It’d been a long time since she’d initiated any kind of real intimacy. Mostly she just played with it, like sitting on Jonathan’s knee, or getting piggy back rides from Roley. It was part of the act. The kind of stuff that was expected of a rock star, and it seldom went further than that. There were too many expectations. It was too much trouble. So why kiss Jake—of all people?
Did she still think he was weak, wet, had a straw heart? The way he’d calmly dealt with Jonas’s overdose and taken down Neddy, and just tonight, handled Jonathan’s tantrum—none of that was weak. But Jake—Mr Nice Guy, Mr Happy Families. Shit, what was she thinking?
She pretend dozed until a young doctor examined her hand, ruled out any breaks and asked for an autograph.
Back at the hotel in the early hours of the morning, she was awkward with Jake and he with her, as though they’d both had time to rationalise the madness of those kisses, and were grateful to have backed away from some desperate edge of insanity.
It was a relief to separate with polite goodnights and gentle smiles, each one a brick of neutrality. Rielle needed to rebuild the wall between them.
Fatigue and confusion made her limbs heavy. She knew deep sleep would be her comfort and snuggled into it only to jerk awake sometime later, suddenly sitting, clutching the sheets in the dark, her heart trying to leave her chest. She scrambled to get away from the sensation of her body tumbling, falling at a great rate from a great height, screaming Jake’s name.
18. Dynamic Shift
It was clear to Jake there was something wrong between Rand and Stu. Watching from the side of the stage he could see their usual dynamic—part best mates, part rivals for the prize of best guitarist—was off kilter. There was none of their casual but carefully calculated banter, and they tended to keep out of each other’s physical space. To top it off, How and Roley spent much of the time exchanging significant glances Jake couldn’t read.
Rielle’s performance was faultless. If her hand was bothering her, it wasn’t obvious. Her voice vibrated through the Perth night, and had the punters dancing in their seats, screaming for more, and getting it with a third encore.
“What’s going on between Rand and Stu?” he asked Bodge as they commenced striking the stage for the move to Brisbane.
“Dunno, Reedy. But they sure as hell were different tonight.”
“I heard someone crying in the dressing room tunnel,” said Teflon.
“Who?”
Tef shrugged. “All girls’ wailing sounds the same to me. I’m not a CSI tech. Didn’t do a forensic of it you know.”
Jake filed that away. He’d need to find out what was going on. The green room was filled with the smell of trouble brewing. Rand was with Rielle, Ceedee and two journos at one end of the room. Stu was holding court with a bunch of radio station promo winners at the other. Roley was nowhere to be seen and Brendan, Jeremy and How were stationed in a nowhere land between the two camps.
Jake figured he’d find an answer to things in the demilitarised zone. “Fellas, what’s going on?”
How scratched his nose. “Just the usual, Jake.”
“It’ll blow over,” said Jeremy.
“It usually does,” said Brendan.
He frowned at them. “Are you guys sworn to secrecy or something?”
“Something,” said How. He was watching Stu pose for photos with a fan girl whose silicon attributes were like a free try-before-you-buy advertisement. Stu was hugging her and letting her play her hands all over his body.
Jake looked across the room at Ceedee. She was glaring at Stu, her jaw set, lips compressed. Rielle was trying unsuccessfully to get her to look away.
“You could be more helpful,” he said.
“We could, but it’s against our code,” said How, eyes never leaving Stu’s corner.
“Oh yeah, what code is that?”
“The everyone against management code. You’d be aware of that one, Jake.”
“Intimately.”
Jake knew he wasn’t going to get any further with this tonight, but he was dead sure whatever was going on wasn’t over.
It was just a big tin can with wings. It was a wonder more people weren’t terrified of flying. Jake pressed into his seat. His fear was still there, cramping his guts, clamping his temples in a vice. But it was dulled by his last Zanect and somehow he had a better handle on it. Perhaps it was the reading on acrophobia he’d been doing, the more rarefied atmosphere of business class, or Rielle’s hand in his. Her insistence and Rand’s charm and money ensured Jake had a plush, wide seat and a better class of meal to reject, for fear of throwing it up, on the trip to Brisbane.
He was hoping to sleep for the four hour flight, knowing they had another couple of days off in Brisbane waiting for the road train, and that Sharon would have everything well in hand.
So far, he was doing a good job of trying, but the feel of Rielle’s fingers threaded through his was distracting. She seemed to be doing everything she could to make him feel comfortable, or at least not to aggravate him. It was an unexpected kindness. It made him wary.
Since the episode in her dressing room, he couldn’t think about her the same way. He couldn’t look at her the same way. She’d shown him someone different. A softer version of herself, less rock and roll and more real, less aggressive and more tortured. More like the Rielle of the bike rides, less like the smart-mouthed lone wolf, unafraid to punch a man.
That kiss on the Hand had been a shock, something desperate and dirty, fraught and life saving. But the ones in her dressing room—he couldn’t pretend they hadn’t been almost more excitement than he could take. He’d forgotten who she was, who he was and everything else in the known world but for the feel of her on his tongue. And still it was wrong. Standing in for words neither of them knew how to say, emotions not meant to be shared.
He’d tried to stay out of her way since then. It seemed the smartest move, given what he most wanted was to have her repeat that private performance. From the slinky robe and skimpy underwear, to the way she kissed him, rimming his lips with her tongue, and shifting her pelvis way up close to grind against his; and later at the hospital, how she held his hand and rested on his shoulder.
All that next day, thoughts of her half-naked in his arms chased him across the stage, sat on his lap in a production meeting and licked at his ear as he discussed transport issues. The memory of her in his arms made his focus fuzzy and his attention scattered. But the one time he’d been close enough to touch her, she’d been standing with Jonathan and that was enough to make him back up, call his wayward senses to order, and remember who she really was—not real, at least not to him.
At the airport this morning, she’d made it clear he was to ride up front with the rest of the band just as Rand had done with Harry. Then she’d sat beside him, but said nothing, as though she didn’t trust herself not to put her foot in it. And yes, her hand in his was distracting, and no, he didn’t really need to hold on to it. But she didn’t know that, and so long as she was offering—what the hell.
Rielle watched Jake out of the corner of her eye. He seemed much calmer than the last flight. He wasn’t sweating either; his hand in hers was dry and relaxed, not clammy and tense as it had been flying from Adelaide to Perth. He had his eyes closed and he was breathing easily.
All yesterday, she’d been conscious of Jake. The stage and backstage area were his domain and he was everywhere: laughing with Teflon and Bodge, arguing with Glen, issuing instructions about striking the set, watching the show from the side of the stage and standing with How and Jeremy in the green room. But he was avoiding her. He never came near enough to talk, not even to ask about her hand. She wondered if he was so very embarrassed about what happened in her dressing room. It certainly seemed that way. She wanted to be mad about that. He’d been as carried away as she had. He’d made it clear he wanted her, and if it was a surprise, he hadn’t exactly spurned her embraces, so why was he being so distant now? And why the fuck did sh
e care?
That was the heart of it. Why did it matter what Jake thought? But something had shifted in her when he’d kissed her back, groaning desire into her mouth, so now she cared a lot about what he thought and that was disturbing.
She was no anxious virgin—that’s for sure. Not even Rand knew about what she’d been up to at Eagle Rock High. But despite the occasional meaningless hook-up, she preferred to sleep alone, free from expectations about being a wild ride in and out of bed. There was probably something wrong with that. The rest of her generation, let alone profession—was constantly on the hunt for sex—the more, the wilder, the better. But if she was truthful with herself, she didn’t care. The only moment in a long time she’d spontaneously thought about being with a man was back in Adelaide at the gym, and being with Jake was obviously out of the question.
Why wasn’t she more like Rand? Intimacy came easy to him. He shifted in and out of relationships without a whiff of drama or a hint of the indecision that was chewing at the edges of her thoughts. She looked back at Jake. He was resting peacefully. This time any turbulence was in her head.
“Can I ask you a couple of technical questions?” asked Rand, adjusting his chair back for a better view of Harry. He sat with her and Roley in the centre aisle of the plane.
Harry looked down at her notes. “Technical questions?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure.”
Rand cleared his throat. “How many dates do you need to go on before getting to first base?”
Harry’s mouth dropped open and Roley on her other side went, “Sheez, Rand.”
“I thought you said technical questions?” she said, trying not to laugh, trying to stay professional.
“That’s technical isn’t it?” Rand said with a rising inflection, his head tilted to one side to feign confusion.
Roley chuckled. “Sounded dead technical to me.”
“No,” said Harry, shaking her head.
Rand said, “Well, yeah it is. It’s not like there’s a subjective answer. I’m looking for an exact scientific response.”
“Yeah, scientific.” Roley laughed.
Harry flicked over a page of notes Rand didn’t think she’d read yet, trying to look as detached as possible. “You’re going to need to qualify your question.”
“Qualify it?”
“Yes. The answer will depend on who the dates are with.”
Rand said, “Of course,” and smacked his forehead. “If the dates are with me, how many times will you want me to take you out before you let me kiss you?”
Roley said, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, scientific.”
Harry made a note on the side of a page, angled away from Rand. She thought he couldn’t see it. There were three capital letters, OMG. He fucking loved it.
She said, “Is it all right if I get back to you with an answer on that?” as though it was an issue she’d need to take a barrage of professional advice on.
“I was hoping for a more spur-of-the-moment admission but sure, I can wait. Maybe I should give you my other questions so you can ponder them at the same time,” he said, and he couldn’t keep the undisguised glee out of his smile.
“Sounds sensible.”
“I can guarantee you it won’t be, Harry,” said Roley, turning to face her. “Get out while you’re still ahead.”
Rand said loudly, “Moral support Roley, not vocal,” and Roley’s open mouth snapped shut with a chomp sound as his back teeth connected.
Rand held up two fingers. “Question two. How many dates do you need between first base and second base?” A smile threatened to crash through Harry’s closed mouth and Roley laughed.
Rand continued. “Or do you believe they can be combined under the right circumstances and if so, what would those circumstances be?”
“Is that it?” asked Harry. She wasn’t looking at him. She was trying not to laugh.
“No. Question three. Assuming a combination of first and second base happens—that’s kissing and feeling you up, in case you need clarification—how many dates are required before you let me get to third base, which is—”
Harry gasped, interrupting him, “Can this be multiple choice?” She looked directly at him for the first time. Jesus, he wanted to kiss her. But for Roley, he might’ve gone for it.
He kept it together. “No, these are technical questions. I want accurate answers not an approximation.”
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” said Roley laughing, pressing his seat back down and his leg rest up, crossing his feet in his jungle pattern shoes.
Rand held up four fingers. “Question four. What are the possibilities of a guy like me scoring a home run with a girl like you?”
Roley from his prone position said, “Gawd!”
Harry flicked through a file and Rand said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m just checking on the fine print.”
“The fine print?”
“Yeah, there’s always fine print. I need to take it into consideration when I’m framing my responses to your technical questions.”
“Oh, why is that?”
“Because the contract says ‘access all areas’,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. Roley snorted with laughter and she continued, “I’m not sure that it gives specific time frames for particular levels of access. But I’ll check and come back to you.”
Roley said, “Well that was fun. I hope that worked out for you, Rand.”
Rand pushed his seat all the way back too. He let out a deep contented sigh. It was working out just beautifully.
19. Pitcher Up
Rand had dressed to shock. Gray suit, crisp white shirt, he had paint-free nails, had removed his earrings and brow stud and left the gel out of his hair. All his tats were covered. It was goodbye bad boy. He just hoped it worked for her. He was waiting at a table by the window and he saw her enter the restaurant. Harry bit her bottom lip when she saw him. He got slowly to his feet and walked across the floor to meet her.
“Good evening, gorgeous,” he said in her ear, her cheek smooth against his. He took her hand and led her back to the table. He waved off a waiter, pulled out a chair for her, and poured her a glass of champagne.
He’d wanted to pick her up from her hotel, but she’d baulked at that. Probably figured if she arrived under her own steam it would be simple to leave that way as well. She’d always been smart.
She smiled across the table at him. “Rand, you’re making me nervous.”
“Oh.” Not what he’d been trying for.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like you’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen?”
She blushed.
Harry had these pale, almost colourless eyes Rand wanted to drown in. She wore a simple black dress, a waist length strand of misshapen white pearls and drop pearls in her pierced ears. She smelled sweet as a spring garden, and the smile on her face showed off her cheek bones and perfect rosy skin.
“You look so different,” she said.
He shrugged. “Camouflage. You don’t like it?” He’d bought it that morning. He flapped the suit jacket, then took it off and hung it behind the chair, and undid another button of the dress shirt. “I couldn’t cope with a tie.”
She reached out her hand. “I like it a lot. But you didn’t need to change for me.”
He took it, rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I wanted to.” He might’ve meant to say more but words were vapour. They stared at each other until a waiter coughed politely and handed them menus. When they’d ordered, Rand sat back in his chair. “So, do you have the answers to my technical questions yet?”
She studied the tablecloth. “If things go well tonight I should think we might achieve first base.” If she looked at him he might forget all about taking this slowly and just drag her out of here and back to her hotel right now. It would be a home run without a single base loaded.
He tapped that down. “And where are you
on the question of a combined first and second base?” he queried.
Now she looked up and gave him a sparkling smile, all sass, no innocence. “Oh, I’m all for it.” Rand put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers, aiming for the pose of a professor interrogating a promising student. He realised he’d left his black metal thumb ring on and figured that probably destroyed the image somewhat, but decided to tough it out. “And third base?”
Harry bit her lip. He liked that look on her. Did things to him. Good things. “I should think we might get there eventually.”
Rand lifted his eyebrows, like he thought a professor might. “That’s not a precise answer. I was looking for something more definite.” He drummed his fingers against each other.
She caught his act: frowned, blinked, tilted her head to the side, playing the pretty student with an incomplete answer, and flirting with her professor to get around it. “Perhaps I could reconsider the answer if you danced with me tonight. It might give me a feel for what’s right.”
“You want to feel your way to an answer is that it?” He laughed, his demeanour of superiority and detachment falling away in the play of innuendo.
When they danced to Augie March’s One Crowded Hour, he surprised her again. He held her close, and moved her around the small dance floor with ease, as though this was what he did every day instead of thrashing a guitar and belting out rock songs.
Augie March’s lead singer Glenn Richards sang about a girl and a boy in a crowded room who only had eyes for each other. Rand couldn’t have ordered up a better song for the moment.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?”
He laughed. “You should be grateful I remember how to do this. I took lessons for months before the school formal and I made Rie practise with me until I learned how not to step on her. She used to kick me when I did. It’s come in handy over the years, and I also have really tough shins.”
“I’ll bet!” she said, laughing up at him, but then her expression changed abruptly. Was she imagining other women he’d danced with like this? There’d been plenty. Was she thinking of the night of the formal when they should’ve danced like this? He dumped her, not his fault but the effect was the same. He’d left her dateless with a formal dress and no one to wear it for while he sat in the hospital and waited for his mum to die, for his dad’s diagnosis, and for Rie to wake up.
Getting Real Page 13
