I shouldn’t be here. Rush might go to prison, and I might have destroyed his band.
This is all my fault.
Rush pauses, his glass of wine partway to his lips. He’s got enough on his mind without me adding to his worry, so I grab my glass and take a huge mouthful, swallowing without thinking.
“Babygirl, eat something if you’re going to drink like that.”
I wince. I don’t deserve him being affectionate toward me after the cataclysm that was this weekend.
Rush wraps his arm around my waist and puts his lips against my ear. He speaks so softly that only I can hear. “Stop that. I can tell you’re blaming yourself for what’s happened and I’m not having it.”
His touch, his voice, make me want to melt against him. For a luscious second, I do. Rush smells of cocoa butter shaving cream and his hair is damp from the shower. His black cotton shirt is clinging to his body and he’s wearing all his jewelry again. Everything about him is back to the way it should be, but there’s an ominous cloud hanging over us. A cloud I feel like I put there.
“What if they convict you? You’ll have a criminal record,” I whisper.
“So? I’m a rock star, not a politician. It will make zero difference to my career, and I’d rather serve time for punching that piece of shit than letting him think he can say and do whatever the fuck he wants to you.”
Serve time. I didn’t even want to say those frightening words aloud. Tears fill my eyes and slip silently down my face. I didn’t want to do this in front of the others. I don’t want them thinking I’m angling for sympathy for ruining all their lives. Because it is all their lives. Every one of them will suffer if Rush is convicted.
“Baby, this is not your fault. Something like this was always going to happen. I’ve had beef with Striker for years.”
The others have stopped eating and they’re all staring at me, and I wish I could crawl into a hole and disappear. It was a mistake to come here.
“Fuck off with that,” Wes says, holding a bottle of beer and waving his finger at my mortified face. Ulf and Anders nod. “No guilt. We’re all in this together, and we’re going to do something about Striker fucking Jones once and for all.”
“That son-of-a-bitch should have caught a thrashing for smashing up Rush’s guitar years ago,” Ulf adds. “Rush told us what happened to you at Baroque. He can’t get away with this shit.”
I twist a strand of spaghetti around my fork, but I don’t pick it up. Striker can get away with anything, and I’m starting to think he always will.
“He won’t get away with this shit,” Rush growls. “I punched Striker’s stupid face in front of two hundred thousand witnesses because no one, no one, fucks with my girl, or any of you. It will be a pleasure to face him in court. I’m looking forward to it.”
The band starts discussing how well Striker’s whiny excuses will go over with the judge and they all laugh. Ever since Rush was arrested, I’ve been telling myself that I’ve ruined everything, but no one seems like they’re angry with me or worried about what the future might bring. I start to relax a little as I imagine that Rush will come off reasonably well in court, because after all Striker did provoke him.
Anders holds out his wine glass to me in a toast. “Enough about that dickhead. When Rush told us about his vision for ‘Not Only,’ we all thought he’d gone mad. I mean, some ballet or whatever in the garden? What a load of crap.” He shoots a grin at Rush and then looks back at me. “But you nailed it, Dree. You understood what Rush was banging on about and you made it happen. That’s the best shit we’ve ever put out there. Full stop.”
“Playing that song at Glastonbury while the video debuted?” Ulf asks. “Hands down top ten best Saint Cyprian moments ever. No, top five.”
“Seeing Rush punch that wanker’s face in right before? Mwah.” Wes kisses his fingertips. “Cherry on the top.”
I glance at Rush, and he’s gazing down at me, an expectant look on his face and happiness glimmering in his eyes. Well? he seems to be asking.
Everyone around the table is staring at me, but for once, the weight of other people’s gazes isn’t crushing me to death. Being seen isn’t killing me. Maybe…it’s all going to be all right?
Happiness bubbles through me as I look at them, and suddenly anything seems possible.
I recall those minutes that passed between Rush and me at the side on the stage, and the glorious and terrifying moments on stage with him when I looked over the crowd and felt their power and energy.