Dree was just sobbing inconsolably in my arms at the hospital. She’d just been drugged. I doubt she meant a word of what she said.
But what if she does?
I want that. I need that. I just haven’t been able to find it, and then Dree falls like an angel into my lap. Heartachingly pretty and vulnerable at her core. She puts up a good front at being tough, but I see the softness she tries to hide.
The car arrives, and I get into the back seat. This girl gets under my skin like no one else. So much talent, and she seems afraid of it. At every turn, she’s waiting for someone to tear her down. It went against all her instincts to agree to work with me, and now Striker has destroyed her all over again.
I open my social media apps, one after the next, and search that prick’s name. I hunt through the accounts of every asshole in that band until I find what I’m looking for. And then I find it. Twats. They can’t help posting every inane moment of their lives online.
I lean forward to talk to the driver. “Sorry mate, I’m going to change the route to Hoxton.”
I make the adjustment in the app and sit back and watch the leafy North London inner suburbs slide past. Thirty minutes later the driver drops me off outside a café, which is packed full of young people eating pancakes and avocado toast.
A few car spaces down is Striker’s Trans Am, black and glossy with a yellow firebird on the hood. I go and sit down on it. Heavily. Then I wait, arms folded, for Striker Jones to finish his breakfast.
Ten minutes later, Striker and the rest of Palatine come slouching out of the café, guffawing at something their lead singer has said. Striker’s still laughing when he sees me. His face transforms into surprise that someone is sitting on his Trans Am.
Then anger when he realizes it’s me. “Get your arse off my car.”
I stay right where I am. “Good breakfast? Enjoyable night at Baroque?”
“Fuck off, Rush. I’m not chatting with you.”
He tries to move past me, but I put my hand against his chest and shove him back.
Hard.
He stumbles over his own feet. One of his bandmates grabs him and helps him up.
Striker rounds on me. “Hey! What the hell did I do to you?”
His nasal whine goes right through me. “Shut up. If you go near her again, I’ll crack your fucking head open.”
Striker hesitates, and I can practically hear him thinking that there’s no way I could know about Dree and the K. “What are you talking about, man? If you’re not going to get off my car, I’ll drive you into traffic.”
Striker tries to step past me, but I push him back again. His face suffuses with red and his nostrils flare. “Hey! Listen you cuntface prick, I’ll have you arrested if you don’t fuck off right this second.”
Striker forgets to sound common when he’s angry. His vowels are suddenly as posh as polo. His bandmates loom closer, trying to look threatening.
I stay right where I am. “You ran into a friend of mine last night at Baroque. I’ve been sitting up with her in the hospital all night.”
Striker suddenly goes very still. Two of his bandmates glance nervously at each other. God, they’re stupid.
“She told me all about you, Striker. And do you know who else I know? The owner of Baroque. I think he might have something interesting to show me from last night, don’t you?”
Striker’s face slackens. Just for a second, and then he laughs, though not quite as confidently as usual. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. Mate, go sober up. You’re drunk.”
His laugh is what does it. The world turns red. I get up and take two long strides, grabbing him with both hands by the collar of his leather jacket and propelling him back against a wall. “If you ever hurt her or even fucking think about her again, I will end you, Striker. You’re walking trash. The world doesn’t need a piece of shit like you.” I shove him toward his car. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”
Striker stumbles again, and comes up whining. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. You come around here harassing me when I’m with my boys tryna have a nice time. You’ve flipped out, Rush. You’re crazy, man.”
His outrage is so fake you could slap a Chanel logo on it and sell it in a flea market. I have to shove my hands deep in my pockets to prevent myself from driving his teeth out the back of his skull with my fist. With one last warning look at Striker, I turn and walk away, still fuming.
This isn’t enough. If I can’t beat the living daylights out of him then he should at least be charged for what he did to Dree.