Page 72 of Backstage

“Did she go to the police? Did she report it? Why didn’t the hospital report the rape right away?” Simon fires out the questions with apprehension.

“She didn’t report it to the hospital,” Evan sighs. “The photos were taken by her friend, who she sought refuge with when she got home. She only went to the lawyer recently. The lawyer has contacted us for compensation, but she will file a complaint tomorrow, and these photos will probably come out in the press as soon as tomorrow night.”

“So? Is he being charged or not?” Michael interrupts.

“Not yet. Since there’s no medical report and no police report when it happened, they’ll have to investigate. It’s her word against Damian’s.”

“I didn’t do anything,” whispers Damian.

“I know, but you’ll have to prove it. Right now, we need to figure out how to deal with what’s about to blow up in a few hours. Tomorrow night is the last show. Do you feel like going on stage? We can always cancel it, say you got sick, and refund the ticket money.”

“But if this story comes out in tomorrow’s paper, won’t that be like an admission of guilt? Like he knew about it and covered his ass?” says Michael, who seems to ask what’s on all of our minds. Evan thinks about it and shakes his head but Michael persists, almost angrily. “Listen, you said she went to our lawyer asking for compensation, can’t we just pay her?”

“Her face is swollen with bruises, and you want to pay her to keep her mouth shut?” I growl. And for the first time, they seem to remember that I’m in the room, too. Damian turns to me; the look on his face full of disbelief and pain.

“Do you really think I would do something like that?” he asks me like he’s seeing me for the first time.

I can’t speak. I can’t even open my mouth. No, the Damian I know couldn’t have done such a thing. He’s generous, protective, good. Tome. But the Damian I don’t know stole cars and got into fights in prison. What if he really did hurt that girl when he was drunk? What if he doesn’t remember? There are pictures of him lying on a fucking bed with her naked. I didn’t dream it, I see them with my own eyes, just like I see the bruises. But he says he never met her. Either he’s lying, or he doesn’t remember—because the evidence is here on this table in front of me.

Either way, I’m scared to death because I don’t know who I’m looking at anymore. How can he say he’s never met her? Even though the fucking pictures of them are on that table?

“Lilly, maybe you should leave the room.” Evan’s voice is quiet but firm.

No one tries to stop me this time when I get up from my chair and walk to the door. No one wants me in this room anymore. Just outside, I lean against the wall by the door and let myself slide to the floor, unable to hold in my sobbing. I desperately need someone to tell me that Damian is innocent, that this is just a nightmare from which I will wake up, but the reality is that I’m not sure of anything anymore. Even if my heart is telling me that Damian couldn’t do something like this, that the person I know is noble and generous. Still, those pictures are branded in my mind, and I don’t have a logical reason to believe Damian isn’t involved.

“Lilly, come on, let’s get on the bus.” Luke’s voice wakes me up to reality, and when I look up, I find Martin and Taylor looking at me worriedly.

The sobs still rattle me as we get on the bus and seat ourselves quietly around the table. None of them have asked me anything, even though I see the worry on their faces.

“You know you just have to say the word, and we’ll go smash his face, don’t you?” Martin asks me when the bus finally gets moving.

“He may be big, but there’s three of us, and we’re gonna kick his ass,” Taylor joins in.

I nod but say nothing, a slight smile appearing on my lips, but not reaching my heart. Luke holds me close, and the journey to our last stop becomes a silent approach to a hell I don’t want to face.

I open my eyes when the bus parks and see the early morning light coming through the window. The sun has just come up, it’s early; I like waking up at this hour and having the whole day ahead of me to do a thousand things. It feels full of potential and expectation. Not today. I spent the night thinking and rethinking about that woman’s face, about the fact that I don’t know her, but we were photographed in the same bed. Then I recall Lilly’s face, the terror printed in her eyes, and the certainty of having lost her. All I can do is hope she forgives me for all the crap I’ve done, but the suspicion of what I may have done is something I can never erase from her heart.

It’s a strange feeling—one of those moments when I wish time could have stopped two days ago and left me on tour for the rest of my life. When a tour ends, I always feel a mixture of emotions. I want to go home, get my life back, relax, have decent meals, start a routine I know I’ll enjoy again after a few months, but one I only seem to appreciate by going on tour. This time, however, it’s a suffocating feeling. Going home means facing an accusation that is driving me crazy. I never touched that woman, but I can’t even explain those bruises. I even wondered if I really drank so much that I don’t remember doing it. After all, I have my father’s blood running through my veins, right?

“Are you awake?” Evan peeps his head in after a light knock on the door.

“Yeah.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“I more or less collapsed from exhaustion by morning.” I get up and put on my sweatpants and a short-sleeved shirt.

“I checked the newspapers and major gossip sites. They haven’t fed the news to the press yet. I think they’re trying to figure out how best to play their cards right now.” He’s trying to reassure me, but it’s not working.

“You know it wasn’t me, right? I know my father...”

“Damian, stop.” He turns me around, and I see an almost paternal smile on his face. “You’re not your father. I have no doubt it wasn’t you, don’t even think that. We all know it’s a false accusation. Nobody’s insinuating otherwise.”

“Lilly...Lilly’s not convinced that...” I can’t even form that sentence it hurts so much.

Evan breathes in and holds his breath as he looks up to the sky. “Lilly is twenty years old, and she doesn’t know you. She met the rock star, the handsome man everyone knows, but not the Damian of the old days. Those pictures shook her up because she knows your past, but not all of it. Tell her what happened that night, she’ll understand it wasn’t your fault. Nor was it your fault with that girl. Don’t take responsibility for something you don’t have to, don’t hold the weight of the world on your shoulders, let someone help you carry this cross.”

His words hit me like a tornado. Telling her about that night won’t be easy, telling her about how I saw my life shattered into thousands of little pieces, the difficulty of putting them back together into a shape that doesn’t even resemble the child I was.

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