43. Chapter 32
Emo Trash
Rain
Regardless of what Dutch said last night, I wasn’t expecting the sandstone mega-mansion we visited this afternoon.
Our bus driver dropped us off, not up in The Head but at Dutch and Dax’s apartment building.
From there, the three of us made our way to the parking garage and jumped into Dutch’s beat-up truck.
It’s not that old or that rough but compared to the sleek black cars we pass as we wind through the hills, we might as well have slapped a billboard on the side of it that reads: Emo Trash.
From the front seat, Dutch and I made the executive decision, via one very loaded look, not to get out of the car. We left Dallas to fetch our last and almost certainly angry band member. It took an hour, but eventually he returned, leading Cohen Brady down the garden path behind him.
They jump in the back, and there is no denying the atmosphere is tense. No one says a word, though in the quiet car, Cohen grinding his teeth speaks volumes about his mood. My own isn’t much better as we retrace our steps past houses so large they could fit Gram’s in them twice over.
Though with every kilometre, the houses shrink, get less grand, and the cars we pass get more normal. At the same time, clouds settle around us and over Calder, creating a clear divide between the have and have-not parts of this city. Like from above, even Mother Nature can tell the difference.
We’re headed back into downtown. Lou texted me again this morning with the address for the party.
It’s at the Kitty Kat Club. The exact club we used to go to all the time back when we were the bright young things.
Now, it’s been years since I stepped foot in that place.
Too loud. Too tempting. Too many memories.
But Lou didn’t exactly give me, or any of us, a choice about the location for tonight’s big announcement.
Outside the truck, the thick rain clouds make it seem later than it actually is by the time we pull up outside the club.
It looks the same as it ever did, for the most part.
Except the last time I was here, there weren’t flashes going off everywhere, nor was there any kind of red carpet.
Or should I say, a purple one. Well, not perfectly purple.
Swirls of blue run through it too. Not that you can really see much of it because every square foot is taken up by industry types.
Men in suits with women half their age and half-clothed hanging off their arms. All of them posing, trying to be seen.
Personally, I’d prefer to sneak in the back.
Or better yet, tell Dutch to turn the truck around and run.
But we agreed that showing up in Dutch’s truck rather than the limo Lou tried to send would better suit our image.
Show our fans that though our skin might sport a few more lines these days, deep down we’re still the same rough-and-tumble kids from The Neck.
Yet, the looks of confusion as we pull up are obvious.
Dutch puts the car in park, and the two of us spin only to find both Dax and Cohen looking back at us.
Inside this car, on the bus, backstage, our personal issues cloud every interaction, but we all know it can’t be like that out there.
The second the venue’s valet reaches for my door, the four of us inhale.
And when the doors open and the cameras go off, we move as one unit. One band. A single, united front.
The photographers outside bellow our names and scream questions at us. We pose for a few photos as a band but hustle our asses inside as quickly as we can.
I immediately wish we had stayed on the carpet. Lou is right there waiting for us. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he narrows his focus at each of us in turn, like he’s counting to make sure we’re all here.
“Ahhh, The Pistols,” he finally shouts, barely audible over the thumping bass emanating from the other side of a pair of swinging doors, “Glad you could finally make it.”
There’s so much ice in those words, and all of it is directed my way. Yet Cohen is the one who interjects.
“You’re lucky I’m even here, old man.”
Lou chooses to ignore him, but mumbles something along the lines of, “Better late than never,” and gestures for us to follow him into the pit of the club and towards a set of stairs near the back.
The four of us trail behind our manager.
Dax, with his head down and silent. Cohen, seething.
Me, eyes pinging everywhere, and anxiety ratcheted up to eleven.
Only Dutch is smiling. He walks right beside me, and although we aren’t touching beyond the occasional brush of my shoulder against his side, I long to reach for him properly.
The idiot only makes that longing worse when he leans in and says, “You just had to wear an outfit like that?”
“Like what?” I whisper back, feigning innocence. I know how I’m dressed. In fact, I called Tina and the Double Ds this morning and told them I needed to look hot as fuck tonight. Boy, oh boy, did they come through.
The mini-dress is a deep red and borderline indecent, made more so by the thigh-high, laced platforms.
“You look like my personal cherry lollipop.” Dutch’s stare dances appreciatively over my body. My skin heats everywhere his eyes touch, but I nearly burst into flames when he finishes his sentence. “And I intend to lick my way to the centre.”
My greedy cunt feels some type of way about that. “Let’s leave right now,” I suggest.
What’s said as a half-joke becomes a serious wish when a familiar voice greets us at the top step.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t The Preaching Pistols. Welcome back to my humble club.”
That voice chills the fire Dutch lit inside me. Lou shifts sideways, just enough to reveal the overweight, sweating frame of Bruce Cooper. Because, of course, this is his club. He and Lou are old cronies. It’s one of the reasons we always partied here back in the day.
Bruce leans back with a big sweep of his arm. “I’ve got your VIP table right over here.”
There is a table, cordoned off by a velvet rope but otherwise surrounded by people.
“Just like old times, isn’t it, Rain?” Bruce says over my shoulder after he steps in behind me.
The four of us are now trapped between him and Lou.
If it wasn’t for Dutch’s position at my side, I’d already be out the door, but there’s nowhere to run with Bruce standing uncomfortably close at my back.
His hot breath spiders its way up my neck.
Then we get to our table and things only get worse.
Dax freezes at the sight of it. His already pale skin turns ghostly.
My blood roars. The table is covered, and I mean covered, in booze.
Years of working behind Flynn’s bar have numbed me to the presence of alcohol most of the time, but the key word there is: ‘behind’, not laid out in front of me like the spoils of war.
“Drink, Ray-Ray?” Lou offers.
It takes everything in me to shake my head. Meanwhile, Dutch growls on my behalf, “She’s fine.”
I’m not. And I know he knows that. But after our chat barely twenty-four hours ago, he knows that I don’t share my sobriety journey with just anyone.
Nor am I the only one struggling. Dallas can’t seem to look away from all the bottles, but it’s when Bruce adds, “Or perhaps you’d prefer some of my other party favours.”
Our bassist starts visibly shaking. Dutch’s arms flex at that suggestion too, and thank God, I manage to catch his hand in mine before my man starts swinging.
Your brother, I mouth, with a nod in Dax’s direction.
It’s a reminder that a fight won’t make this any easier on Dallas and me.
Surprisingly, Cohen helps by telling Bruce to fuck off.
Off he fucks, though it’s with a smile that oozes nothing but slime, leaving the four of us to slide into the booth under Lou’s watchful eye.
Once we’re seated, Cohen makes several attempts to get our manager’s attention, but just like at the door, Lou ignores him.
At this point, he’s either oblivious or willfully pretending he doesn’t notice.
Despite Cohen repeatedly calling his name, Lou’s attention darts between the other industry people surrounding the table.
It only comes back to us briefly to give an order. “Drink. Relax. God, you’re all so fucking uptight now.”
Maybe because we’re not those naive, malleable kids you used to control.
“I’ll come back and get you when it’s announcement time. In the meantime, mingle. Have some fucking fun.”
Before Cohen can say another word, Lou flits away, vanishing into the tangle of bodies. The space he occupied fills in immediately. Two girls, who can’t be over twenty, lean in, flashing cleavage in Cohen’s face. He tells them to fuck off too, without even a single look their way.
The same cagey silence from the car returns, even though we’re surrounded by strangers, even though the people around us are drunk and dancing, flirting and in some cases, even dry humping.
The four of us just stare at one another miserably and definitely not like four people about to get a second chance at their dreams.
That silence persists. For every second it does, Cohen’s expression gets stormier, Dallas shakes before my eyes, and Dutch has to squeeze my hand harder and harder to keep me grounded in the present.
Only when the pounding music screeches to a halt am I reminded that we aren’t just here to be part of the party; we’re here to be the rockstars.
The pulsing club lights steady and swing until the stage in front of the DJ booth is lit in blues and purples.
Beneath those lights is a single mic stand.
Lou struts to centre-stage. There’s a smug smile firmly affixed to his face. He’s almost too pleased with himself as he talks directly to the crowd that gathers in closer.
He pauses for dramatic effect, and the DJ adds to the suspense with an audio effect, a bursting dun, dun, dun like you hear in old horror films. This whole thing is choreographed within an inch of its life.
It’s so fucking fake, it sets my teeth on edge.
It wasn’t always like this. Or was it, and I was just too young, drunk and distracted by falling in love that I didn’t notice?
Thoughts of the past fail to hold my attention thanks to a tap on my shoulder.
A girl stands there with ebony skin that glows because it’s been dusted with gold highlight everywhere it’s exposed.
I noticed it on some of the other party-goers, but it turns out those are club staff, and the gold is part of the uniform.
She leans in and says, “Mr. Braun has asked that you come with me.”
She turns to the guys too.
“All of you. If you’d please follow me this way.”
She spins and walks deeper into the club, behind a dark curtain and through a door marked: Authorized Personnel Only. That takes us into the back, warehouse-style hall of the club, and from there, it’s a short journey down one floor in a service elevator.
When it stops, our guide stays behind, points, and says, “Straight ahead.”
There’s another dark curtain, parted just enough that we can see the stage lights reflecting off its surface. Not that we needed it, because Lou’s voice is ringing out.
“This summer, for the first time in ten years, the Deviant Dreams Festival is coming back! And this time, it’s going global, baby!”
The whispers in the crowd spread, become claps, and from there, eventually cheers.
That’s how you know this room is all industry.
Actual music fans, the people who really love and care about music itself and not just the money it makes them, they would have gone fucking bananas. There’s another lull.
“I think that’s our cue.” Cohen charges ahead. “Let’s get this over with, because the second this is done, we need to talk. The four of us. Privately.”
Lately our private, band-only conversations haven’t been what I or anyone would call friendly. Cohen’s sour mood tonight guarantees this one won’t be either. Still, we all want this: our headlining shot at Deviant Dreams, the world tour we never got the first time around, all of it.
We follow him forward, through the curtain and right out onto the stage just in time for Lou to call out, “And making their triumphant comeback to the world of music as your headline act…for the very first time, The Preaching Pistols!”
That’s our cue to smile and wave. Gone is the surly version of Cohen we’ve been dealing with all night.
The smile he offers the crowd is radiant.
Dutch too. He waves to the crowd. There are a couple of women in the front row that I get the urge to drop kick because they’re looking at him like he’s fucking meat.
I do my best to plaster on a smile, and when Dax and I share the briefest look, I know I’m not the only one faking it. It didn’t used to be this hard, but all the marketing, the selling ourselves, all the industry shit, never came easily to either Dallas or me.
Cohen takes the mic and, in that raspy voice of his, thanks the crowd before promising that the tour will make rock and roll history. At which point, Lou snatches the mic back, and though he should be looking out over the full club, he’s not. He’s looking sideways, right at me, when he says,
“You’re damn right it will, because joining The Preaching Pistols as co-headliners…” My eyes widen. Cohen is doing everything he can to hide his confusion. At no point since Lou suggested the reunion has there ever been any mention of co-headlining.
Any sound from the audience is drowned out by another sound effect. This time, a drum roll ending with a collective inhale from the crowd waiting for Lou’s next words. This time he looks away from me, from us on his left and over to the stage at his right as he calls out, “Blue and the Graces!”
There is another round of applause, but all I hear is the roaring in my head.
The deepest, darkest, black void in my memory is screaming.
I pray the stage opens up and drops me in hell.
I wish for my own instant death. I want to drown myself in whiskey until it strips this second from memory the same way it did that fateful night.
More than any of that though, I want to run.
Because there is no way I’m sharing this stage with the man who raped me.
Not now, not on a world tour, not ever.