Rush

Rush’s eyes flash. “Then mitigate it! Striker assaulted Dree. He’s the one who owes her an apology.”

Mr. Melling’s jaw works like he’s got the words idiot and pointless on the tip of his tongue. Then he glares at me, as if this is all my fault.

I sink lower in my seat.

Rush leans forward. “Don’t look at her like that. I’m the one making these decisions so glare at fucking me. Either help me prove I was provoked, or get the hell out of here. I’ll get my own solicitor, one that’s more interested in what’s right than what’s good for the label.”

Mr. Melling shuffles the papers in front of him. “This is a matter that’s best approached with a cool head. Everyone in the country is going to be watching what’s said in court, because everyone in the country saw you assault Mr. Jones. It looks bad, Mr. Osman. Remorseless violence goes down badly in court. Very badly. The judge has every reason to give you the maximum sentence.”

“What is the maximum sentence?” I ask.

“Six months.”

My heart plummets. Six months in prison. Six months of being locked up in a tiny cell with barely any fresh air and no freedom or privacy. People talking about him like he’s a criminal. It’s not fair. Rush doesn’t deserve that.

Rush folds his arms, his expression stony.

“I’ll speak plainly,” Mr. Melling continues, looking not only at Rush, but at the band, too. “The label will not support you if you’re sentenced to prison time. If you won’t be sensible for your own sake, Mr. Osman, then think about your bandmates. Consider your girlfriend. She’s been through enough, hasn’t she?”

Rush reaches out and slides his fingers into my hair, caressing the nape of my neck. “Dree wants me to stand by my principles. Don’t you, baby?”

It’s not about what I want. Rush can’t do anything but stand by his principles. I turn to Mr. Melling. “I want Rush to be able to hold his head up. It’s his day in court, and his decision how he pleads.”

Mr. Melling gathers up his papers, his mouth clamped in a disapproving line. “It’s my job to keep you out of prison, but if you’re not going to listen to me then there’s no point in drawing this out. Understand this, though. If you’re sent to prison, Mr. Osman, Saint Cyprian’s contract will be canceled, your album will be pulled, and so will your tour.”

He gazes around at the band members, and they glare back.

Wes shakes his head. “Ryman is diversifying into blackmail? Nice. Real nice.”

“When they lock you in for that first night, Mr. Osman, I hope your principles are enough to keep you warm.”

Rush smiles coldly at him. “Your well wishes mean everything to me.”

The band members see the solicitor out, leaving Rush and me on our own. I take Rush’s hand, my brow pinched with worry. “I hate the thought of how Striker will crow if you’re sent away. He’ll be all over everything, trashing you and the band.”

“I don’t give a fuck what that asshole thinks of me. Don’t let him take up any more space in your head. I don’t want him in there, you hear me?”

I put my arms around his neck and bury my face in his chest. I would never show it in front of an outsider, but that solicitor got to me. Rush doesn’t belong in a prison cell. Apart from six months of misery, this could ruin his whole career and the rest of his life.

Rush rubs the back of my scalp with his fingers. “Don’t worry about me or the band. Even if I’m sent to prison, Ryman will only dump us if we stop making them money. The single’s at number one. The music video’s going to end up with more views than ‘Gangnam Style.’” He laughs. “Okay, maybe not more than ‘Gangnam Style.’ But up there.”

I wish I felt his confidence. I just have to trust that he knows what his label will and won’t do. I remember what he said to me the first day we met.

If everyone in this industry needed a squeaky-clean reputation then there’d be about three people left, and they’d all be boring as hell. I’m no angel, that’s for sure.

If he was ever an angel, his wings are going to be a lot more tarnished after this.

“Even if the band and your careers are safe, you’re the one who’s going to suffer through a prison sentence.”

He folds me tighter in his arms. When he speaks, his lips are against my ear. “This is not suffering. I will always, always stand up and tell anyone who’ll listen than I’m on your side, and the band’s side, and no one else’s.”

His soft, warm words cascade through me. Not long ago, I was panicking that he wanted to call me his girlfriend. Now he might be going to prison because of me. I didn’t know what worry was until now.