“Yeah. I see it.”
“That’s the photo of the fucking year. You two are iconic, like bleedin’ Romeo and Juliet.”
“How’s Juliet, is she doing all right?”
“The press is camped out front of her hotel. She wouldn’t leave Somerset without you.”
I grip the handset. “What the fuck? You should have taken her to my place!”
“Mate, I told her you’d want her out there, but she wouldn’t listen. Don’t take it out on me.”
Dree holed up in a hotel room, all alone. I’ve only just convinced her, and tenuously, that being my girlfriend is a good thing. Now I’ve been arrested and she’s being hounded even worse than when she worked for Striker. What am I going to do if she refuses to come to my home, or to even see me?
Go get her, that’s what.
“Could you send a car for her now? Tell her I’m getting out of jail and she’s to meet me in Shropshire. I can’t go get her myself. The press will go fucking bananas.”
“Will do. Ulf will get her out a back way. We already sussed it together.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. They’ve thought of everything.
“I’m on my way,” Wes tells me. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Yeah, you’re really funny,” I tell him, and hang up.
Fifteen minutes later, Wes hands me my sunglasses and we walk out of the police station, running a gauntlet of journalists. It’s tempting to smile and give them a show, and I would have in the past, but Dree’s waiting for me and I’ve caused enough drama already.
Wes and I get into the back of the waiting car and it pulls away, leaving the press scrum behind.
“Mate, you fucking stink.”
I hold out my arms to Wes and go to embrace him. “I missed you, too. Give me a kiss.”
“Get off. What did they charge you with in the end?”
I drop my arms and sigh. “Common assault.”
“What’s the sentence going to be?”
“Don’t know. Gary wasn’t in a chatty mood. Have you talked to anyone at Ryman?”
Wes laughs. “Yeah, and they’re trying to be mad at you, but sales and downloads of ‘Not Only’ have been insane. It’s going to chart and they know it.”
Triumph races through me. “Fucking yes. I knew it would do well, but damn, it still feels good to hear that. What’s Striker been up to?”
Wes grimaces, digs in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Tweeting about you and your girlfriend being violent criminals and portraying himself as the victim. Take a look.”
I check a few of his tweets and they’re getting a lot of attention. Plenty of support from his fans. Saint Cyprian fans are replying with pictures of him glassing me several years ago and sarcastic remarks about Striker’s non-violent approach.
I sigh and pass Wes’ phone back to him. The antipathy between Saint Cyprian and Palatine used to be focused around our music. It’s moved beyond that now and become something darker. Everyone else can wear themselves out online screaming about it. Right now, I want a shower, and I want my girl.
The moment I step into the front hall at home, I hear the sound of running footsteps and then something small and sweet-smelling barrels into me. Dree’s arms lock around my waist and she buries her face in my chest.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” She says it over and over again.
“Babygirl, stop that right now.” I take her face in my hands and make her look up at me. “What are you even saying sorry for? None of this is your fault. This is between me and Striker.”
Wes is standing at my side, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “Between Saint Cyprian and Palatine, you mean. The boys and I have your back one hundred percent.”
I give Wes a grateful look. “You sure you guys aren’t pissed off with me? I think I’ve made things a million times worse between us and Palatine.”
Wes shakes his head. “Nah, mate. He had it coming. The shit he’s been pulling all these years and what he did to Dree was going too fucking far.”
Even if it means they’re dragged through the mud along with me? Even if we have to cancel our upcoming tour because of the legal trouble that’s coming?
The label is placated for the moment as the single’s doing so well, but their lawyers are going to want me to throw myself on the court’s mercy and grovel to Striker to make all this go away. And that leaves nothing but a bitter taste in my mouth.
Apologize to Striker? Not in a million fucking years.
19
Dree
“Are you okay? You’re not eating anything.”
I gaze down at the spaghetti and pesto, eggplant parmigiana, and salad with pear and balsamic vinegar. The band has bottles of beer or glasses of red wine. Rush poured us both huge glasses of Chianti. It’s Rush’s get-out-of-jail feast, and yet, I can’t eat a bite. My stomach is curdled and there’s a sour taste at the back of my throat.