Getting Real

He was hoping to sleep for the four hour flight, knowing they had another couple of days off in Brisbane waiting for the road train, and that Sharon would have everything well in hand.

So far, he was doing a good job of trying, but the feel of Rielle’s fingers threaded through his was distracting. She seemed to be doing everything she could to make him feel comfortable, or at least not to aggravate him. It was an unexpected kindness. It made him wary.

Since the episode in her dressing room, he couldn’t think about her the same way. He couldn’t look at her the same way. She’d shown him someone different. A softer version of herself, less rock and roll and more real, less aggressive and more tortured. More like the Rielle of the bike rides, less like the smart-mouthed lone wolf, unafraid to punch a man.

That kiss on the Hand had been a shock, something desperate and dirty, fraught and life saving. But the ones in her dressing room—he couldn’t pretend they hadn’t been almost more excitement than he could take. He’d forgotten who she was, who he was and everything else in the known world but for the feel of her on his tongue. And still it was wrong. Standing in for words neither of them knew how to say, emotions not meant to be shared.

He’d tried to stay out of her way since then. It seemed the smartest move, given what he most wanted was to have her repeat that private performance. From the slinky robe and skimpy underwear, to the way she kissed him, rimming his lips with her tongue, and shifting her pelvis way up close to grind against his; and later at the hospital, how she held his hand and rested on his shoulder.

All that next day, thoughts of her half-naked in his arms chased him across the stage, sat on his lap in a production meeting and licked at his ear as he discussed transport issues. The memory of her in his arms made his focus fuzzy and his attention scattered. But the one time he’d been close enough to touch her, she’d been standing with Jonathan and that was enough to make him back up, call his wayward senses to order, and remember who she really was—not real, at least not to him.

At the airport this morning, she’d made it clear he was to ride up front with the rest of the band just as Rand had done with Harry. Then she’d sat beside him, but said nothing, as though she didn’t trust herself not to put her foot in it. And yes, her hand in his was distracting, and no, he didn’t really need to hold on to it. But she didn’t know that, and so long as she was offering—what the hell.

Rielle watched Jake out of the corner of her eye. He seemed much calmer than the last flight. He wasn’t sweating either; his hand in hers was dry and relaxed, not clammy and tense as it had been flying from Adelaide to Perth. He had his eyes closed and he was breathing easily.

All yesterday, she’d been conscious of Jake. The stage and backstage area were his domain and he was everywhere: laughing with Teflon and Bodge, arguing with Glen, issuing instructions about striking the set, watching the show from the side of the stage and standing with How and Jeremy in the green room. But he was avoiding her. He never came near enough to talk, not even to ask about her hand. She wondered if he was so very embarrassed about what happened in her dressing room. It certainly seemed that way. She wanted to be mad about that. He’d been as carried away as she had. He’d made it clear he wanted her, and if it was a surprise, he hadn’t exactly spurned her embraces, so why was he being so distant now? And why the fuck did sh

e care?

That was the heart of it. Why did it matter what Jake thought? But something had shifted in her when he’d kissed her back, groaning desire into her mouth, so now she cared a lot about what he thought and that was disturbing.

She was no anxious virgin—that’s for sure. Not even Rand knew about what she’d been up to at Eagle Rock High. But despite the occasional meaningless hook-up, she preferred to sleep alone, free from expectations about being a wild ride in and out of bed. There was probably something wrong with that. The rest of her generation, let alone profession—was constantly on the hunt for sex—the more, the wilder, the better. But if she was truthful with herself, she didn’t care. The only moment in a long time she’d spontaneously thought about being with a man was back in Adelaide at the gym, and being with Jake was obviously out of the question.

Why wasn’t she more like Rand? Intimacy came easy to him. He shifted in and out of relationships without a whiff of drama or a hint of the indecision that was chewing at the edges of her thoughts. She looked back at Jake. He was resting peacefully. This time any turbulence was in her head.

“Can I ask you a couple of technical questions?” asked Rand, adjusting his chair back for a better view of Harry. He sat with her and Roley in the centre aisle of the plane.

Harry looked down at her notes. “Technical questions?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

Rand cleared his throat. “How many dates do you need to go on before getting to first base?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open and Roley on her other side went, “Sheez, Rand.”

“I thought you said technical questions?” she said, trying not to laugh, trying to stay professional.

“That’s technical isn’t it?” Rand said with a rising inflection, his head tilted to one side to feign confusion.

Roley chuckled. “Sounded dead technical to me.”

“No,” said Harry, shaking her head.

Rand said, “Well, yeah it is. It’s not like there’s a subjective answer. I’m looking for an exact scientific response.”

“Yeah, scientific.” Roley laughed.

Harry flicked over a page of notes Rand didn’t think she’d read yet, trying to look as detached as possible. “You’re going to need to qualify your question.”

“Qualify it?”

“Yes. The answer will depend on who the dates are with.”

Rand said, “Of course,” and smacked his forehead. “If the dates are with me, how many times will you want me to take you out before you let me kiss you?”

Roley said, “Put that in your pipe and smoke it, scientific.”