Page 21 of Pistol Whipped
I can’t help but look to my bandmates for any signs that they are somehow as worried about this whole thing as I am. Across the small studio, the only eyes I find are Dutch’s deep brown ones. His gaze is heavy, assessing but not hard. He quirks his eyebrow as if he wishes he could root through my brain for answers. Me too, pal. After a moment, he sighs, “How are we getting to Steelsville and Flamingos, I presume? We can’t exactly fit the four of us and all our gear in my truck. So, what, are we flying?”
I forgot about Flamingos, but from a PR perspective, I can see why Lou chose it as the venue to announce our return. It’s famous in the rock world. My shoulders drop a touch, and surprise replaces most of the panic when Cohen grumbles, “And I can’t fly—not commercial, anyway.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, “Why not? Too fancy now or something?” But Lou interrupts, “Not to worry, my dear Pistols, transportation has been arranged.”
Knowing I have a way to get across the damn country doesn’t prevent me from continuing my freak out again once I’m alone in my hotel room. Well, not alone; Kitten is with me, as she’s been every night since I found her. After a couple of weeks of hotel living and regular meals, she is no longer the skinny little thing surviving off dumpster scraps.
While she’s gotten used to our newfound comfort, I’ve gotten used to her presence, to the way she nudges herself under my arm to sleep, and her vicious (not) attempts to hunt my toes under the hotel bed covers. Despite my best efforts to never love anything ever again, I have to admit I am maybe, the tiniest bit, in love with the little black fuzz ball. There’s no abandoning her now.
The next morning, with the sun peeking through the hotel windows, I am resolved. No matter what, I will not leave her behind. I’ll figure out a way for her to come with me.
Repacking our few belongings doesn’t take long, and then Kitten and I wave goodbye to our little hotel room. The four walls have become a comforting refuge, and there is a lick of fear as to what is waiting for us outside the Seascape Hotel.
The now very familiar town car is parked out front when Kitten and I emerge into the morning light. Because I don’t exactly have a carrier for her, she strolls next to me. Unlike the regular daily routine, there is no new outfit, and no Lou. Lucky me gets to wear my favourite comfortable, black, and okay, maybe a little bit falling apart, sweatpants and a cut-off crop top.
Only the driver is waiting for us. His cap doesn’t hide his fully white hair, and though he usually keeps it stone-faced and starched, probably because his uniform looks stiff as hell, the few times I’ve stood close to him I’ve noticed what look like laugh lines around his eyes. He looks like he’s probably a jolly old grandpa to some five-year-old little shit.
I take a deep breath, straighten my spine and mumble, “C’mon Kitten, we got this,” as we take our first steps towards the car. With every stride, I wait for the driver to stop me or tell me Kitten can’t come.
All he says is, “Nice to finally meet you, little one,” before bending down to scratch Kitten between her ears.
He’s not talking to me. Obviously, other than that first night, I haven’t heard the man utter so much as a peep. Now he’s bent halfway over, offering Kitten a scratch. She eats it up, and when he stands again, she casually jumps into the limo as if she’s used to being chauffeured. The driver finally smiles in my direction.
“You knew?” I gasp, realization dawning, “You knew I had her with me that first night?”
“I did, miss,” he nods.
“But, but, but…you didn’t say anything?”
“No, miss.”
I barely manage to stutter, “T-t-thank you,” before words fail me. I don’t even know this guy’s name, and he’s been carting me around for weeks.
“Ian, miss, you may call me Ian. Though, I’d prefer if you stuck with simply ‘Driver’ around Mr. Braun.”
His lips thin at the mention of Lou. He doesn’t need to say anything else. I’m all too aware of how that asshole treats the people who work for him.
“Now, we best get going.”
He smoothly takes my bags and gestures me into the car, where Kitten has already curled herself up on the seat before closing the door.
The drive to the studio doesn’t take long. Cohen, Dallas and Dutch are all standing in the parking lot waiting. Though I notice Dutch stands a little apart from the other two. Behind them, dominating the entire lot, is a huge bus. And I mean, HUGE.
“The gang’s all here,” I scoff as Lou joins them. All four watch me as Ian opens the door and offers me his hand. I swear I hear him chuckle at my sarcasm too. The man also takes it upon himself to unload my bags from the trunk.
Kitten skitters out behind me, making sure to rub herself against Ian’s pant leg as a sign of affection. They all take notice, but it’s only Cohen, of course, that says anything.
With a scowl on his slim face, and probably because of the giant stick up his ass with everything me-related he says, “No. Absolutely not. No way. That little rat is not getting on that bus.”
I stop dead, pinning first Co, and then the other three men with a glare.
“Go to hell, Cohen. Either the cat gets on the bus with me, or I don’t get on at all.” I say it with all the snark I can muster, secretly hoping that whatever Lou’s ultimate plan is, whatever he’s up to that requires Cohen so distracted, will be enough to have him back me up on this.
Cohen grins. “Great, that’s actually ideal. Because then Lou here will have no choice but to let us replace you with someone better.”
“As if you could find a better singer than me,” I bark back. But beneath my bad attitude there’s that hum of fear again. I’m not as confident in my voice as I used to be, as I need to be, and I’m doubly sure there is some beautiful young thing out there whose skin doesn’t crease when she smiles and whose voice is probably just as good, if not better than my own. Still, I refuse to show Cohen any weakness.
My defence comes from where I least expect it. Dallas Kelly, the boy who hasn’t said a word to me yet or even made eye contact with me for more than five seconds.
