“If I get sent away, it’ll be my decision. You’ll have to look after the boys for me. This house will be yours if you need it. You’ll have everything to make sure that you’re safe, I promise.”
The day seems like it can’t get any more intense than it already is, but just after six in the evening, everyone’s phones start buzzing uncontrollably with notifications. Rush, the boys and me are all sitting out on the terrace with sunglasses and jugs of iced lemonade. Wes is picking out sultry notes on an acoustic guitar. I’m reading a paperback. Rush is lying on a sunbed next to me with his shirt off.
There’s still work to be done on the album, but with Rush’s court date in two days, the mood is more about saving energy and trying to chill before everything gets crazy again.
First Ulf reaches for his phone, then Anders, then Wes.
Then they all look at me.
My gut tightens in a snarl. This can’t be good. As much as I don’t want to, I check my screen and see a slew of DM notifications. A link, and friends asking, Did you see Twitter? Is that you???
Please god and everything holy, let it not be me. Nothing good comes after that many question marks.
Wes nudges Rush with his foot. “Rush, mate. You might want to see this.”
With an air of, What fucking now? Rush sits up and picks up his phone. I study his face as he taps it several times, watches something, and then mouths a curse word.
My stomach plummets through the terrace.
Rush takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and then he puts his phone aside. When he looks up at me, I can sense the fury simmering just beneath the surface.
“The night Striker drugged you at Baroque, I carried you from the club out to a taxi. Someone recorded a video and posted it online and it’s started getting attention again. Please don’t—”
But I’ve already snatched up my phone.
Rush grabs my wrist. “Don’t, baby.”
He’s trying his best not to overreact and freak me out, but I can tell from the restrained rage in his voice that this is as bad as it sounds. That blackout that’s sat in my mind like a terrifying void. I’m about to see what I looked like in those minutes. Rush’s hand slides to my shoulder and grips it tightly as I open the link I’ve been sent.
It’s a low-quality street scene with streetlights blurring a lot of the people’s faces, until whoever’s filming, zooms in on a tall man in a black suit jacket with silver hair. Rush’s face pops into focus. So does mine. My face is pale as death and my cheek is slumped against his shoulder. I’m not just out of it. I’m completely passed out. It must have been terrifying for him because I look dead. The accompanying caption is, Is this Rush? Who’s she?? #SaintCyprian, and then there are a lot of old replies that say, yes, it’s Rush or no, it’s not, but they peter out quickly.
The new replies are from earlier today.
That’s Rush and the woman in his video.
WAIT DON’T WE KNOW HER, and there’s a screencap of the article from Stomper.
Wow wow wow @strikerjonespalatine
I click on Striker’s account and see a retweet of the video with the words, Guess who #messyfuckingbitch
“I’m so sorry, Dree. This is my fault for punching him and calling him a cunt in front of the whole country. I thought he’d take this out on me and the assault charge would be enough to placate him.”
As I watch, the number of likes and retweets on Striker’s tweet go up and up. I can hear everyone’s phones buzzing around me. Rush has been dragged into my mess. Saint Cyprian has been dragged into my mess.
It’s happening again.
Only, this time, it’s a million times worse.
20
Rush
I want to slap that phone from Dree hands. Her brow is wrinkled in distress as she keeps scrolling and keeps reading. Then she takes a shuddering breath and lays her phone in her lap.
The boys exchange nervous looks.
Dree raises her eyes to mine and manages a tremulous smile. “I’m—I’m okay. Really I am.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You are?”
“It’s horrible to know that footage is out there but it’s done now. I’m not going to get anywhere by crawling into bed for eight months like I did last time.”
One after the other, Ulf, Wes and Anders stand up and head inside, each giving Dree a pat on the shoulder or a murmur of that’s the spirit as they go.
When we’re alone, Dree looks up at me with a tense expression, but she’s not about to fall into a panic attack or lose control. She holds up her phone, showing me the video. “Thank you for what you did that night. I think you know I started thinking differently about you after that.”