8. Chapter 6
We Used To Be Friends
Dutch
I’ll always remember the first time I saw Rain Gamble, and I’ll never forget the last time I saw her either.
That first time, she was thirteen, her smile was almost too big for her face, and her dark eyes played games with me, daring me to call them purple.
They’re not, at least not quite, but they are goddamn close.
Even more so when she’s been crying, like she was, or had been, that last time.
Fucking Cohen.
I am still so angry at him for how everything went down all those years ago. The way he wouldn’t fucking listen. The way he fucking sank into his depression and dragged my brother right along with him. Only Cohen had his Mom and Dad to help him climb back out. Dax didn’t; I am all Dallas has.
Now here he is, making decisions for all of us, acting like a damn fool, just because he can’t let go of the past. Something about Rainy’s presence turns him right back into that eighteen-year-old kid willing to do anything to get her attention. Even if it’s negative attention.
What is he even thinking? Where are we going to find another singer with that kind of power in their voice, or the ability to hit those high notes he wrote into every fucking song just because he knew she, and only she, could hit them?
Not to mention, the idea of someone else singing Rain’s songs doesn’t sit right with me.
They are too personal, too hers, too ours.
My hand claps down on Cohen’s shoulder, ready to step in. To remind him he is a fucking grown-up now, or is supposed to be, so he should get over himself and act like it. Only before I can mutter a single word, the storm cloud that is my Rainy finally bursts.
“Go fuck yourself, Cohen Brady,” she spits before darting out of the room. Her long hair, a faded plain brown colour that I don’t recognize, trails behind her as she races towards the elevator with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face.
These two. I forgot that it’s either fucking or fighting with them. And considering Cohen swore up and down after their break-up that he never wanted to fuck Rain Gamble ever again, it looks like we were going to be stuck with fighting.
Especially when Lou looks Cohen dead in the eyes and says, “No, it’s either Rain or nothing.”
“We’ll see about that,” Cohen grumbles, crunching the contract in his fist, “Let’s go, guys.”
Typical. Because his annoyance has gotten the better of him, he doesn’t even check to see if Dax and I are following. I am more than a little annoyed myself, because we do in fact follow. However, I have to help Dallas out of his chair, because he is still too weak to do it himself.
There is no sign of Rain as the three of us make our way through the lobby.
She probably ran out of here like a bat outta hell.
And because I am dragging my brother, I can’t even chase after her.
Not that I’m not pissed at her too. And at myself.
We’re all equally to blame for our bust-up.
The wisdom of hindsight and all that crap.
I could see it back then, too. I said some horrific shit I couldn’t take back, and by the time I tracked her down to apologize, Rain Gamble was long gone.
Vanished.
And no one, not even her Grams, knew where she’d gone.
Maybe that was what pissed me off more than anything: leaving her grandmother, the woman who raised her, hell, who raised me, all alone in The Neck to fend for herself. Fucking selfish.
To make up for it, I did my best to check up on Grams, or I had, until looking after my brother became its own full-time job.
A brother who, now that we were outside in the daylight, is increasingly green in the face.
Knowing what I do about detox, and specifically Dax in detox, we have about ten minutes until he becomes a big fucking mess.
Or starts begging anyone who will listen for a hit.
“What now?” I ask Cohen, warning him that we are up against a Dallas-based time clock.
“The pool house?”
“Fine. But he’s going in your car.”
I’ve already had the pleasant experience of cleaning my brother’s vomit out of my own car seats earlier this week.
He’d called me mid-shift at Rothus, and in his slurred, strung-out speech, begged me to come pick him up behind some dead-end Irish bar in The Neck.
Since Cohen is so determined to take up his position as leader of the band again, let him deal with it this time.
As kids, we would spend a ton of time at the Bradys’ house when we weren’t at the park or at Gram’s place. Only not this house.
Their old house in The Neck was by far the nicest on their street, wayyyy nicer than the foster home that Dax and I were living in at the time. Though, in that part of Calder, nice just meant not a fucking drug den or gang hangout.
This house is in The Head. It’s big and surrounded by others that look exactly like it.
Or damn near. They all resemble some magazine’s version of a ski chalet, all wood beams and stone.
I follow Cohen’s silver Prius in my beat-up pick-up and wonder if his neighbours think I’m his gardener or some shit. My guess is: probably.
It wasn’t until we were grown that the Bradys found themselves with money.
They’d been quietly working on it for years and scored their first big contract with the City of Calder not long after our first record came out.
Between Cohen’s payouts from the label and that contract, the Bradys were able to leave The Neck behind.
Betcha fifty bucks, Cohen doesn’t even think about how lucky he is, how few people, let alone whole living families, ever make it out of Calder’s drug-infested city centre.
Look at me. Yeah, Dax and I managed to buy a small apartment on the edge of The Neck and this truck, but other than that, I have fuck all to show for our time as the biggest band in the country other than my brother’s life.
I’m generally smart with my money but rehab is expensive.
And when you have to pay for it multiple times over, that shit adds up.
Cohen calls my name, “Oi, come help me!”
I squeeze my steering wheel tight, just once, praying for patience before I get out.
“Dax passed out on the way. Help me get him into the pool house.” Cohen gestures to his backseat, where my brother is 100% out cold. His clothes hang off his frame in a way that makes me sick, and I don’t even really have to help as Cohen drags his limp frame into his arms.
It’s fucking weird watching one of my oldest friends carry my baby brother bridal-style, but I don’t say shit about it.
I’m too distracted looking at the nice furniture and fancy pieces of art that line the walls of the Bradys’ house.
Everything is clean, neat, and tidy. And no wonder, when we pass a woman in an obvious housekeeper’s uniform vacuuming the ultra-beige living room.
Cohen doesn’t even notice. This has all become so normal to him.
We wander through the kitchen and out into the most incredible back garden I’ve ever seen.
Backyards are a luxury in The Neck, and where they do exist, they definitely do not look like this.
There’s a wide poured concrete patio with a beautiful round pool in the centre.
It’s covered over, probably because it’s only April, but the whole garden looks out over the wider Calder Valley.
You can see everything for miles around the city, every home, every tree, right out over the ocean.
Something no one in their right mind would take for granted.
Except Cohen, who doesn’t even look up before kicking the door open to what I guess must be the pool house.
I follow him, forcing myself to tear my gaze away from the stunning views of my hometown. They say everything’s better in The Head, and based on the last two minutes alone, I’d say they aren’t wrong.
The so-called ‘pool house’ is about three times the size of the apartment that Dallas and I share. It’s just as neat and tidy as the main house, with a large, comfortable couch big enough for our whole band to fit on, let alone Cohen’s lanky ass.
There’s a small staircase that leads to an open-plan kitchen overlooking the main living space, and on either side are doors I can only assume lead to bedrooms, since Cohen makes a beeline for the one on the left and when he returns, his arms are empty.
He makes a point of gently closing the door behind him.
“Let’s let him sleep it off in there,” Cohen whispers softly.
My eyes roll all on their very own, I swear.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms and pouts. He’s been acting like a toddler since we saw Rain; why stop now? When I call him on it, he only sticks his bottom lip out more.
It’s hard not to laugh, because unlike Dax and me, you’d never know Cohen was anything but the straightest of edges.
Clean-cut, dressed all preppy. While we Kelly brothers, gutter rats that we are, are covered head to toe in tattoos.
Many of which were done long before we had the money to pay credible artists, so they’re rough and fading.
“It means, Co, that you don’t just sleep off addiction. Trust me when I say he’s going to be a right bastard when he wakes up.”
“I know,” he grunts.
Because he does. Because he was the one who hauled my brother’s busted ass out of the gutter of The Neck the last time.
After Dallas refused my help one time too many, and I threw him out.
Because they’re best friends. Like we were too, once.
Not anymore though. Now, it’s that loose kind of friendship, where we only call when we need something.
And only the obligation to a past that’s long-fucking-gone keeps us tethered together.
Which is why I’ve never been here, never stepped foot inside this McMansion or his fucking pool house.
I doubt I’d have even gotten an invite if Dallas wasn’t such a trainwreck.
I’m still standing in the entrance. Haven’t even closed the door behind me because who knows how long I’m staying.
How long I’m welcome in Cohen Brady’s new little slice of paradise.
He doesn’t say shit about it, just drops his ass into that big couch of his.
It must be nice quality, judging by the way the pillows shift around him.
He lets them, sighing as he sinks back into the cushions, slapping the contracts from Lou down on his fancy glass coffee table as he goes.
His eyes even close for a second. Which I use to my advantage. Two steps and I easily grab not one but two of the contract packs. The rustling of the paper makes Cohen’s eyes bolt open.
“You’re not seriously going to sign that?!” he protests. He lurches forward, trying to reach for the contracts. Too bad that office life has slowed his reflexes because I yank them away easily.
“Why not? You know what this tour could do? For me? For Dax?! For all of us?!” I toss back at him, “Get me a fucking pen and sign me the hell up.”
“What about Rain!” he argues.
“What about her?” I counter.
That gets him up and off the couch.
“She’s fucking toxic, Dutch, that’s why! She’ll ruin this whole thing before it even gets started! We have to be united on this! We can’t trust her not to fuck this up! That’s what she does!”
“Stop throwing yourself such a goddamn pity party. You weren’t exactly innocent in what happened,” I retort.
That does it. He’s ranting and shouting, pacing back and forth as he calls Rain a whore repeatedly.
That grinds my gears, but I bite my cheek to keep from cussing him out.
He can say what he wants about Rain. It won’t make me believe it, and it won’t change my mind.
I ignore the rest of the garbage he’s spewing and head for the kitchen, where I pull open a couple of drawers before I find the universal, exists in everyone’s house ever, junk drawer and a pen.
Swirling it between my fingertips, the way I’m itching to do with drumsticks again after so long, I look back at my distraught friend.
He doesn’t deserve it, but sue me, I take a little bit of pity on him with a bit of not-so-tough love, “You need to decide, Cohen, either you deal with Rain or resign yourself to a life as Mommy and Daddy’s kept boy.
Because I don’t see this going any other way.
Lou’s not just going to bring in someone else because you asked nicely. ”
That makes his brown eyes widen. His mouth hangs open like I’ve slapped him when all I’m doing is telling him the damn truth. My old friend clearly needs a few more people around him willing to call a spade a spade.
“If it means I don’t have to go back to hauling parts in a cold-ass warehouse, if it helps Dallas stay clean, hell, if it means I get to play the drums again, I can deal with a little Rain.”
I scrawl my initials across the signature line. And take the liberty of forging my brother’s too. Punk rock saved us once before. Maybe it can do it again.