it’s Dutch that fucking caves and hands it to her.
Seventeen-year-old me would have signed without bothering to read a word. Truth be told, that’s exactly what I did at seventeen. At thirty-one, life experience has taught me how dumb of a move that is.
I start reading, and for the most part it’s legal mumbo jumbo. I won’t be signing it today, not without taking it home and having it reviewed by the Brady family lawyers. Something I didn’t have in my back pocket the first time we signed a recording contract.
What I did note were the dates and commitments. Several pre-tour shows, which is a smart move considering we haven’t performed together in a long time. But nothing outright suspicious. Not that Lou needed to know that.
“We’re interested, but I’ll need to get this reviewed by my lawyers first.”
Lou’s smug smile dips, but only for the barest second before he catches himself and sticks it right back in place, “Of course, wouldn’t expect anything less now that you’re not just some punk kid but a director of Brady Construction and Development.”
From the other side of the room, Rain’s eyes zing and it’s my turn to fucking smirk. Because I’m not done. She never should have shown up here. The fucking audacity of her, after everything she put us through.
“Just one condition.”
The whole room draws in a breath.
“Find us another singer.”
Because there is no way in hell I can spend the next six months listening to Rain Gamble sing our songs. Or any songs for that matter. If I have to hear a single note leave the thin, regal column of her throat, I’ll cry. Or kill her. It’s fifty-fifty, which.