21. Interlude 6
Scars
Cohen dragged us to yet another industry party tonight at some stupid club in downtown. We’re back in Calder to work with some new hot-shot producer, according to Lou, yet most of what we do is go out, party, get wasted and then nurse our hangovers the next day.
It’s been a few days, and we haven’t even met this producer guy yet. Nor have we written a damn word. We’re supposed to be starting work on the follow-up album to Whoever You Want Us To Be.
“Get it out while you’re at the top of the charts. Avoid the sophomore slump.”
Another Lou Braun idea. He wants us to release our second album as soon as possible, while we’ve still got audience momentum from the first one.
Except, we worked on that album for months and months.
Many of the songs were written years ago.
Now we’re expected to churn out something comparable in the few weeks we have before starting our first international tour. Yeah fucking right.
Also, not possible when our lead guitarist is too wasted to help me write music.
When he’s not wasted, he’s too busy fucking our lead singer.
Right now he’s both. We’re at Cohen’s new place.
It’s so much fucking bigger than anywhere I’ve ever lived.
It’s not big like the places up in The Head, but it sure makes the Bradys’ old house in The Neck look like a shack, even though his family had the nicest, biggest house on our block.
He dragged us back here after the bar, refusing to let me go back to the modest apartment that Dutch and I recently purchased together.
Not that I was keen to do that either, because Dutch was too busy making out with some Rain-look-alike and I knew that was only headed in one direction.
Given the choice, I’d rather listen to the real thing than some wannabe. On cue, a cry of ecstasy comes from Cohen’s bedroom. It’s not the first one, and it’s been punctuated by other sounds, including Cohen grunting out, “Fuck, Rainy,” and “Just like that,” and “Good little cocksucker.”
Each and every one of them has been torture.
And so fucking hot. I’m twisted up with jealousy and turned on to fuck.
I can’t leave, and I can’t stop picturing what it would be like to be the on the receiving end of that praise.
So I just sit here, on the fucking floor, with my back against the wall, two steps from where my friends are fucking.
By the time Rain lets out a final scream of pleasure, my cock is hard, which makes me a fucking sicko, although not enough of one to actually do something about it. I close my eyes and will my dick to chill the fuck out, which it does just in time for the bedroom door to creak open.
“Dax? You’re still here,” Rain whispers in surprise when her head pops around the door and spots me. It makes my fucking jaw clench that she asks, because they’re the ones who dragged me here.
“Where the fuck was I supposed to go, Rain?” I snap but keep my voice low, since I suspect Cohen is passed out on the other side of that door.
Rainy takes a quick glance back into the dark behind her and then tiptoes out into the hallway wearing nothing but one of Cohen’s sweaters, which on her is practically a dress.
Although as she moves, I do get flashes of her new snake tattoos and even a brief flash of panties.
“Shh.” She brings her finger to her lips. “Cohen’s passed out.”
My guess was a good one. Not surprising given how many whiskeys and Cokes he drank after our show tonight. It’s a miracle he could still get it up after all that.
Stop thinking about your best friend’s dick! I command my messed-up brain.
Instead, I snap, “You two weren’t exactly quiet. How did you know I wasn’t sleeping out here, huh?”
She stumbles a little towards me, and because she’s still a bit tipsy, she nearly trips over her own feet.
“Don’t be such an asshole, Dax,” she harps.
“Fuck you, Rain, I just spent the last half hour listening to you get dicked down,” by my best friend that I’m secretly head over heels in love with. But I don’t say that out loud. Nor do I mention the effect that listening to them had on me.
She tries to grimace, but there’s a twinkle in her dark eyes that I don’t miss. “Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you like knowing I’m out here.”
Smart girl. She doesn’t deny it and only counters with a question of her own.
“So why did you stay?”
I frown and say nothing, because my only response would make me sound like even more of a freak than I already know I am.
Thankfully, Rain lets the subject drop. She slips down the wall until she’s seated beside me.
Our shoulders touch, and she whispers, all her snark gone, “I just got done fighting with Co; I don’t want to fight with you too. ”
“Didn’t you just get done fucking?” I tease.
I keep it light because, truthfully, I don’t want to fight either.
I expect her to laugh a little. The four of us have spent years teasing each other about everything under the sun, and I suppose when you share a tour bus as living space for half the year, that only gets worse. Yet, all she does is sigh,
“Fucking and fighting, that’s about all we do lately.”
“At least you’re doing the first part,” I mutter.
My reaction earlier shouldn’t have come as a surprise given that I’m basically a born-again virgin.
Imagine if the press found that out. I can see the headline now: Punk rock’s biggest pussy: Dallas Kelly can’t get hard unless it’s while he’s spying on his best friends.
“So why don’t you, Dax? Fuck, I mean?” Rain asks. There’s a hint of curiosity there, but when I look into her eyes, there’s no sign of judgement. She tangles her fingers with mine. We’re so close that she doesn’t even have to move to do it.
“I see the girls, Dallas. I see them there after every show, fawning over you and Cohen and Dutch.”
“And sometimes over you, too,” I counter.
She offers me a sad smile. “I think we both know how Cohen feels about sharing. But that’s a problem for another time. We’re talking about you right now.”
She squeezes my hand, offering me a little encouragement. And maybe because we’re both still a little bit drunk and I can delude myself into thinking she won’t remember tomorrow, I admit the truth. Well, half the truth.
“I see the girls, too, Rainy. And believe me, I want to…” There’s no denying I want to; my voice is desperate and hoarse even now.
“I wish I could do what my brother does…” Like he’d done tonight, Dutch picks up a girl, sometimes two, after every single show.
And just like tonight, they always look or dress like Rain.
How she hasn’t noticed is beyond me. “I’ve tried, believe me, I’ve tried, but every time I get close, it just reminds me of her. ” I shudder on the last word.
The image of HER is still as clear in my mind as it was then. She still makes appearances in my nightmares, like a bad recurring guest star. The woman in my past that I never talk about. Never mention. That I refuse to acknowledge ever existed.
“What did she do to you, Dax?”
I squeeze her small hand back so hard I worry I’ll hurt her, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away or interrupt or make a sound while I tell her my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad secrets.
“They all remind me of her,” I barely manage to utter.
My heart is hammering too hard, and my throat is clogged, with all the secrets she told me I was never to say out loud.
When I use my left hand to pull my hair in front of my face, a bad habit I have when I’m anxious, she reaches with her right and brushes it back, a refusal to let me hide but not before checking in, “Do I remind you of her? Is my touch okay?”
When we’re not onstage or when she’s not arguing with Cohen, Rain sounds a lot more like a church-mouse than the lead singer of a rock band. I nod and confirm that her touch is okay.
“You’re Rainy. I know you’re Rainy. So that’s what makes it okay.”
Her hand leaves my face, and unlike all the other women who’ve ever tried to touch me, I actually miss her warmth.
But some of it is still there, in our tightly clasped hands.
We stay that way, just holding on to each other by that single point of contact, not saying a word.
After a few minutes, Rain starts to sing, not in her usual style, but in a low humming melody.
The words are soft, sleepy, a lullaby that somewhere out there good moms probably sing to their little boys, and they work their magic on me too.
Rain’s voice does the impossible; it keeps the nightmares away.
End Interlude