Getting Real

There was a collective wince, as every man in the near vicinity felt shorter, fatter, uglier and more outstandingly inept. The sounds of working got louder and more intense, and anyone who’d been loitering to watch drifted away. Jake only wished he could too. Somewhere there was a sandwich with his name on it begging to be eaten.

Lizard looked at Tef. “Mate, she’s all yours.” But before he could slink off, Jake grabbed his t-shirt. “No, you don’t. Half an hour ago you were ready to sell your soul for this. Take it like a man, Liz.”

Back in the cage, Bunk looked miserable. “I’m sorry.” He sat down hard on the bench making the cage bounce on its hydraulics.

“Hopeless,” said Rielle. But then she surprised them all by climbing into Bunk’s lap, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him, first on the forehead and then on the lips.

Bunk’s face registered some whacked out emotion beyond surprise, when she pulled back. “Was that so bad?” she said, kissing him softly again. “Now, let’s start at the beginning.”

Jake shook his head in amazement. Rielle had flayed Bunk’s ego, then built him back up again. She could be a hellcat and a pussycat. Ex-army vet, Bunk had been putty in her hands from the moment he climbed in the cage.

It was skinny, awkward, Lizard who got it right from the start, earning a friendly head rub from Rielle and a sigh of relief from Jake who wasn’t sure he could watch anymore of the choreographed mauling without it affecting his digestion—permanently.

He was about to leave the stage when Rand appeared. “How long has she been up there?” he asked, looking down at Jonas, now asleep, and then back up at the cage.

“Nearly two hours,” said Jake.

Rand nodded. “Has she rehearsed everyone?”

“Lizard’s the last.”

“She throw anyone off the squad?”

Jake laughed. “No.” He could imagine it.

“Lucky,” said Rand. “Last time we did this she rejected half the potentials in the first fifteen minutes.”

“Ah,” said Jake. “We are lucky then.” If you discounted the embarrassment Bunk had suffered and still would, with hundreds of opportunities to be ribbed about his lack of sexual prowess over the tour schedule.

The two men stood and watched Rielle instruct Lizard on precisely where he should place his hands and how long he could leave them there.

“How does it feel?” asked Jake.

“What do you mean?” said Rand.

“If that was my sister up there, rock goddess and all, I’m not sure I’d be able to watch.”

Rand didn’t respond and Jake kicked himself for the comment. It was too personal, none of his business. And after yesterday’s screw up, so foot in mouth. “Ah, sorry Rand, I meant no offence.”

“No. Fair question. All I can say is she knows precisely what she’s doing, and she’s wearing her armour.”

Jake cocked an eyebrow. “Armour?”

“Yeah. She’s covered in it. Rarely takes it off. Nothing dents her. Come get me when she’s done, will you?”

“Sure,” Jake responded, but he was distracted by the concept of chain mail and bullet-proof vests. Rielle was wearing flimsy cotton and not much of it. There were the tattoos and piercings, the makeup, lime green nails and all that multicoloured hair, but armour?

Then he thought about how she used her body, how deliberate her moves were, how cutting her glance was and how her tongue was a weapon of mass humiliation. Rand was right, his sister wore armour, and her tough girl attitude was her greatest defence.

7. Trapeze

“Reedy, we’ve got a snafu,” said Teflon. “You’d better come.”

Jake was sorting through venue booking correspondence and ticket sales information in the crew cafe. He looked up. “How big?”

“No so much big,” said Tef, scratching his head.

“What then?”