She pretended to doze on his shoulder, but while her eyes were closed, her thoughts were wired open, fizzing and firing around her head. She’d dragged Jake up on the Hand and it was wrong and screwed up. Then she’d kissed him and loved it and made things worse.
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.