Thinking about me as Rush and not Striker 2.0, she means. I reach out and push her hair back from her face. The fact that she can say that now in the midst of this mess makes my heart turn over. “I do know, babygirl.” I nod at the phone. “I’m surprised he did it, actually. I practically told him I’ve got the CCTV footage of him putting K in your drink.”
She shrugs and reaches for her glass of water. “I guess he saw through your bluff.”
I push my sunglasses up my nose and smile at her. “Who says it was a bluff?”
Dree freezes and turns back to me. “What?”
“The footage. I have it. I called the owner of Baroque after I took you home and he went through the security footage for me and sent me a copy.”
And what juicy footage it is. You can clearly see Striker spotting Dree, pouring something from a tiny bottle into a flute of champagne and then beckoning her over to give it to her. Within twenty minutes, Dree is staggering. After thirty minutes, I can be seen carrying her out of the club. I even got all the footage of Dree from the moment she entered the club that shows how many drinks she had, which bartender made them and when, and that she never left her drinks unattended.
I watch Dree’s face carefully, wondering if she’s going to be angry with me for keeping this from her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.
“Because you would have told me to delete it and I would have done as you asked because I can’t say no to you. Maybe that was wrong of me, but it’s not fucking fair that Striker has made your life hell.”
Dree nods slowly. “I think I would have told you to delete it. I’ve done my best to erase every moment I’ve ever spent with Striker from my mind, but life doesn’t work like that, does it?”
No, it doesn’t. You can’t hide from things. You have to face them.
“What are you going to do with that footage?” she asks me.
I shift to her sunbed and put an arm around her. “It’s up to you. I can give it to the police, or I can give it to the press.”
She smiles weakly. “Doing nothing isn’t an option anymore, is it?”
“Do you want it to be?”
For a moment, she worries at her thumbnail with her teeth. “If that footage gets out, then everyone’s going to see even more of me at my most vulnerable moment. Out of control. Weak.” She’s silent for a while, and then says, “But they’ll also see one man at his worst, and one at his best. Someone who wanted to hurt me, and the one who helped me.”
Dree wraps her arm around my waist and leans her head on my shoulder. “Give it to the police. Everyone needs to know that you were provoked into hurting Striker. I don’t care what happens to me anymore.”
“I care what happens to you. Will you be okay when this leaks to the press? As soon as it leaves my phone, we have to assume that this can go anywhere. And it probably will.”
Dree thinks for a moment, staring straight ahead. Then she seems to have a sudden spurt of optimism, as she sits up straight and says, “Good. As long as we tell the truth then that’s what matters. The truth is what’s going to make everything all right in the end.”
I stand in the dock beside my lawyer and stare straight ahead at the three judges. Behind me in the public gallery is Dree, flanked by the boys. The rest of the seats are filled with journalists and curious onlookers. No one from Palatine or their label has bothered to show up except for their lawyers.
Seven hours after I handed the video over to the lawyers at the label and they gave it to the police, it leaked online. The internet is full of salacious gossip about Striker, Dree and me. Dree deleted every social media app on her phone and did her best to put the whole thing out of her mind, saying that it’s what happens in court that matters.
I wish she didn’t believe that so firmly, or that me sticking to my principles will bring about the best outcome for me today.
It fucking won’t.
My lawyer addresses the judges. “Mr. Osman is entering a plea of not guilty, with the mitigating factors that he was provoked by Mr. Jones on several occasions.”
He’s representing me but he’s paid for by the label and I can feel he has the same opinion as my label and my solicitor. That I’m making a big fucking mistake.
It takes forever for anyone to get around to asking me any questions. Finally, one of the three judges looks and me and asks, “Mr. Osman, how did Mr. Jones provoke you?”