A uniformed man steps in front of me as I reach for her.
“Rush Osman, you’re under arrest.”
“What? Fuck off. Dree, baby, come here.” I try to take hold of my girl, but someone grabs my wrist and twists it behind my back. “Hey! What the fuck?”
I get a look at the uniformed men. They’re cops. A bunch of cops are grabbing me, but I’m just trying to get to Dree.
She comes running forward. “Let go of him! He was provoked. This isn’t fair.”
I stare at her as I feel handcuffs click into place around my wrists and I realize what he’s done.
Striker, you petty little fuck.
I feel myself grow very still. As furious as I am, nothing’s going to get sorted out here. If I fight, then I’m just going to make things worse, and they might arrest Dree, too.
I speak up, trying to get her attention. “Babygirl. Babe. Dree. Listen to me. It’s all right. This doesn’t matter. Let me go with them and sort this out.”
“But they can’t! You—
“I’ll be fine. This is nothing. Go with the band. Stay with the guys, okay?” They’ll look after her while I can’t. I know I can trust them.
Dree takes a frightened breath, her eyes filling with tears. The police try to drag me away just as she comes up on her toes to kiss me. I dig my heels in and fight to stay where I am, my shoulders straining as I’m pulled in the other direction.
No one is going to stop me from kissing my girl. Her lips press against mine, a moment of perfect sweetness.
Then I’m yanked away from her.
“Stay with the band. I love you,” I call over my shoulder as I’m jostled away by three cops.
I hear a gut-wrenching, tear-filled shout as I’m dragged off the stage and down some stairs. “Rush, I love you, too.”
Her cry is swallowed up by the dozens of people shouting around me and the angry buzzing in my head as I’m torn away from everything in the world that matters to me.
The metal peephole on my jail cell clangs open and a pair of beady eyes sweeps across my cell. All four feet wide of it. I’ve got my feet up on the bunk and I’ve been humming every song I’ve ever written from start to finish to pass the time.
Anything to keep me from going insane with wondering what’s happening out there.
The door swings open. I scratch the blond stubble that’s quickly becoming a short beard and squint at who’s entered. An uptight-looking man in a suit. “Gary, mate. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”
Gary Melling, the solicitor from my label. He was down here at one in the morning on Monday, just a few hours after I was arrested, trying to get me released, but the cops weren’t having it. Guess they thought they’d be in the shit if they let me go right after I assaulted someone in front of two hundred thousand witnesses.
And called him a cunt.
I smile at the memory. Damn that felt good.
“Mr. Osman. Are you feeling all right?”
It’s Tuesday afternoon. I need a shower and a cup of real coffee, but I’m fine. I stretch my arms over my head and get to my feet. “You’ve come to spring me?”
“No.”
I drop my arms, my mood plummeting. “Oh, come on. How much longer until they charge me and I can get the fuck out of here?”
Gary shoots me an impatient look, as if he thinks I’m reprehensible for wanting to be charged. “I mean yes, they’re charging you now, but Mr. Pickering has indicated he wants to be the one who meets you outside. He’s waiting for your call.”
Good old Wes. We’ve been mates since we were fifteen. Him being here to bail me out will make the whole mess so much more bearable.
I follow Gary out of the cell. I’m charged with common assault; bail is set and I’m given my belt and shoelaces back. Gary shows me to a phone and then bids me goodbye. He hasn’t smiled once, the miserable bastard. My label must be pissed as fuck at me.
I give him a cheery wave. “Bye, Gary! Talk soon.”
I pick up the phone and dial Wes’ number. “Mate? It’s me.”
Wes gives a shout of laughter that’s better than a hot shower after two nights in this miserable place. “Hello, jailbird. You doing all right?”
“Oh, sure. I hear you’re dying to come pick me up?”
“Can’t have you walking out of there all on your lonesome.”
“The solicitor could have done it.”
“No, he couldn’t,” Wes says firmly, and I find myself grinning. I would do the same for him, too.
“Thanks, mate.”
“Seen the papers?” Wes asks.
There’s a copy of The Sun face down next to the phone. I flip it over and see myself on the front cover, straining against my handcuffs and kissing Dree while the police try to pull me away. Two of the cops are shouting. My band members’ faces are a mixture of astonishment and fury. And in the middle of the uproar, Dree, standing on tiptoes with her lovely neck arched back and her face serene as she kisses me. The whole thing looks like a renaissance painting and the headline reads, FALLEN SAINT. Because the band is called Saint Cyprian. How original.