24. Interlude 7
Little Things
The problem, and reason for the delay, is that my bandmates are too much of a train wreck to do proper press junkets.
A tipsy interview with Rain and Dax giggling their faces off was one thing.
An interview where Cohen storms in and flips out after the interviewer asked Rain about rumours of tension between them, that’s a whole other thing.
Three ruined interviews—that is a goddamn problem.
But that’s what’s about to happen if I don’t interrupt this shit right now.
I scrub my hand through my braids and walk across the entertainment show set.
Aside from my empty chair, vacated because I had to take a piss, there’s Dax, whose eyes can barely focus and whose jaw won’t stop twitching from whatever shit he and Cohen took last night.
Co’s not much better, but at least he’s trying to answer the poor reporter, though his words are slurred.
Rain sits between them, red-cheeked, giggling and unsteady even in her chair, because while they got high, she got shit-faced.
“Sorry folks,” I call from the far side of the room, “it’s time we were on the road.”
Where the fuck is Lou? Why is it always my job to be the adult in the room?
Leading my brother and bandmates out of the television studio, I look like a mother duck leading three very drunk ducklings. Behind me, Rain is already hiccoughing, though she’s putting up an effort to hide it.
“Jesus Christ, guys, it’s not even noon,” I grit out. I try to keep my voice low because we’re in the centre of Calder’s entertainment district and there are people and press everywhere. Cohen doesn’t bother.
“It’s sex, drugs and rock’n’roll for a reason, Dutch. Don’t be such a downer,” he shouts.
Both Dax and Rainy finally pipe up. Thankfully, they attempt to shush Cohen so that our antics don’t end up the headline on tonight’s show. It works long enough for us to get on our tour bus.
With all the promo we’ve been doing for the second album, we’ve been travelling around the country and all over the States too.
But we’re home in Calder today. Last night we finally got a break from being chained to the bus’s wheels.
I used the night to sleep in a real fucking bed instead of my little cot.
Judging by the state of our bus, though, I’m the only one.
There are empty bottles everywhere. Everywhere. All over the small table, on the furniture. It reeks of stale beer and the thick cloying smell of weed. Not surprising, because there is a stack of burned-out joints on a plate-turned-ashtray.
I like to burn one as much as the next person, especially after a show. The only rule, though, the one we discussed a hundred times over, was that no one smokes on the bus because the airflow in here is shit.
Cohen’s too drunk to notice that I’m vibrating with fury. It’s not just the mess, or the fact that they’ve embarrassed the whole band in that interview just now. It’s all of it.
“What the fuck?!” I finally spit. It’s directed at Cohen, because he’s always the ringleader. Rain and Dax would follow the idiot off a cliff if I wasn’t there to pull them back. So I know this all started with him.
“What?” he asks, as if he’s bewildered by my anger.
“Oh, I don’t know, Cohen, maybe the fact that this place stinks?
Or looks like a goddamn frat house!” I’m yelling.
And I fucking hate yelling. Because I know what it looks like to people when I do.
Angry Black man, that’s what people see.
But I also know the three people I’m yelling at don’t.
They just hate it when I yell, because deep down they know I’m their collective voice of reason.
“So what, Dutch? We had a little fun. I don’t get what your fucking problem is?” He shrugs as a low growl claws up my throat.
Rain hears it and steps in again, pulling Cohen by the arm. “Co, babe, come hereeeeee,” she pleads, drawing him towards the banquette seats. His limbs are all loose from the booze-weed-who knows-what-the-fuck-else combo, so she has no trouble manoeuvring him into the seats.
“Oh yeah, Rainy.” His voice pitches down a level. “Did you need something?”
“Yessss, please,” she whines a little, and though I’m still pissed, my brain splits in half. Half that wants to stay angry, and half that cannot stop itself from cataloguing every word and sound out of my girl’s mouth. Even though she isn’t mine, as I’m reminded all the fucking time..
“Please, Cohen,” she pleads again, as she slides into the bench too, straddling him in front of us. I watch, my blood boiling as his hands grab at the meat of her thighs. His hold on her is always so possessive. And I hate that she likes it.
She leans in and kisses him, and it isn’t long before I’m watching that fucker get dry-humped by the woman I love. Like a bad car wreck, I want to look away, and can’t.
Not even when it hurts, especially not when they break their kiss and while Cohen’s mouth flies to Rain’s neck, her violet eyes burn into mine.
I’m not sure what she sees. Whatever it is makes her blink and break the connection.
It also makes her slide off Cohen, who seems momentarily dazed by her absence.
He’s not just drunk; he’s love drunk. Enough that when Rain pulls on his arm again, he rises with her, and as she pulls him down the hall with only the barest resistance, she takes a moment to look back at me and mouths, I’m sorry.
Rain succeeds in persuading Cohen to follow her to the bedroom. Not that the thin walls do much to stop my personal torture. They pick up right where they left off. Rain’s beautiful moans haunting me.
At least I don’t have a front row seat to it right now.
Especially since Cohen grunts out, “Look at you, baby,” loud enough that neither Dax nor I have the luxury of pretending we didn’t hear.
Predictably, because I’m not the only one in hell, Dallas starts to collect the bottles scattered around the room.
He has this impulse every time Cohen and I argue, which we do sometimes, or whenever any of us is upset.
Or whenever he senses something is wrong.
Or whenever they’ve partied too hard. He’s getting rid of the evidence.
As if by tidying up he can pretend that nothing ever happened.
It’s as good a distraction as any, so I open the small cabinet under the kitchenette sink and pull out a black garbage bag and join him in his efforts.
As we finish working our way around the room, my brother drops the last of the bottles in the now very full garbage bag in my hands.
With the space clean, he finally makes eye contact with me.
His big brown eyes are bloodshot and watery.
He never sleeps well. Combine that with all the booze and drugs, and I’m sure his brain is scrambled.
“Dutch,” he says, easing the garbage bag from my hands, “I’m sorry about all this.”
Whether it’s the mess or something else he’s apologizing for, I don’t know.
But I am incapable of staying mad at Dallas.
I pull him into a hug, patting his back a couple of times before I release him to explain, “You don’t need to apologize for having fun, baby bro.
I just don’t want that fun to destroy us. Or you.”
I try to be gentle with my warnings, but with my brother’s history, I worry that too much “fun” will lead him down a path he can’t come back from. Something tells me we’re walking that path already.
End Interlude