Getting Real

He looked at Rielle’s short shorts and singlet top. The sight of her up c

lose did something to clear his head, like a first shot of hard liquor. It was difficult to imagine her wearing less clothing even though he kind of wanted to. He up and downed her, much like she’d done to him when they’d first met. She’d changed since the trapeze incident and her radio interview, but she must’ve had a whole wardrobe of clothes that fit her like this. Too bloody well. Too cleverly designed out of bits of nothing, to make a bloke’s eyes wander, linger, want.

Shit. He couldn’t look at her like that. Never mind he’d hugged her on the trapeze like she was his own backbone. She was his boss. She was a rock star and he was a roadie, with a slightly better than average touring crew salary. He snapped his eyes back to her face and, no surprise, there was ‘gotcha’ beaming from her perfect smile.

He sighed, felt his face colouring. “I apologise. That was inappropriate.” He really, really wanted this day kicked in the head. Rielle was tapping a booted foot to some inner tune, no doubt containing the words ‘I get what I want.’ She really wanted a ride. The only thing okay for wearing on a bike was her boots. There was no way he was taking her anywhere dressed like that. She had nothing with her except a pair of sunglasses tucked in her singlet front, and a wallet and phone poking out of one pocket. The path of least resistance was to drive her back to the hotel, but only if she went back to the dressing room and changed. He didn’t think she’d do that, so it was game over.

“You want to ride, you have to go get some more clothes on first.” When it came down to it, he was her employee, but he wasn’t entirely without a say. He was almost hotel-room-home-free.

“No,” she shook her head, “like this is fine.”

“No, it’s not. You come off and you’ll be badly hurt.”

She put her hands on the handlebars. “I won’t come off. You’ll make sure I won’t.”

Jake looked down at her hands—at the elaborate scrolled lettering, an A and an R tattooed as a ring on her middle finger. He shook his head; he didn’t want that responsibility. He needed another tactic to get rid of her. “I don’t have a second helmet.”

“So?” She tilted her head, jerking up her chin.

“You can’t ride without a helmet.”

“You wanna ride, Rielle?” called Lizard, filing past with a group of roadies finished for the day. “I’ll give you a ride. I’ll give you a ride anywhere you want to go.” He laughed.

“Get lost, Liz,” said Jake, not in the mood for any of this, unless this included busting Lizard’s balls.

“Lend me your bike, Reedy. Go on. I’ll take her for a ride,” said Lizard, with a sly grin. “I don’t care what she’s wearing.”

“Liz, you’d be the last person I’d let touch my bike. Fuck off.”

Undeterred, Lizard said, “Rielle, me and some of the boys are going out for a drink, wanna come? We’ll look after you. Promise.”

Rielle turned to Lizard, deadpanned. “Go extinct, Lizard. I’m going for a ride with Jake.”

Jake rolled his eyes. This was like some bizarre scene from the movie Grease they’d left on the cutting room floor, with Jake in the Sandy role and Rielle as Danny, and Lizard playing a cross between Kenickie and Rizzo.

“You still can’t ride without a helmet,” he said, his eyes on Lizard, who’d settled in to watch them.

“What are you, Mr Safety Standards?” she said.

He dragged his eyes back to Rielle. “Yep. Sorry you don’t like it.” He put his hand on the ignition. “Stand back.”

“Jake.”

“Yes, Rielle.”

“Please. I need to get out of here. I need this.”

He heard it in her voice and saw it on her face, a moment of confusion, exhaustion. Suddenly beneath her makeup and her ‘don’t fuck with me’ fashion, Rielle looked young, anxious and weary. He took his hand off the ignition. “Okay, I’ll go borrow Glen’s car. I’ll show you the city.” Maybe she just needed to get away from the pressure of the show for a bit.

She shook her head. “No, I want to ride. I need to clear my head. Please take me to the beach, Jake.”

“Rielle, I’ll wait for you,” called Lizard, hope hitching his voice high.

Jake shoved his helmet into Rielle’s hands. So much for avoiding her. So much for his own escape. But she was a hundred times safer with him than with Lizard and the boys. Not that she looked like she needed protecting. She looked like she could kick arse and not regret it. Not that it was his job to protect her; there were people on the payroll for that. He growled, “Get on,” clicked the ignition, letting the bike rev into readiness. She grinned at him, bundling her hair up to tuck it into the helmet.

Lizard swore and turned away. Jake knew he’d have laid money on good old Reedy taking off without Rielle. They all knew he wasn’t a risk taker. But there was risk personified settling in behind him, wrapping her bare legs either side of his. It was only natural he wanted to put a hand down on her knee. It was definite unemployment if he did. He gripped the handlebar like it was slathered in superglue.

He pulled out, but only got as far as the driveway to the street and stopped. He knew Rielle was only holding on to the leather strap across the seat. He turned so he could see her. “We’re not going anywhere until you hold on to me.” He waited a beat, and she passed him her black Persol sunglasses; she wrapped her arms around his chest, her body pressing against his back. He said, “Good,” and it was, despite being all kinds of not right, and put her sunnies on before pulling out onto the road.