Getting Real

“Changed.” He hissed. “I didn’t think you believed people could change.”

“I didn’t.”

He glared at her and she saw genuine hatred in his eyes. Hatred she’d put there. “Why are you here?”

How to answer him? She came to try out her new sound, the new music, a different performance from the big stage madness of Ice Queen. She came because it was home and she wasn’t scared of it anymore. She came because it was safer here than in other parts of the world for this experiment. But now looking at Jake, at the fire in his eyes, and the fury in his muscles, she knew Rand was right. She came because despite the way she’d changed, she wasn’t yet whole. She’d left a part of her heart here and this man, frowning at her, furious with her, held it in his hands.

And he would crush it, squeeze it bloodless, and fling it away. And she’d deserve it.

Realisation brought tears to her eyes. “I came for you.”

Jake balled his fists, he shifted restlessly. He was different, without respect, without any tenderness. He scared her. “We could’ve worked it out together.”

She had nothing to lose. She’d already lost. “I loved a man once who faced his fears. He said there are some things you have to do alone. He was right.”

Jake shook his head. This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t be real—not the rock star, just the girl, alone, playing to a suburban pub audience. What kind of fucked up cruelty was this? How had he ended up here, his heart crashing around in his rib cage? This was meant to be a quick social drink with friends, not an encounter with the demon woman he hadn’t yet managed to exorcise from his senses, who threatened to cut out his remaining sanity and smear it over the tiled pub walls.

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sp; He wasn’t ready for this. He’d never be ready for this. He should’ve walked away as soon as he saw her, but he couldn’t now. If he did, he’d be the one who was only half a person.

He looked in her duplicitous green eyes. “You ripped my heart out.” In two strides he was on the stage with Rielle, grabbing her, pulling her into his arms, smashing his lips down on hers. It was an attack, retribution, an act of war against a heartless warrior who’d left him living dead instead of killing him off properly when she’d had the chance.

“Hey!” shouted the barman.

Jake pulled back breathing heavily. Rielle was wide-eyed with shock, and her body was trembling under his grip.

“It’s okay,” Jake growled, but Dave had already come out from behind the bar with a cricket bat in his hand. Jake let go of Rielle and stepped back, holding his hands out and up to show he wasn’t making any trouble.

“It’s all right, Dave, I know this guy. He won’t hurt me,” Rielle said, but her eyes showed shock and her voice shook like she wasn’t sure.

Dave retreated with a wary look on his face, laying the bat on top of the bar for easy access.

Jake turned away. He was done. “I have nothing for you.”

She called after him. “You have everything I need.”

He stopped, his back to her. “You took what I had to give and you trashed it.” His voice felt serrated, like it belonged to someone who ate swords for a living. He turned back, he needed to see her face the moment she truly understood the damage she’d wrought him was permanent. “I’m done. Go home.”

Tears streamed down Rielle’s cheeks. “I am home.” Despite a rage that made every colour in his eye’s palette appear a shade of red, Jake knew if he stayed, if he looked at her too long, he might have to forgive her and he couldn’t live with that. He turned and walked out.

Outside on the footpath, Bodge and Glen waited, but their expressions changed when they saw him.

“You bastards! What the fuck made you think that was a good idea?” He registered the rapid ripple of surprise in the look Glen and Bodge exchanged, but he didn’t wait for a response. “How long has she been here?”

“Three days,” said Bodge, shifting his weight forward. His eyes were on the doorway. He’d made this happen. He’d set it all up. They were supposed to be mates.

“Ten months, one week, three days,” Jake said bitterly. Ten months, one week, three days and every minute was the twist of a knife in his ribs.

“Sorry mate,” said Glen, “we thought—you’re both so stubborn—we thought if we gave it a nudge—”

“What? That I could forget what she did to me?” Jake exhaled hard, shook his head. He put a hand up to forestall either of them responding and left them standing there.

He rode home via a bottle shop. He didn’t think he could carry enough alcohol to dry out the flood of feeling in his body, to create enough forgetfulness, but fuck it, he’d try. Back home, he drank steadily, until he made himself sick, until he could no longer see her face, feel the ghost of her in his arms or imagine how it all might’ve been different.

Rielle was at the bar tearing up drink coasters into pieces, when Bodge found her. That poisoned riff was in her head, like a dirge, like a lament. If only. If only. If only.

“Rie, shit, I’m sorry.” Bodge hung his head, avoided looking directly at her and took the beer Dave pulled gratefully.