13. Chapter 9
Second Chance
Rain
Thank God, the kitten inside my hoodie is so tiny that the man at the reception desk didn’t even notice her as I checked in.
Once I get upstairs and the room door closes behind me, I let her out.
The space isn’t huge, but it’s definitely cleaner and nicer than anywhere I could have afforded without help.
“Thank you for staying quiet—” I pick her up in one hand and lift her so I can look her over, “little girl.”
Tomorrow, I promise her, I’ll find a local pet shop or something and get her a plastic litter tray and some kitten food, but for tonight, I use some of the cash to order us room service.
A burger and fries for me and a fillet of salmon for her.
The whole time I question how they can get away with charging twenty-five dollars for a burger when the diner around the corner from Flynn’s sells them on a two-for-five deal most Tuesdays.
Then again, I doubt that people who can afford to stay somewhere as nice as the Seascape bother questioning the cost of their food.
I have to fight the impulse to cling to the bills when the bellboy comes to drop off my meal.
But I give in, and tip him too, because I will never be one of those people who stiff my fellow service industry workers.
After that, Kitten and I hunker down in the big queen-size bed.
I flip on the TV and spend the rest of the night watching reruns of a classic sixties sitcom.
Between the sheets that are ten times softer than the ones back at the apartment and the soft purrs from the creature curled up against my ribs, eventually I drift into the deepest sleep I’ve had in a long time.
As per my agreement with Lou, I’m the first one through the doors at Ocean County Records the next morning.
Kitten was sleeping soundly when I left.
I chucked the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorhandle, filled a mug with water for her and sent up a silent prayer that she’d remain as quiet as she had the day before so no one calls the front desk and complains.
Although there’s nothing I can do about my greying hair and worn-out clothes, at least this time, I’m showered and well-rested enough that I get recognized and greeted politely by the gaggle of girls at reception.
Just like last time, one of them calls up to Lou’s office before escorting me to the elevators.
Thankfully, there’s no sign of my former friends and renewed bandmates, and Lou is at the door to greet me rather than lording it over us from behind his desk.
He dismisses the receptionist coldly before closing the door behind us.
It’s the closest I’ve been to him in a long time.
He stinks of cigar smoke, and when his hot breath touches the side of my face, I scurry forwards towards one of the leather chairs.
If he notices my discomfort, he doesn’t care. Lou meanders back to his desk.
Despite the fact that so many years have passed since that first day he came to collect us from The Neck, Lou Braun still looks mostly as I remember him.
Sleazy smile, black hair cropped short at the front and only slightly longer at the back, and skin a shade of unnatural tan that’s closer to orange than anything else.
The one major difference is that now, his skin looks like it’s been pulled too tightly over his skull.
Plastic surgery, if I had to guess. There’s also a bit more weight around his mid-section than there used to be.
Again, I suspected that drugs, prescription or otherwise, kept him from having a larger spare tire there.
But what stands out the most are the rings.
Gaudy, awful, gold rings that wrap around his thick fingers in twisted chains.
I shiver at the thought of any cold metal near my skin. Anytime it happens, I still feel that brushing at the base of my spine. That sensation is one of the few things I do remember about what happened to me.
“Ahem,” Lou clears his throat, “Earth to Ray-Ray.”
I trace the movement as his fingertips tap repeatedly at the stack of papers I assume is my contract. The copy Dutch handed me yesterday is long gone. Left behind at the apartment. I was too busy carrying all my worldly belongings to remember it.
“You always were one to drift away,” he sighs, almost like he’s recalling a memory. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from saying something that will blow the second chance Lou’s offering me to smithereens.
“Ready to sign?” he says, turning the pages and sliding them toward me.
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak.
There is a pen ready and waiting for me atop the first page, and I snatch it up so I can put my chicken-scratch down and get out of here.
I need to find a pet store, and then I’ve got a date with a kitten and a damn comfy hotel bed.
One scribbled signature later, and it’s done. The Preaching Pistols are getting their second go-round at fame and fortune. Let’s pray we don’t fuck it up this time. I pray I don’t fuck it up this time.
Only, when I pass the contract back to Lou for his counter-signature, I don’t trust the gleam in his eye or the nasty grin on his taut face.
“With that taken care of, I think it’s best we discuss what I need from you.”
I arch back in my chair and gasp because panic is setting in hard and fast. “What you need from me?”
“In exchange for last night. After all, Ray-Ray, you did say you’d owe me, and I’d really like to collect.”
Though I knew it was coming, I curse past-me. Rain from last night was a desperate bitch and forgot what a mistake it is to make a deal with Lou Braun. He doesn’t give me a chance to reply or even to think of some excuse that might possibly get me out of this mess.
“You see, Rain, I need Cohen Brady focused on The Preaching Pistols. On music. And nothing else.” The last two words come out as a hiss. My stare must be blank, about as empty as my mind that is doing loop-de-loops trying to figure out what he’s asking me to do.
“Cohen called me this morning. Said he and the Kelly brothers were ready to sign, but on the condition that the Brady family’s legal team reviews the contract. Which is fine.” The way he clacks his teeth on the word fine makes me think it’s anything but.
“I’ve agreed, of course.” He pauses, “Still, I’d prefer if there weren’t any delays. I’ve gone out on a limb for you all, and any fuck-ups or changes to the contract—well, I can’t be responsible for what happens.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like the fact that the foundations of this deal aren’t shady as fuck.
I try to clarify, “So you want me to make sure he sticks to the contract.”
“As. It’s. Written. So that means no lawyers. No calls from Mr. and Mrs. Brady. No doubts, no questions, no looking into things.”
Everything he says makes me want to yank that contract back and re-read it. There is definitely something sketchy in there that Lou is being way too obvious about hiding. And, rightfully so, he knows that of the four of us, Cohen is the only one with the money and the power to fight back.
“Just make sure it’s all Pistols, all the time. You get the idea. I’m sure you can think of a few creative ways to keep Cohen’s attention.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “You were always so good at that.”
“No way! No, I can’t!” I shake my head back and forth. “I can’t do that.”
“You can. And you will. Or I’ll terminate this contract right now.”
He holds up the pages I’ve just signed, his fingers on each corner, ready to rip the rest of my fucking life to shreds.
He tilts his head to the side, so he can catch my eye around the edge of the contract. The smile on his face is far too knowing when he says, “I’ll bet that boyfriend, what was his name? Trey—will be glad to have you back? In his bed, behind the bar, helping him pay the rent?”
I gulp and whisper, “Okay, I’ll do it.”
It’s not like Cohen Brady can hate me more than he already does.