I’ve pushed Striker right out onto the center of the empty main stage at Glastonbury. In front of the crowd. In front of all the TV cameras.
Whatever. I turn my attention back to the man lying at my feet, my hands curled into fists. Daring him to get up. Hoping he’ll get up so I have an excuse to deck him again. Some people are yelling. Some people are applauding. His fans versus my fans, but this isn’t about them. This is about a shit stain of a human being and the pain he’s caused one person.
“What the fuck did I tell you last time, Striker? I said if you go near her again, I’ll crack your fucking head open. Did you think I was joking, or are you just thick? Are you a complete fucking moron?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice several bouncers making their way toward me. Striker doesn’t even try to get up and face me like a man. I lean over him, tapping my chin.
“Go on. Take a free shot. I’m all yours. Fucking hit me.”
Striker cowers on the ground as people are yelling at him to get up and fight me.
“You cowardly little prick,” I seethe. “You bully girls, you lie and you drug them, but you won’t face me. I always knew you were a gutless fucking wonder. Now the whole world knows it, too.”
I fling my arms wide and step back. The bouncers reach me and put their hands on my shoulders, but I shrug them off. “Stay the fuck away from my woman, Striker. Next time, there won’t be any witnesses.”
I push through the bouncers and head back to Dree at the side of the stage. Her face is pale and shocked, and she’s staring past me to Striker. But she’s not scared. She’s incredulous.
Told you he was nothing, baby.
Miraculously, Striker suddenly finds his voice. “Fucking kick him out! He attacked me!”
At the edge of the stage, I glance over my shoulder and see Striker shoving off the help offered by the security guards and stalking off the other side of the stage. Good fucking riddance.
The crowd is noisy and restless. A few minutes later, several of the bouncers and two people from festival management come over to the side of the stage and there are more than a dozen people who swarm around to tell them that I was provoked. There are some mutterings about cancelling Saint Cyprian’s set, but because everything’s over as quickly as it escalated, they decide not to risk upsetting the crowd even more.
One of the managers points a finger in my face. “Nothing like that happens again on my stage, Rush. If you wind that crowd up again, I’ll pull the fucking plug on your set.”
I give him my most charming smile. “Who, me?” He turns away and I drop the smile. Ulf has come up beside me and he gives the suit’s back the finger.
“Nice work, mate.” He claps me on the back. I feel the rest of the band around me, flanking me and Dree. Every single one of us has fantasized about punching Striker on more than one occasion.
Dree suddenly gasps and grabs my right hand. There’s blood all over it where I cut my knuckles on Striker’s teeth. She pulls the scarf knotted at the bottom of her braid and wraps it around my hand. “Are you going to be all right to perform?”
I smile at it, thinking of old tales of ladies tying ribbons to their knights’ lances before they went into battles. “Are you kidding? I’ll play ten times better now.”
Dree takes a deep breath and gazes up at me, trying not to smile, but failing. “You idiot. Thank you.”
I kiss her hard. “Who would I be to let that asshole hurt you yet again and go unpunished?”
A moment later, we’re told our set is starting.
I glare at the entourage surrounding Dree. “Don’t let that fuckface get anywhere near Dree while I’m out there.”
There’s a chorus of, we wouldn’t, Rush, and Carrie and Jasminta step closer to Dree. I nod, give Dree another kiss and head out onto the stage.
We’re greeted by the biggest noise I’ve ever heard from a crowd before. Cheering. Yelling. Booing. After the scene between Striker and me, the crowd is buzzing on a whole new level as I reach the mic.
I don’t want to talk. I just want to play, so we slam into the loudest, harshest song from the last album. Three songs later, I’m sweating like crazy and the sun’s gone down. I strum through some chords and look out across the sea of people.
“You having a good night, Glastonbury?” I yell, and pause for the obligatory woo! that follows. “Do I owe someone an apology? I think I owe someone an apology.”