As Dust Dances

by Samantha Young

  OFFICER CALTON ASKED ME TO meet her at the police station the next day where they were holding the boys before officially charging them.

  Without needing to ask, Autumn guessed I might want some company while facing the kid who tried to rape me. As crazy as my life had been these last few weeks, it had been a good thing because I really didn’t have much time to dwell on the attack in the cemetery. Of course, the cast did its best to be a constant reminder, and there were moments when I closed my eyes at night and I could still feel the weight of Johnny’s body bearing down on me. When I was feeling particularly grim, I couldn’t help but imagine what might have happened if his friend hadn’t saved me.

  I’d been one of the lucky ones. I eyed my cast, grateful that my worst wounds from the attack were physical. Although I was still carrying around a hefty amount of anger.

  The door to the apartment opened that morning and I stood, ready to go. I frowned as I listened to the footsteps walking down the hall. They were too heavy for Autumn.

  O’Dea appeared in the doorway, wearing a black double-breasted wool coat. He had a black scarf tucked into it like a cravat and was holding leather gloves.

  I sucked in a breath, resenting the flutter in my lower belly.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His eyes roamed over me, too long, too intense, until I felt myself squirm. I was wearing indigo bootleg jeans, my new fitted blue wool coat, and heeled boots that Autumn decided I had to have. The only mar on what I thought was a pretty nice outfit was my cast. “O’Dea.”

  He stepped closer, those dark eyes focused on my face. “You’ve put on weight.”

  I had.

  Brenna had been weighing me every week for the past month. My BMI was healthy again and to my everlasting relief, I got my period two days ago.

  “That was the plan,” I answered dryly.

  “Good.”

  Good? That was it? Okay. I guess it was “good.” Exasperated, I sighed. “What are you doing here, O’Dea?”

  He scowled. “Taking you to the station. I thought that was obvious.”

  “I thought Autumn was taking me.” I grabbed my purse and keys from the side table, brushing by him, pretending not to notice the clean smell of soap and a hint of spicy aftershave, or what it made me feel. He smelled good—who cared?

  O’Dea followed. “Well, I’m taking you. Problem?”

  “Nope.”

  It felt like a problem once we were stuck in the elevator though. Awkwardness that hadn’t been there between us before made me shift from one foot to the other in discomfort.

  “I guess you’re mad at me for some reason?”

  I threw him a befuddled look. “I am?”

  He threw back that bland stare of his, like nothing I did affected him. “Last time we spoke, I’d graduated to Killian. Now I’m back to O’Dea. And now the silent treatment.”

  Hating his perceptiveness, I made a face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I’m nervous because I’m about to face the boy who tried to rape me and the one who stole my goddamned guitar.”

  O’Dea flinched at the word “rape” and then his expression turned hard. “You’ll get your guitar back.”

  “He sold it,” I said bitterly. Officer Calton had told me the boy they’d picked up was called Douglas Inch and they hadn’t found the guitar in his possession. The obvious conclusion was that the little shit had sold it.

  “We’ll get it back.”

  I didn’t share his out-of-character optimism, so I said nothing.

  He opened his car door for me and I got in, murmuring thanks as he gently closed it. When he got in on the driver’s side, however, he slammed his.

  “Problem?”

  He cut me an impatient look and I felt a little gleeful that it had taken me less than a minute to wipe out his blank countenance. “You tell me.”

  “O’Dea, I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Because I’ve been busy with work lately.”

  “Well, how sane of me to be mad at you for working hard.”

  His lips twitched at my sarcasm. “So . . . you’re not mad?”

  “Like I said . . . I’m . . . I’m just a little nervous.”

  “They can’t touch you. They won’t even know you’re there when you ID them.”

  I nodded, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

  The ride to the station was quiet, but this time O’Dea didn’t hold it against me. Officer Calton came out to greet us when we arrived.

  “I didn’t want to say this on the phone, but we actually only have Douglas Inch here at the station. Jonathan Welsh is currently in the hospital. You’ll have to ID him from a photograph.”

  I frowned in confusion. “What is he doing in the hospital?”

  “Both boys had been attacked when we picked them up. Mr. Inch’s injuries were minor but Welsh’s were considerable. He’s got a broken femur, collarbone, and a few broken ribs.”

  “What happened?”

  Calton shrugged, like we were talking about afternoon tea and not serious assault. “This isn’t their first offense. They’ve been in and out of juvie for years. And word is that they got on the wrong side of the McCrurys.”

  “The who?”

  “Well-known Glasgow gang,” O’Dea answered for her.

  “Oh.” The vengeful part of me was glad. Karma was a bitch after all.

  “This way,” Calton said, and we followed her into a barren office. She rounded a desk and opened a folder, pushing it toward me.

  I turned it around and found myself staring at a photograph of Johnny.

  “Johnny, let’s go.”

  “No before I teach this bitch a lesson.”

  I flinched, hearing my breath shudder as I remembered clawing the ground to get away from him.

  “Miss Finch?”

  Suddenly O’Dea was beside me, his arm pressed against mine. I looked up at him and this time, he wasn’t hiding his emotions. Concern and anger seethed in his dark eyes. “Skylar?”

  I nodded. “It’s him.”

  “To clarify, Miss Finch,” Calton said, drawing my gaze reluctantly back to hers. “You’re identifying Jonathan Welsh as the man who attempted to rape you.”

  “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.

  Hi
s 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.

  Unfortunately, the incident existed for Micah.

  He’d gone quiet when we were out doing tourist stuff and I was grateful for the sullen response, and for the fans who stopped us on the street for photos and autographs, making it even harder for him to say anything to me about it.

  But then I got back to my hotel room and hadn’t even been in there five minutes when I heard the knock on the door. It was Micah. And he was pissed.

  I could still hear him shouting at me, tears in his eyes. “Jay Preston! Jay fucking Preston?”

  It was so unfair. He did this every time. He could go off with groupies and I didn’t say a word, I suffered in silence, but God forbid I let another man touch me.

  Micah was born in the wrong goddamned century.

  “I hate you!” he raged, shaking his hands like he wanted to wrap them around my throat. “I hate that you do this to me!”

  “Me to you? What about your groupies, Micah?” I’d said, trying to stay calm. I never wanted to be that rock star who screamed like a banshee in her hotel room and caused scenes. “You whore yourself out all the time. I don’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t need someone sometimes.”

  “I’m right here.” He pounded his chest breathlessly. “Take me. I’m all yours.”

  “Until you decide I’ve hurt your feelings and you go stick it in someone else to spite me.”

  His face mottled with frustration. “How many times do I have to explain? If I’d known you were coming to work things out, I nev
er would have been with her. I can’t even remember her fucking—”

  The door to my hotel room blew open, cutting him off. Gayle waved a keycard as she glared at Micah. Austin and Brandon were right behind her. “The entire hotel can hear you.”

  “Come on.” Austin grabbed Micah’s arm.

  “We’re talking.” Micah shook him off.

  “I swear to God, man, you better let him walk you out of here because if you don’t, I’m going to fucking beat that pretty face to a pulp,” Brandon warned.

  Micah lifted his chin defiantly. “Try it.”

  “You think I won’t.” Brandon strode over to him. Our drummer was a big guy and although they’d never gotten into a serious physical fight before, he’d easily subdued Micah on the rare occasion our guitarist got a little aggressive when drunk. Brandon cut me a worried look before turning back to Micah. The anger slammed back down over his expression. “I hear you come at her like that again and I will fucking end you. You hear me?”

  Micah’s head whipped back like Brandon had actually hit him. “I would never hurt her.”

  Brandon snorted. “You do it all the time. And if you’re not careful, it’s going to rip this band apart. Now get out of Skylar’s room before I physically remove you from it. And I swear to God, man, stay out of her business. She gets enough shit from the press and the fans. She doesn’t need your immature ass in her face about it too.”

  “You need to stay out of this,” Micah warned.

  “Enough.” Gayle sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “Is this what it’s like when I’m not here?”

  Austin shook his head. “No, we’re fine. It’s just been one of those days.”

  “Well, I’m officially worried.”

  “Don’t be.” Micah shrugged off Austin’s grip. “We’re fine.” He stormed out of my room without looking back at me.

  Brandon rubbed my shoulder affectionately. “You okay?”

  I was shaken but what was new? “I’ll be fine.”

  But I wasn’t. These days I never was. And now I had to finish our set, like always, with the love song that I’d written about Micah. A love song he knew I’d written about him.