Ch.32: Rush

I'd hoped Elle would come with us the next night, so I had someone to sit with while Jude performed, but she was busy. Jude encouraged me to ask Tasha, but what had happened after the party had made me jittery enough that I wanted to keep my sister away from all this.

Don drove us to Soho, where the club, Rush, was located. As I'd expected, the media thronged outside, demanding smiles and poses, yelling the names of anyone they recognised, but this time I was prepared for it. Jude kept me tucked close to his side as we hurried from the car into the club, and reassured me that no photographers were allowed inside.

The exterior of Rush was painted black, with the name spelled out in silver curlicue above frosted glass windows that kept anyone on the street from seeing inside.

Once we were through the doors, we found ourselves in a large space dimly lit by industrial lights hanging on thick chains. It was probably meant to create mood lighting, but I just found it kind of dark. On our left was a long bar, with polished copper taps and glass shelves crammed with bottles, few of which I recognised. Judging by the clientele, the prices were probably eyewatering. To the right of the bar was a small, low stage, and arranged in front of it – leaving enough room for people to dance – were round tables and seats upholstered in blue velvet. The far wall was home to spacious booths, with padded benches instead of individual seats.

A table close to the stage had already been reserved for us, our names written on a small cream card, and my heart fluttered.

Mr and Mrs Scott.

It was the first time anyone had officially called me that.

Once everyone was in and drinks had been served in crystal glasses, Meagan Morgan took the stage. She hadn't been in the music circuit much since Nightrise had disbanded, but her deep, raspy voice hadn't changed, and even though the stage was small, she owned it like she had back when Nightrise was at their peak. It wasn't hard to see why Jude had found her inspirational.

After forty minutes of performing Nightrise hits and cover versions of other famous rock songs, Meagan bowed deeply and left the stage.

Jude leaned over and kissed my cheek. "That's my cue. You sure you're okay on your own?"

"I'm fine. Go do your thing," I said.

He kissed me again, on the lips this time, then he bounded out of his seat and headed for the stage, a chorus of claps and cheers following him. Jude flashed his rockstar grin to his audience, but his eyes were on me, and as he clasped the microphone stand, all I could think about was how good those tattooed hands felt when they were touching me.

Then he started to sing and all I could think was how fucking good he was. Even without the band, even without Franky Clark shredding riffs alongside him, even without Eric Ward pounding out a beat to the song, even without his leather pants and huge stages, Jude had an undeniable, raw magnetism.

I could have watched him forever.

Except . . .

There was a strange prickling feeling on the back of my neck, like on some primal level, I knew I was being watched. It wasn't the feeling of people sitting behind me, or checking me out because I was pretty or because I was Jude's new wife, but the feeling of being really watched. A couple of times I glanced around, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but I couldn't shake the image of my ruined underwear scattered around the bedroom, the angry words scrawled on the mirror.

Some of the people sitting at tables around me or leaning on the bar had been at Jude's party – I glimpsed China Rose's platinum mohawk at the back of the room, and Cole Roth lounged in a nearby seat, surrounded by groupies. Other people I vaguely recognised as actors or singers. Some I'd never seen before.

But one of them was watching me, I was sure of it.

Jude was convinced that Darrell wasn't connected with anything that had happened, but someone at the party had been. Which meant that person could be in this room with me, right now.

Elle had suggested that whoever was behind this was trying to hurt Jude, not me, but what if she was wrong? I'd already seen how some people had lost their minds because Jude had married me, so was it too far-fetched to assume that someone might actually be trying to punish me for this? If so, how far would they go? Had the attack on our bedroom just been to scare me, or would they go further if they could?

Suddenly I felt horribly exposed, sitting in front of everyone like this.

A barman approached my table, carrying a gin balloon glass, which he set down in front of me. Assuming it was from Jude, I nodded my thanks, and raised the glass to my lips.

Then I froze.

What if Jude hadn't sent this drink?

Was it paranoid to think that someone else might have sent it? That something might be wrong with it?

Cautiously, I sniffed it.

I could smell the fruitiness of the flavoured gin and the sharpness of the lime wedge, but would I be able to smell if someone had slipped something into the drink?

Oh, come on, Camden, I silently scolded myself, but I couldn't shake that awful feeling of fear and uncertainty. I couldn't dislodge the memory of walking into my bedroom and seeing that violation.

The gin balloon sat in front of me, seeming to taunt me. I needed it gone. But if I knocked it over, it would interrupt Jude's set. If I returned it to the bar, I'd have to admit my suspicions, and I really didn't want to do that. Maybe it was silly, but I was still adjusting to this new world. Being Jude's wife meant being in the public eye in a way that I'd never imagined, and anyone who paid attention knew how vicious the media could be when they wanted to spin a juicy story. The last thing I needed for anyone to latch onto my private fears and concerns.

That only left one thing I could think of. I picked up the glass and headed for the bathroom, where I could quietly tip the drink away and order a fresh one myself.

The bathroom was tiled in blue, a shade lighter than the velvet chairs, and the dark-wood cubicles were a stark contrast to the gleaming white basins and the huge mirror spanning the wall above them. I checked that the bathroom was empty before pouring the suspect gin down the nearest basin. Ice clinked loudly against the polished porcelain, and suddenly I felt very foolish.

What had I really thought?

That someone would have drugged me?

Poisoned me?

In front of everyone?

Yeah, that was paranoia.

I set down the empty glass and stared at the glittering ice and the bright green lime wedge. My head was a mess.

Maybe someone wouldn't put anything in my drink, but I wasn't imagining the uncomfortable feeling of eyes on the back of my head.

Or maybe I was. Maybe I was still more shaken up from what had happened than I realised.

I needed to pee. That, at least, I knew for sure.

The first and second cubicles were already out of toilet paper, and I rolled my eyes. Rush had only been open an hour, so someone obviously hadn't bothered to stock up. Seemed like a sloppy mistake to make on opening night. The third cubicle had a roll, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I went in, shut the door, and started unbuttoning my jeans, when a flash of colour on the door caught my eye. I looked up.

My blood turned to ice.

A copper hook was fixed to the door, for women to hang their bags or coats on while they used the bathroom, and dangling from that hook were a pair of pink panties.

My pink panties.

I hadn't seen them since the night of the party, and I'd assumed they'd been destroyed along with the rest, but here they were, hanging from the door of the only cubicle that had toilet paper. The only one that I'd been able to use.

Almost as if someone had removed the toilet paper beforehand, forcing me into this cubicle.

Almost as if this had been carefully planned.

I swallowed hard, and tried to tell myself that this was just a weird coincidence, but those were definitely my panties. I remembered buying them two years ago. I could see the loose thread where the lace detail was starting to fray, and the tiny blue ink spot from a pen I'd once left in my pocket.

Someone had stolen them from the loft and left them here for me to find.

The bathroom door opened, and beneath the gap at the bottom of the cubicle door, I saw a pair of booted feet in walk into the room. Something about the tread, slow, deliberate, and heavy, filled me with dread. They reached my cubicle, stopped, then turned so that whoever was out there was staring right at my door.

My throat closed up in terror. I wanted to call for help, but the words wouldn't come.

The boots were sturdy and black, with silver buckles across the ankles, and clearly belonged to a man. He said nothing, but I could hear him breathing, as slow and deliberate as his footsteps had been.

What did he want?

Was he just trying to scare me?

If I did scream, would he be satisfied and leave?

Or did he have something more sinister in mind?

Tears burned my eyes.

It couldn't be Darrell – he wasn't even at Rush – but it was definitely a man, which meant he was bigger and stronger than me. Whatever he wanted, I stood little chance of stopping him.

But I sure as shit wouldn't go down without a fight.

I pulled off my high heels and held one shoe in each hand, stilettos pointed outwards. If he tried coming through that door, I'd jam my heels into his eyes.

Seconds ticked past, agonisingly slow.

The man didn't say anything. He didn't move. He didn't try to get through the door, and the tension inside me wound tighter and tighter until I felt like I was about to explode. I almost wished he would try something, just to put an end to this awful waiting.

Then, abruptly, the man turned and walked out of the bathroom. I heard the door click shut behind him.

I couldn't move.

My hands trembled, still holding up my shoes like weapons, and my chest was tight with fear, screams trapped in my throat, but I still couldn't move.

Maybe he'd known he couldn't break down the door without anyone hearing. Maybe he was waiting for me to emerge from the cubicle so he could charge back into the room and . . .

I couldn't finish that thought because I didn't want to know.

I counted off the minutes in my head – one, two, three, four, five – but no one came back into the bathroom. Slowly, I lowered my shoes.

Did I dare go out?

I wanted to call Jude, but if he was lost in the music, he wouldn't notice his phone ringing. I couldn't call Elle or anyone else, and I swallowed again, past the knot of trapped screams. It felt like everyone I cared about was miles away.

But I couldn't stay in here forever.

Tentatively, I unlatched the door and peeked out.

The bathroom was empty. I waited another couple of minutes, then crept out of the cubicle.

Still nothing.

I half-turned and snatched my panties from the hook. Maybe I should have left them as evidence, but for what? What could I do? Call the police and say a scary man had come into the women's toilets? I hadn't seen him, I didn't know who he was or what he looked like, and I couldn't prove that anyone had left my panties there – or even that they were mine. It wasn't like the police would dust them for prints. I had no evidence of anything, and I couldn't bear to leave something so personal lying around where anyone could see it.

The bathroom door swung open behind me, and I screamed, whipping around with my heels held high.

A woman I didn't recognise froze in the doorway, her eyes wide. "Um, are you okay?" she said.

My heart hammered, and my breathing was ragged, and I felt like I wanted to scream again from the storm of fear and emotion in my head. But I lowered my shoes and gave her a tight smile.

"Sorry," I muttered.

She gave me another strange look and ducked into the nearest cubicle, only to emerge again almost immediately, muttering about the toilet paper. I put my shoes back on and slipped out of the bathroom. I still needed to pee, but I couldn't spend another second in there.