“Yes.” Then I let myself think about something I hadn’t allowed myself to before because it scared me too much. “Does this mean it will go to trial?”
That the world would find out?
“If he pleads guilty, it won’t go to trial. But his defense might talk him into a trial. There is evidence but not so much that a defense lawyer might not chance his arm in court. You know you can ask your lawyer about all this.”
“Yes,” Killian stated. “I mean, we already did.”
We had? Obviously, Killian had thought to ask his lawyer, but I hadn’t. I’d been too busy recovering and adjusting to my new life to really think about it. All I’d wanted was justice. I hadn’t wanted to dwell on how I’d get it.
My mind whirred. What a mess. I felt numb as she took us to a room with a two-way mirror and they brought in Douglas Inch.
I didn’t know what I expected to feel when I saw him. He had bad bruising on his left cheek and eye and a split lip, but otherwise he was intact. I felt a bizarre mixture of gratitude and fury toward him. “That’s him.” I looked at Calton as she nodded. “I don’t think he’s a bad kid, you know. Just a moron.”
“Agreed.” She nodded. “We’ll see if we can get him to fess up, find that guitar of yours.”
“That would be appreciated.” I felt a little shaky and light-headed, like my blood sugar had dropped. “We done?”
“We’ll be in touch.”
As soon as we got outside the police station, I leaned against the wall for support, sucking in air like there had been none inside.
I felt O’Dea’s hand on my back. “Skylar?” He sounded worried.
I waved away his worry with my good hand.
His hand pressed deeper. “There won’t be a trial,” he murmured in my ear. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Confused, I looked at him, my breath stuttering at finding his face so close to mine. “What do you mean?” I whispered.
Determination hardened his gaze. “It won’t go to trial. I know people who can be very convincing when they want to be.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.” He surprised me further by grabbing my hand and leading me back to his car. “You just need to know that I won’t let this situation become a public media circus for you.”
“You know what’s freaking me out?” I said as he opened the door for me.
“What?”
I met his gaze. “I believe you.”
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, AFTER being shadowed by Autumn almost twenty-four/seven since that day at the police station, I took a walk along the River Clyde on my own. It was mid-October now, the air was brisk, crisp and fresh, and filled my lungs in a way that made me feel a little light-headed. But in a good way.
All wrapped up, I didn’t mind the cold. It got as cold as this back in Billings at this time of year.
I meandered down the street along the riverbank, ignoring the itch in my cast. The irritation was getting increasingly worse, which meant it was healing. It didn’t hurt anymore, not unless I accidentally put too much pressure on it. The cast was due to come off in two days and I couldn’t wait.
My curiosity compelled me to take a fifteen-minute walk down Stobcross Road to the building that housed Skyscraper Records. The name had its obvious imagery but the building was nowhere near as tall as a skyscraper, only moderately tall and made entirely of glass. It looked like it housed more than Skyscraper Records. There were a few company names etched on the side of the large entrance door.
I hadn’t ventured down this way before, afraid of bumping into O’Dea, so I hadn’t realized how close the label was to the Hydro. The sight of it in the distance felt like a spear through my memories. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering but not from the cold, as I remembered the last time my band played at Glasgow’s busiest event venue . . .
Glasgow, 2014
SSE Hydro
There is nothing quite like the feeling of thousands of fans singing your lyrics back to you. Sometimes it felt so big, I thought my chest might explode.
I wished it was only this for us.
Standing on a massive stage, staring out into a huge arena, I was sweat-soaked, adrenaline coursing through my body. Our light show made it hard to see anything but a sea of figures in front of me, and up on the seated stands I could see the shadow of thousands of them. It still blew my mind that all these people had come to hear us play.
The first time we played Glasgow, we’d played The Barrowland. We’d all been psyched but extremely nervous to play the renowned Barrowland Ballroom where so many legendary rock bands had played. The Barras, that’s what the locals called it. Just to play Glasgow, the city of music, was amazing. It had been so special.
But now we were selling out arenas in Glasgow.
Epic.
And I wished as I sang my heart out with the crowd, striding from one end of the stage to the next, that all the other shit would disappear because this was what made me happy.
“Well, you turn my insides and make them outsides,
You string out my bones like bunting.
Splatter my heart and call it art,
And art is meant for the world to see.
Public property with an admission fee.”
They sang my song of hatred of the paparazzi back at me with as much ferocity as I sang it to them. There were moments, only ever offstage, where I resented our fans. If it weren’t for the phenomenon they’d swept us up into, the tabloids wouldn’t care what the hell we did with our lives. But because the fans cared, the tabloids knew we’d sell magazines and bring them those online hits they wanted.
The funny thing was that every time I sang this song, one of our biggest-selling singles to date, the fans sang it back to me like they cared how much I hurt. And any resentment I felt melted away.
The thrum of the music vibrated through me as I ended the song on its huge note. My chest heaved with breathlessness as the amps’ growls died out and the cheers from the crowd came at us like a windblast. Their shouts and whistles, the clapping and stamping of their feet became a heartbeat that found rhythm with mine.
“Thank you, Glasgow!” I yelled into the mic. “You guys are the best fans in the world. We love visiting this beautiful city. I don’t know if we’ve ever been any place where music is as appreciated as it is here.”
They cheered harder like I knew they would and I grinned, wiping sweat from my forehead. “We’ve got one last song for you and then I’m sorry to say we have to go.” The crowd screamed harder at the lie. We were traditionalists and they knew it. We’d finish up, leave the stage, and then at their pounding demand, come back on for our encore.
The lights had dimmed behind me so the stagehand who came out with a stool could barely be seen. When he was gone, a spotlight lit the stool he’d set center stage for me. My Taylor leaned against it, plugged into the amp. And the mic stand was now in front of it.
“Well, guys, we’re going to say goodbye the only way we know how.” I put the mic onto the stand, slipped onto the stool, grabbed my guitar, and did it all unable to look at Micah.
I’d been dreading this song since we’d walked onstage tonight.
We’d been having a good day. The guys and I were exhausted because this was the end of our European tour, but we’d decided to head out and take photos in Glasgow for our social media pages. It was a fun day.
Until a new headline hit the tabloids.
Someone had snapped a photo of me and Jay Preston kissing outside a bar in Berlin a few nights ago. Jay was the drummer of a Canadian rock band and we’d both been playing the city at the same time, different venues. Our bands met in a bar and while Micah got drunk and left with some groupie, I’d gotten drunk and left with Jay.
I hadn’t expected anyone would find out about it, but once again there I was, plastered all over the internet.
Our fans had viciously attacked me on Instagram for breaking Micah’s heart again. They did the same to him anytime he was photographed with another girl.
I’d worried that when we stepped onstage that night, there might be some shouts about it from the crowds, but the incident didn’t exist for them.