Rush

I’m nobody, but Palatine is everything in the UK and beyond right now; one of two bands that everyone is obsessed with. Palatine versus Saint Cyprian. Striker Jones versus Rush Osman. Two huge bands. Two absurdly good-looking lead singers. A whole lotta bad blood between them. Striker Jones—foxlike features, popular, darkly charismatic—has fangirls and fanboys frothing at the mouth at the thought someone has hurt their hero. I could tweet something in my defense, but it would be like putting plaster on a slashed jugular.

The phone slips from my hand and falls to the floor. I look around at the pristine pale lemon walls with white trim. The white lace curtains. The yellow and white stuffed rabbits on my bed. The daisies decorating my bedspread.

I’m such a baby.

A stupid, naïve little idiot who thought she could play with the big boys, but instead, she got pushed over and stomped on in the playground.

Yellow usually cheers me up. Yellow is such a happy color. When I performed a solo in an end-of-year concert when I was fifteen, I wore yellow satin pointe shoes and a lemon tulle skirt. The whole piece choreographed by me. That was how I got started, working out my own dances, and then incorporating Contemporary, Latin, Swing and Urban styles into my classical training. I posted videos of myself to YouTube, and they started getting hundreds of thousands of views. Some of my dance friends even joined me in the videos for fun, giving me practice at instructing troupes.

When I was nineteen, someone wanted to hire me for their music videos. Pay me money for doing something I loved. I was stratospherically happy. It was an indie pop group who wanted something fresh for their music video, and then half a dozen more wanted to hire me, too, until a little over a year later, an actual rock god in the form of Striker Jones smiled at me and told me I’m amazing.

I reach out and snatch up a stuffed rabbit and bury my face in its fur. And I believed him.

A woman would have known how to handle a man like Striker. I’m just a stupid little girl. Naïve and trusting. A woman would have seen the warning signs. I clench my fingernails on the bunny and cry harder. My life is ruined before it’s even begun.

My phone buzzes and I see that Jasminta is calling. There are concerned texts from other friends, too. Everyone I know is a dancer, singer or performer of some type and my shame will be all over their newsfeeds.

I think about calling Mum and sobbing my heart out to her, but I already know what she’ll say.

That’s just men. You can’t trust any of them. Handsome, was he? Well, you know what your dad was like. All charm, and then he walked out the second he was bored with you and me.

And I’ll say, But Mum, this was a work relationship. There was nothing like that between me and Striker. I’m a professional. He was supposed to be professional, too.

Men are men, sweetheart, and famous ones are the worst.

I wipe the tears from my face with a shaking hand. No one will believe my side of the story. No one will even care. I switch my phone off and crawl beneath the blankets, willing the whole world to go away and leave me alone. To forget I exist.

Today.

Tomorrow.

Forever.

2

Rush

Eight months later

“Fuck you. This is amazing. Get the fuck out of here.” I throw my arms around Rin Landers and fold him in a massive bear hug. I’m so goddamn proud of him. His third single, “Mass Affect,” just hit the top twenty. The album is at number five. The Camden pub is full of people here to celebrate with him.

“Mate, I can’t thank you enough.” Rin grins at me, his face flushed with happiness.

“It was all you.” I might have produced the album and got it in the inboxes of the people who matter, but it was his music, his performance that’s made it a hit. I remember exactly how this felt when it happened to me and Saint Cyprian, seven years and three albums ago. Like the whole world was at my feet.

I open my suit jacket to show him the Rin Landers T-shirt I’m wearing underneath. “Don’t forget your first fan now that you’re a huge star.”

Rin covers his face and shakes his head. “Rush, if there’s anything I can ever do for you. Anything at all.”

“Shut your face. Do you have a drink? Let me get you a pint.”

I push my way through the crowd to the bar and signal to the bartender for two pints of Camden Pale. It’s a fantastic turnout at the pub. Loads of artists from his label, and plenty of music journalists who’ll blog and tweet about Rin all weekend.