Fight, Jamiee - Ellie R. Hunter Page 0,13

hesitation is all the answer they need.

Shit.

“Christ. Why didn’t you tell us? Why did you stay with him?”

“Hey, this isn’t her fault!” Alice scolds him.

“I’m not saying it is, but we could’ve helped her.”

This—them, fighting because of me—is what I was trying to avoid.

“Please, don’t fight. I’m here now, and I’ll deal with it myself.”

“You need to call the cops regardless of what Freddie’s going through. Deacon can’t be allowed to get away with hurting you,” River says softly. Always the calm, rational guy.

“I’ll figure out what to do soon, but I need to know about Freddie. Have you heard anything?”

“Do you love him?” Damon asks, a lot less angry now.

I struggle to answer him and look away.

“I can’t answer that right now… I’m so confused.” I look back to him, I press, “Is there any news on how he’s doing?”

“Nothing.”

I sit back and clutch a cushion to my chest as my brother and River talk between themselves. Alice begins going through her phone and I zone out, trying to imagine how this could get any worse.

Waiting to hear news on Freddie, I settle in and make myself comfortable, wondering what’s happening to him right now. Is his lawyer good enough to get him out? Has he been charged? Is he being held with violent criminals? I feel sick thinking about it.

When my phone vibrates in my hand, I jump, hoping it’s him calling to say he’s been released and on his way back to the hotel.

Unfortunately, it’s Deacon, so I ignore it. But he calls again and again, and I reject them all. A minute later, a voicemail notification pops up, and I ignore that as well.

“Are you okay?”

I peer up to find Alice staring at me, looking so sad, I can barely maintain eye contact with her.

“I’m worried about Freddie.”

She sighs. “We all are.”

It’s not because of them he’s in trouble, though, is it? This whole situation is on me.

6

Freddie

I listen to my lawyer repeating my bail conditions while we walk toward the door. Hearing it all the first time, I block him out.

Seeing the camera’s flashing through the glass doors, I slide down my baseball cap ready to hide my face as we venture through the paparazzi jungle. I should’ve known they’d be waiting for me to leave, dying to get the first shot of rock and roll’s so-called bad boy. Grabbing my arm, my lawyer pulls me to a stop. Cocking a brow, I stare down at his hand till he gets the hint and releases me.

“Come on, there’s a back door we can leave by. You don’t need them making matters worse.” No one says anything as we retrace our steps through the jail. An officer nods curtly before swinging the back door open for us.

I’ve never taken notice of how fresh the outdoor air smells before, but stepping out of the jail as the sun rises over the tops of the buildings, it’s like I never smelt anything so clean. While I won’t ever regret my actions last night—Deacon deserved every punch I threw his way—I’m not looking forward to the possibility of spending more time in jail. The stench of regret, sweat, and anger still cling to me, and I’m glad to be free. At least for now.

“Here’s my card. I suggest lying low until your court date. I’ll let you know when it is, and I’m sure the label will be in touch soon.”

A shrill whistle pierces the air and I look up, spotting Baz leaning against an SUV. He looks to be on his own, for which I’m grateful. I don’t want to deal with Damon just yet.

I pull the baseball cap farther down and pull my sunglasses out of my pocket. I’m not fooling anyone, but you never know where a pap might be; they’re sneaky little fuckers. However, I’m not taking any chances because the coast looks clear.

“Lie low, Mr. Tucker.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I mutter, walking away from him.

“I’ll be in touch,” he calls after me, just as Baz pushes away from the car and throws his arms around me.

“You survived, then? Got any stories to entertain me on the drive back to the hotel?”

“I wasn’t in there that long,” I huff, pushing him off of me. “Get me out of here.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, Baz jumps in behind the wheel. Taking a closer look at him, his eyes are red and his hair dishevelled, like he hit it hard at the clubs last night. I’m not