41. Chapter 30
Downfall of Us All
Cohen
“Fucking idiot,” I cuss myself out for the umpteenth time.
My dumb ass left all his shit back on the bus, phone and wallet very much included.
And since Vetruviut Stadium is on the fringes of downtown and there’s no show scheduled tonight, I had to hoof it to Ocean Ave and Calder’s main strip.
Between the busy waterfront, the many businesses, and the restaurants, there are always cabs and ride-shares kicking around.
I managed to snag one, thankful he didn’t say shit about payment until we pulled up to the house.
Only for me to realize that my keys were yet another item I left behind.
Hence, my newfound title of “fucking idiot” because even though my parents always keep an envelope of spare cash in the dresser by the front door, that’s kind of impossible to get to without a goddamned key.
Pretty embarrassing to watch a man in his thirties break into his own house like a petty crook.
But after swearing to the driver that I am coming back, that’s exactly what I do.
I hop the fence—something that was a hell of a lot easier when I was eighteen and sneaking out to meet Rain and the guys.
Now my left knee aches a little from the drop.
Then again, the fence back at our old house in The Neck wasn’t anywhere near as tall as this one.
Back then, Mom and Dad didn’t have much worth stealing.
Our cleaner has a bad habit of forgetting to lock the back doors that lead out to the pool. I know Mom’s spoken to her about it in the past, but when the door handle gives way under my palm, I make a promise to take the blame from here on out.
Once the cab driver is paid, though, there is nothing left to distract me from my own thoughts. Thoughts that are plagued by images of Rain and Dutch together. Questions rampage across my mind.
Did they have sex?
Did she let her inner brat out to play?
Did she submit to him with a fight like she always did with me?
And worst of all: Does she love him? Does she love him more than she loved me?
All stupid things to be worried about considering what she did. Considering we’ve been broken up now way longer than we were ever together. I wish that I could let it go. I wish I could pour everything I’m feeling now into my guitar.
I wasn’t lying when I told Dallas I was dog shit on my own. It’s been years since I’ve managed to string more than two notes together. But this afternoon…this afternoon, something finally clicked. Or came back, I suppose. Then Rain Gamble had to come along and spoil that too.
I don’t bother to make for the pool house. Instead, I flop my ass down on the gigantic beige sectional my mom bought to “fill the space”.
Neither she nor Dad are super comfortable with how big this house is.
I’m not even sure why they bought it after Brady Construction took off.
They’re hardly ever here. Like right now.
As far as I know, they are in London for some new build.
Before that, it was Berlin for the construction of a new flagship hotel property.
Pretty sure restlessness, that inability to sit still, runs in my damn veins.
Their frequent absences are part of why I still live in their pool house as a grown-ass man instead of getting my own place like Dallas and Dutch.
Mom asked that I stay to keep an eye on the house and the business here while they traipse around the world.
Then again, that was nearly eight years ago now, and I’m pretty sure she and Dad were just afraid that I’d have another episode if I lived on my own.
At least in the pool house, they could have their cleaners keep an eye on my comings and goings.
“Fuck,” I swear out loud again. It echoes around the living room. Too big, too empty, too beige. The knock on the front door comes just as the echoes of my voice subside.
“What now?” I snarl, but I shove myself off the couch anyway and head to the door.
My assumption was that one of our nosy fucking neighbours had seen me scale the fence and was coming to tattle to my parents.
Yet, on the front step is a kid who looks like he can’t be more than twenty, wearing a bike helmet and holding a large stock envelope out in my direction.
“You Cohen Brady?” he asks.
One nod, and he shoves the thing at me, and in the dull voice of someone who hates his job, he says, “Congratulations. You’ve been served.”
He doesn’t linger after that. By the time I process the words, he’s long gone, and I’m left standing in my open door, mouth gaping and the envelope pinched between my palms and stomach.
What. The. Fuck, I mouth. My hands move fast. My index finger slides under the sealed edge and, with a bit of pressure, tears the paper.
Inside is just more paper. White this time.
Standard legal paper. The kind I know exactly how to read from four years in management with Brady Construction.
Pulling the stack of stapled pages halfway out, my eyes rove over it looking for the name.
There will be a name somewhere on this first page that tells me who exactly is suing me and what the fuck they are suing me for.
Sure enough, it’s there in bold.
Trey McCoy.
Suing me for assault.
God-fucking-dammit. Serves me right for getting mixed up in Rain Gamble’s shit again, even though I know better.
The rush of anger and frustration surges the longer I look at that mother fucker’s name in print.
With it comes the familiar buzz that blocks out all other sounds.
The only thing that penetrates it is a faint ringing.
It’s there behind the whirling storm of anger.
Somewhere in another room, I realize after the third set of rings, someone is phoning the house. I attempt to ignore it, but whoever is calling won’t give it a fucking rest. Still clutching the legal paperwork, I storm through the house to the only remaining landline.
“What?!” I shout.
“Excuse me? You don’t talk to me like that.”
Fuck. I run my fingers through my curls. My mother is about to give me shit like I’m a five-year-old.
“Where are your manners, Cohen?” she scolds. Kira Brady is a fierce woman. One that gives most men an inferiority complex, which, when she isn’t yelling at me, makes me damn proud to call her Mom.
“Sorry,” I apologize, “I’m just dealing with a lot of shit right now.”
As I said, the cursing doesn’t bother her, just bad phone manners.
“Yeah, well, then you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”
I suck in a breath, expecting some news about the business or their travels that I don’t actually care that much about. They are staying at The Savoy in London, so I figure the worst that can happen is their scones are served with jam-first instead of cream or some shit like that.
“Where have you been, son? The lawyers have been trying to get a hold of you for weeks!”
“I’ve been…busy.”
Sue me. Oh wait, I guess I’m already being sued for something else.
Still, I didn’t exactly tell my folks that The Pistols were back together.
After the way things ended last time, I was nervous they’d freak out and come home.
Doesn’t matter how old you get, how grown you think you are, your parents are still your parents.
And that goes double for those of us who mess up their first go-round with adulthood.
“Busy with Rain Gamble, Lou Braun and The Preaching-fucking-Pistols.”
My throat bobs. Gulp. Looks like the lawyers at our contracted firm, Wren and McQuaid, ratted me out after I sent them the contract to review.
Mom as good as confirms it before launching into a lecture about keeping secrets, not returning phone calls, ignoring important emails and oh yeah, the cherry on top of my shit-sundae, she says, “And! I saw the news, Cohen. Apparently, you beat the shit out of Rain’s fiancé, and now you’re facing legal action? ”
She—admittedly correctly—takes my silence as an affirmative.
“Your father and I are coming home. We are signing the paperwork with Evgeny Sidorov tomorrow at noon, and then we’ll be on the next flight to Calder.
In the meantime, I suggest you take another look at that contract you signed with Orange County Records because McQuaid Senior is seriously concerned that shit isn’t as kosher as it seems.”
Told you the woman had no issue with swearing. And although I don’t love being lectured by my mother now, any more than I did at seventeen, with the wisdom of hindsight I know she was almost always right back then, and she’s probably right now.
From the jump, my spidey-senses have been going off about this new contract with Lou Braun.
I wish her and Dad good luck with the signing, and the second I hang up, I make my way to the pool house.
Lou had no choice but to give us copies of our contract, and I know for a fact mine is still sitting beside my bed from the day Dax and I signed. Looks like it is time for a re-read.
An hour later, my eyes burn from squinting at the pages over and over again. I might not be a contract lawyer like Travis McQuaid Senior, but I know enough to know the deal we’ve signed isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. Worse still, it’ll be our downfall.