A redheaded man that everyone in here calls Blue is staring at Dree as she walks across the visitation room and around the tables of the other inmates toward me.
“Hmm?” Blue says, and then catches my eye. “Oh—sorry Rush.”
I grin at him and then wrap my arms around my girl. I’m allowed one hug. One. And I’m going to make it count seeing as I haven’t touched her in fucking weeks. I bury my face in her hair and breathe her in.
Heaven.
We sit down at a plastic table and I keep a hold of her hands. “Babe, you look incredible.”
She gives me a bashful smile, a blush spreading over her cheeks as she glances at me through her lashes. Her lips are rosy and her hair is in loose curls down her back. She’s wearing a white sweater and a black skirt with tights and high heeled boots. Modest enough to wear into a prison but still sexy as hell.
“I wanted to look nice for you. Those horrible judges. Six months. Everyone says you should have been given a suspended sentence.”
I can’t wipe the smile off my face. It’s too wonderful that she’s here. “The judges were just doing their jobs. They were right. I’m not the least bit sorry for what I did.”
“Stomper ran a long piece about the feud between you and Striker and it was very much in your favor. They said you acted with dignity.”
I read that piece, and I felt some vindication reading those words. Most of all I was happy to see they devoted several paragraphs to Dree and walked back a lot of what they printed about her. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
“How are you coping with everything, babygirl?”
Dree takes a deep breath. “I’ve thought about it. I’m going to press charges against Striker for what happened at Baroque.”
I reach out and stroke her cheek. “I’m proud of you, baby. Fuck, I wish I could be out there supporting you.”
“You’re in here supporting me, and don’t think that I’m not grateful every second for what you’ve done. I think it’s rattled Striker that you stuck to your principles and wouldn’t show remorse. He made a mistake when he pressed charges against you. It’s only right I speak up, too.”
Her gaze wanders around the visiting room, taking in the worn, institutional gray surroundings. “How is it in here?”
“Not too bad actually. We can go to the gym and read and watch TV. The food’s not much though.”
Dree looks concerned, like she’s worried I’m putting on a brave face for her. I suppose I am. It’s grim and cold, and some of the other guys unsettle me. There are no murderers or rapists, but there are a lot of bored, strung-out men with nothing to do to pass the time except sizing each other up, trying to score drugs or provoking the prison guards. I saw two guards have shit flung at them this week. The whole place went into lockdown while they apprehended the culprits, which means we had to lie face down on the floor for an hour.
“You know what today is, don’t you?” Dree asks.
I do. September third. The date I cockily told Striker about in the pub when Rin Landers was celebrating his charting single. I was daring him to try and ruin it for us. I expected him to try and drop his own album then or announce a tour. Turns out, I was off the mark.
Dree shakes her head. “All your hard work down the drain.”
The album’s been cancelled, and our tour is cancelled, too. To add insult to injury, our label has dropped us, as Gary Melling warned they would. I’m thoroughly disgraced.
And yet as I gaze at Dree, I feel better than ever. “Stay strong, baby. Everything will be all right, I promise. I’ve got things on the go, even in here.”
She blinks in surprise. “In here? Are you forming a gang or something?”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Music things. I’ve been forced to stop and think for a change. I have paper and pens and I can write as much as I want. But never mind that now. Let me introduce you to the guys.”
“But Rush—”
I squeeze her hands and smile, and start to introduce her to the guys from my block, who all wave at Dree from their tables where they’re visiting with friends, partners and kids.
When I get out of here, life will never be the same again. And maybe that’s not a bad thing after all.
21
Dree
In the weeks leading up to Rush’s release from prison and the news that I’m pressing charges against Striker, something magical happens. People start to come forward.
Women, mostly.
Women with stories about Striker and Palatine that sound a lot like my experiences with them.
It starts with a woman who was hired to do some graphic design for Palatine’s last album. She tells The Daily Mail how Striker poured his drink all over her and then forcibly undressed her and hid her clothes, and when she became upset the band told her she was being a dumb, hysterical woman and it was only a prank. She quit and was too humiliated to tell anyone what had happened.