Getting Real

Jonathan towered over Jake. He looked like he was about to shape up until Lizard said, “You know Jake decked Neddy, pretty boy.”

Jonathan stepped back, but seeing Rand, Stu and Rielle enter the backstage area, started to protest again.

Jake said, “Stow it. You got a problem, take it up with me after the show.”

Jonathan swore and slapped an open hand on the staging again and with Ross in tow, stormed off towards the dressing rooms. Jake watched him go. He made for Rand, standing with Rielle and Stu, but thought better of it at the last minute and let Ross steer him into the backstage tunnel. He might’ve stood down for now, but this wasn’t over.

Jake caught Rand’s eye. He had a right to be angry about being called up on stage as part of Jake’s solution to get Problem Children off, but he was grinning happily. Rand nudged Rielle and said something Jake couldn’t hear and she shoved him back making him laugh.

As she walked past she leaned into Jake, poked him in the chest and said, “Okay, that was slightly Godzilla.”

After the issue with Jonathan, Jake was relieved Ice Queen’s first half ran smoothly. Nothing fell over, crashed to the ground, shattered, burned or hurt anyone. The show opening patter between Rielle and Rand was more polished—there were no dropped cues. Rielle had no issue with lyrics and, apart from Stu needing a quick replacement guitar because of a broken string, all went well.

The opening of the second half had the Perth punters screaming in appreciation, but Jake could see Rielle was hesitant on the trapeze, her safety bungee was in place but her movements were less bold, less daring and flamboyant.

“Her hand is no good,” said Bodge, at his side.

“We should’ve made her have an X-ray,” said Jake. Jonas would’ve known to do that. Shit, he was a disaster at this.

“Can’t make her do anything, Reedy.” Bodge grinned. “I tried.”

Jake nodded, eyes on Lizard and Teflon setting up the Hand. It was Bunk’s turn to ride with Rielle. She came off stage and Bodge shoved an ice pack and a bottle of water in her hands as she flashed past them to change.

Three minutes later she was back. She took a slug of water, put her hand on the telescopic tower’s railing, looked at Bunk and shouted, “Not you—him,” pointing at Jake. What did she want? He had no idea. He cut a look at Bodge who shrugged.

“What?” said Bunk. He had his hand on the ladder ready to climb up after her.

She pushed him away. “Not you. I want Jake.”

Oh fuck no! Jake growled; his stomach lurched. “No, no you don’t.” God, this devil woman was seriously out to shorten his life. “Go.” He gave Bunk a shove back towards the equipment.

“Jake. I want you,” yelled Rielle, above the opening riff of the song. “Now!”

Jake planted his feet firmly. He was a tree, roots through the stage and into the core of the earth. He was not moving. He yelled back, “No!” No freaking way. She wasn’t winning this one.

But he had Bodge in his ear yelling, “Go, go, go,” and pushing him forward, concerned only about meeting the staging cues. Fuck. Fuck. Bunk stood aside and they’d missed the cue.

This was suicide but he had no choice. Bodge dragged his headset off, pushed him up to the railing. He grabbed it and hoisted himself into the cage behind Rielle. He caught sight of Bodge holding his head, already seeing disaster.

“What are you trying to do—kill me?” he shouted in her ear.

Evil bitch laughed at him. “You’d better have watched the rehearsal Jake, because I expect this to be good.”

She was trying to kill him and she probably would. But he was so surprised to find himself in the cage, his brain hadn’t had a chance to send out the panic signal. He tried to centre himself by sitting on the edge of the bench seat and watching the band on stage, because he knew it was coming. Any minute now he’d have head spins. Any second now he’d feel like he was going to die. And thousands of people would be watching as he fell apart in real life and close-up on the big screen.

And then it hit and his body went cold and his vision blurred and his blood stopped pumping while his heart cartwheeled and he wanted to die.

When the cage started moving he made a grab for Rielle, scooted up behind her, and tucked his face into her neck, breathing in the perfume from her shampoo and makeup. He had his eyes screwed closed and he held onto her shins so hard he was going to bruise her. It was the best he could do.

Folded into her, he could feel her breathing. The back of her ribs expanded against his chest, and he tried to breathe with her like on the trapeze, to stop from panting. Under the gladiator lights it was hot and in seconds his shirt was plastered to his back and he clamped his thighs harder against Rielle’s hips to try and counteract his rising fear.

The voice in his head said, “Okay, okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” but it fucking lied. He was not okay. He was not okay.

They were three stories high in the air with fifteen thousand screaming

fans below them and another thirty-five thousand watching their ascent. When the cage came to a stop it gave a hop which made his stomach tear inside-out and he groaned. He felt Rielle stand and he knew he was supposed to do something, but he was bolted rigid to the bench.

The part of Rielle that wasn’t belting out the song lyrics, watching the crowd and listening to the music in her earplug had to have been aware he was not coping. She turned to face him and ran her fingers through his hair. That got a good reaction from the punters, but when she climbed onto his lap, wrapped her legs around his waist and tucked his head into her shoulder, there was a roar of approval. Or maybe that was just random noise in his head. He had no idea what was real and what was part of his meltdown. There was no way he was going to move, or open his eyes, so whatever happened next was up to her. She put her hands on his chest and pushed him. For a moment he didn’t yield, couldn’t move, but she pushed again and he released his hold on the edge of the bench and grabbed her waist instead.