52. Chapter 37
Fate is an Elegant Cold-Hearted Whore
Lou Braun
Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s all I can think while I plaster fake concern all over my damn features. Before me, Dutch Kelly sits stoic in one of my leather office chairs. Behind him, pacing like a man possessed, is Cohen Brady.
Dutch’s fingers are steepled in front of his face, and he watches me so closely it makes my goddamn eye twitch. To say nothing of the angry stare I’m getting from Cohen.
They’ve just outlined a laundry list of problems.
Number one, Cohen, in his own words, “knows I’m fucking with them somehow, and he has every intention of proving it.”
Number two, Dallas Kelly is missing in action, presumably either high or dead from an overdose somewhere in The Neck.
And number three, Rain Gamble has fucking vanished. Again. After it took me the better part of a year to track her down.
Fuck The Pistols. This shit puts me in hot-fucking-water. So I guess my concern’s not really fake; it’s just not about Rain Gamble’s disappearing act so much as it’s about saving my own damn ass.
If this shitty excuse for a band doesn’t take the stage that first night at Deviant Dreams, if this whole thing falls apart, Viktor Vetrov is going to skin me alive.
The man is adamant about taking down the entire Brady family, including Cohen.
I’m too goddamn smart to ask why, but it was at his behest that I wrote that special little clause into their contract.
Then there’s the money. The whole fucking point of reviving Deviant Dreams was so that Bruce and I could pay back our blood debt to the Russian and, you know, keep all our fucking fingers.
And no offence to Blue Grace, but he’s not the sales draw he thinks he is. Hasn’t been in a long time.
No Pistols, no Deviant Dreams. No Deviant Dreams, and I can wave goodbye to any right-hand action. I wiggle those same fingers on the glass surface of my desk, just to remind me they’re still there.
“Lou?!” Dutch’s deep voice reminds me I’m not alone. “What are we going to fucking do about this?”
Stall. That’s what I’m going to fucking do.
“Cohen,” I say, aiming to keep my voice as measured and conciliatory as possible, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I assure you that there’s nothing different in your contract from any of the other artists signed to Ocean County Records.”
He lunges towards me, but Dutch stops him, smacking a hand across his bandmate’s chest before he can damn near claw my face off.
“Cohen, brother, you need to calm down. You’ve already got one strike from attacking that piece of shit, Trey. Attack the head of our label, and that’ll be strike two.”
Cohen seems to register what Dutch is saying, and he pulls back a little. But he’s still breathing hard, and his lip is still curled. He’s a wild fucking dog, that one.
I can’t help but smile. “You always were the smart one, Dutch.”
Then, to really play up my I’m just a misunderstood father figure who wants the best for you side, I let that smile fall. “Now, as for your brother, I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
Dutch takes one slow, long blink like he’s resigning himself to either abandoning his foster sibling or saving him on his own, yet again.
I am only too aware of Dallas Kelly’s history with drugs and, thanks to some very well-placed listening devices on their tour bus, I’ve also learned exactly how many times Dutch has had to play saviour.
Credit where it’s due, he’s a persistent mother fucker.
If it was my brother, I’d just let him die.
“But…”
With that one word, both Cohen and Dutch’s attention springs back to me. “I may be able to help you find Rain Gamble…for the right price.”
Love always comes with a price. These men, whether they’ll admit it to each other or not, both love that girl. And I’m more than happy to profit from it.