14. Chapter 10
Punk - Rock Princess
Rain
The universe grants me a two-day reprieve. No Lou, no Cohen, no nothing. Just me, Kitten, and that great big hotel bed. It was all too good to last.
Part of our new contract includes a commitment to regular practice sessions and several pre-tour prep shows.
Smart work on Lou’s part because my voice is rusty as hell and the four of us haven’t played together in a long time, so there will almost certainly be kinks to work out, not to mention the tiny little problem that is Cohen hating my guts.
I’m summoned to the first of those practices by a phone call from the hotel reception alerting me that Lou is downstairs waiting for me. I could practically hear the hotel employee cringing at Lou’s shout in the background, “Tell her to wear something sexy!”
I take five minutes to get ready and another fifteen to make sure Kitten, as I’ve taken to calling her in the last couple of days, has everything she needs while I’m out for the day.
Again, I make a point of hanging the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door, but to be safe, I close her in the bathroom with her water, food, litter and a few toys I bought her from the dollar store.
She has yet to utter anything, but the quietest meows about it, and the hotel staff have yet to complain.
Of course, my outfit choice doesn’t satisfy Lou, who sneers when I turn up in the lobby in a simple tank top and worn black skinny jeans.
He grumbles about it loudly while I trail out of the hotel behind him, my legs hesitating to follow him even though I know I don’t have a choice. One wrong move and he’ll stop paying my hotel bill, and then where will Kitten and I go?
Until I picked up the phone, I hadn’t been expecting a personal escort to the practice session.
Silly me assumed he’d just send the same car and driver that collected me from Flynn’s, and he did.
Only the reason Lou came too becomes clear when I open the door, and thrown across the backseat is a whole damn outfit spread out waiting for me.
My eyes dart between the clothes and Lou, who is leering back at me.
“Somehow, I knew you wouldn’t listen when I said sexy, so I had a back-up arranged just in case.”
The clothes in front of me do not look like anyone’s definition of a “back-up” outfit. They look a lot more like high-end versions of clothes a younger me dreamed of wearing one day, only sluttier. But like, in a classy way?
“Change,” Lou orders. When I hesitate, he jerks his head towards the car’s interior, “Change. Now. Or I’ll follow you in there and make sure you do.”
He licks his lips like he hopes I resist. Fuck that.
Lou’s stare is creepy enough even when I am fully dressed.
I couldn’t imagine how slimy I would feel with him watching me strip to my underwear, so I hustle my ass inside the limo and slam the door behind me.
I also make damn sure to double-check the locks on both doors before undressing.
Once they are on, I can admit the clothes are pretty damn sexy and fit me to a T.
They are similar to clothes I’d worn on stage a decade ago, only more grown-up.
A black, butter-soft leather skater skirt with lace ties that corset up over the curve of my ass and on top, a fitted shirt with long dangling bell sleeves that is made entirely of delicate black lace.
The intricate flowers that run up the arms end in thorny vines that curl under my small bust.
After rooting through the bags in search of a tank top or something to wear underneath, I realize I haven’t been given one on purpose. Lou wants me to walk into this practice like I’m still the punk-rock princess the guys remember.
I’m not. But I put the clothes on anyway and thank my lucky stars I opted for a black bra because my usual faded greying cotton would’ve ruined the whole look.
Then, I spend the rest of the drive to the studio under Lou’s lecherous stare, listening to the constant reminders of his expectations where Cohen is concerned.
Those expectations are dashed the second we walk through the studio doors.
The room itself is comforting for its familiarity.
The walls are wood-lined and cushioned by batons of black soundproofing every few feet and all the way across the ceiling.
The floor is probably concrete, though you’d never know thanks to several thick carpets laid one over the other to further cushion the sound.
Despite these comforts, the temperature in the room plummets when Cohen’s gaze lands on me.
“Nice to see you’re finally dressing like the whore you are,” he snipes, yet not a soul in the room misses how his eyes linger on me.
True to form, Dax doesn’t look up or at anyone else, for that matter.
He also doesn’t look half as fucked up as he did in Lou’s office last week, but he’s still skinnier than I remember.
Dutch is the only one who acts like a fucking adult.
“Hi, Rain,” he greets with a brief wave from behind the drum kit. His brown eyes aren’t exactly cold, but there’s none of the warmth I remember either. On an exhale, he breaks our stare, returning his attention to the kit, positioning the cymbals and snares exactly where he wants them.
“Well, Pistols, are we ready to make some beautiful music?” Lou claps his hands together.
“Whose we?” Dutch’s deep voice rankles.
Cohen, of course, backs him up, “Last time I checked, Lou, you weren’t a member of this band. Go, so we can get this over with.”
Lou’s response is a polite smile, though it looks all kinds of wrong on his unnaturally stiff face. Nor does he leave, instead bracing himself on the window frame where, behind the glass, an impatient-looking sound tech is waiting.
In the interest of avoiding further jabs from my ex, I take up my position behind the mic stand.
“Lightspeed,” Cohen calls out. For a second I have whiplash.
It’s an odd choice for our first song. A hit, but not even close to our biggest, yet how easily old patterns reassert themselves.
At eighteen, Cohen would call the songs, whatever he felt like playing and instantly the notes would fly and the words would bubble in my throat, waiting to be released.
Dutch counts us down, with a beat. I hear the thrum from Dallas’s bass. Cohen’s guitar joins it two seconds later, and then the beat drops.
The song starts.
Only my voice doesn’t. It’s stuck. Right at the top of my throat. Just for a second. But it’s long enough for everything to grind to a halt.
“Jesus Christ, Rain. Did you forget how this works? You’re supposed to sing,” Cohen barks from two feet behind me. I don’t bother turning. I can feel his glare on my back.
“Again,” I mumble.
Nothing happens. No one heard me. If I can’t sing, if I can’t dig my voice out of the pit it’s gotten so used to living inside, then I am done for.
I close my eyes to steady myself. That second of peace is enough to set Cohen off again, “Told you we should just get a new singer. She’s just wasting our time. ”
My eyes spring open. Every time I’ve heard our songs over the years, I’ve had to fight back violent urges, smother my anger with deep breaths. Now I let the violence fill my lungs.
“Again!” I snap.
Dutch doesn’t wait, and this time when the beat drops, my voice comes in right on time.
It warbles a little. It’s not as full as it should be.
But it’s there, and it gets stronger with every word.
The tension in the song, building and building as we move into the first pre-chorus, snaps when I sing:
“When I run,” I hold the word in a vibrato
There’s nowhere else I’m running to,
’cause in the dark,
that part of me will find its way to you.”
The tempo picks up as the chorus comes in fast:
“My body’s in rush
The crash is coming
Crush
Me
We’re happening at light speed.”
The way the melody is written, the song’s titular lyrics are meant to be screamed, so that’s what I do, but I’m jarred when the next note is sharp, and followed by a guitar being slammed down.
I already know it’s Cohen. He picked this goddamn song.
Even though he knew what it was about. He knew the crash in question.
I spin just in time to hear him mutter, “Fuck this,” before he storms out, not back into the sound booth, but to the only other door hidden in the panels on the far left of the room. All of us in the studio watch him go. Dallas tries vaguely to catch him, but Cohen shrugs the other man off easily.
For the first time in a long time, Dallas looks back at me from across the small room. The blue of his eyes holds the same vulnerability it used to, and then some. He gulps, blushes, blinks, and that’s all I get before he chases after Cohen.
Dutch sighs, “Goddamn children.”
I expect him to follow the other guys since he made it clear that day in Lou’s office whose side he was on, and he does, but when he gets to the door, he holds it open for me. “C’mon Rain, at least some of us can try to be mature about this whole thing.”
I nod. Because not only do I not have a choice, years of sobriety have taught me that I can either deal with things head-on or by drinking them away.
Old me chose one way, new me chooses the other and mumbles a quiet, “Thank you, Dutch,” as I drift easily under his outstretched arm and through the door.
On the other side, I find Cohen pacing in a small circle, while Dallas is slumped in one of the metal chairs.
This room lacks all the comfort of our former studio and rehearsal space.
There, the writing rooms were designed to embrace you, give you a vibe.
This room is basically half corporate boardroom, half high school cafeteria.
There’s a large table and several metal chairs in the centre, and a bunch of vending machines along the far side.
There are no windows, and there isn’t even any goddamn art on the walls. Reallllllll conducive to writing music.