Getting Real

by Ainslie Paton

  There was a smattering of applause from roadies at work on the stage when their feet touched the ground. Jake’s legs were rubber but they held him upright, and as Bodge undid the harnesses, he started to come to himself again. His t-shirt was wet through and sticking to him. He’d sweated, just about sobbed; it’d been so hard not to breathe all over Rielle up there—gross. He felt stupid and humiliated, but he was still employed at least.

  He heard Rielle demand, “Bodge, bring me that roadie. He’s dead meat.”

  He turned to her. “We’ll test this rig until it’s solid. If I have to go up there again myself, it will be right for the show.”

  She came up close, stood almost pressed against him. “I’m counting on it, Jake.” The look she gave him could’ve stripped paint, undercoat first. Her straight-backed posture, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, feet planted apart. The low huskiness of her voice, and the raw energy in her as she shaped up to him, like a pumped up flyweight boxer before a prize fight bout, was almost as scary as the trapeze.

  He was pathetic and he knew it. All Jake wanted was a shower and a cold cloth on his forehead, but that afternoon the rest of the band was arriving to tour the stadium, the stage and backstage area. He had to be on deck at least imitating effectiveness. Rielle might’ve said she wasn’t going to sack him, but since he’d have sacked himself in other circumstances he wasn’t holding her to it.

  He stood with Rand, Glen and Bodge waiting for the other members of Ice Queen to walk on stage and meditated on the coming end to this shocker of a day, a cold beer and the firm, close-to-the-ground mattress of his hotel bed.

  First to reach the stage area was bass guitarist, Stu South. He looked like Jake felt—hung-over. He kept his aviator style sunglasses on while he and drummer How Deerfield reviewed the front of house area. Guitarist and keyboard player Roley Mac and vocalists Jeremy Dugan, Brendan Green and Casey Dee had only flown in that morning, and all three looked slightly stunned by the heat.

  “Hello Australia!” Roley, obviously the comedian of the group, yelled to the empty stadium, throwing his arms in the air.

  Ceedee and Brendan made ‘haaah’ sounds meant to approximate the cheers of fifty thousand screaming fans and the three of them laughed.

  Jeremy flapped his t-shirt away from his waist. “Is it always this hot here?”

  Rand slapped him on the back. “It’s summer, dude.”

  “Think of what the chicks won’t be wearing,” said How, with a big grin and Jake heard Glen snort in agreement.

  Roley rubbed his hands together. “We shoulda toured here years ago.”

  “Where’s Rie?” asked Ceedee, turning to Rand.

  He shook his head. “Around, maybe with Jonas.”

  “How is Jonas?” asked Stu, joining the conversation, his voice low and gravelly, his question laden with meaning.

  “What do you know?” Rand asked, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Jake looked at Glen and Bodge. What were they about to learn about Jonas?

  “Only that he was looking worse for wear when I last saw him,” said Stu.

  Ceedee smacked Stu’s arm. “And you can talk.”

  “Don’t start,” Stu bit back.

  Rand rolled his eyes. He turned to Jake as if he was a welcome distraction and started the introductions. They got down to the specifics about instrument placement, and romantic entanglements, hangovers, jetlag and professional and personal humiliations were kicked aside.

  When Rielle and Jonas arrived, Jake had his first look at the whole band together. Rielle took a running leap and jumped into How’s arms, straddling his waist, and hugging his neck. She kissed Jeremy, Brendan and Ceedee, thumped Stu on the arm, and climbed on Roley’s back. He galloped a lap around the stage with her, braying like a donkey while the others laughed. This was a new side to her. She could be playful. She had a great laugh. Jake might’ve appreciated it more if his head didn’t feel like an overripe melon.

  “Happy to be in Australia, are we?” said How, when Roley deposited Rielle back with the group.

  “No!” she barked and then laughed. “But it’s only Adelaide, so it’s all right so far. I’m just happy to see your ugly face again, How.” She grabbed his jaw and he made a slobbering dog sound as she pulled his cheeks out from his teeth.

  “I’m happy to be home,” said Rand. “I might be able to get my Aussie strine back if I try.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Rielle rounded on him and the group laughed.

  Glen nudged him. “Did you hear that?” he said quietly. “I’d have thought she’d be happy to be playing her home country?”

  Jake shrugged. It was odd she’d seemed so adamantly unhappy to be home.

  “She’s just nervous that’s all,” said Bodge.

  Glen laughed. “You fell quick this time, fat man. You’d defend her if she was a mass murderer.”

  Seeing the band together, Jake got the impression Rand was the functional leader, the one who made plans, made things happen, quietly, calmly and without fuss. And Rielle was the creative spirit, the one whose energy and passion held them together. They were a formidable combination. He was beginning to see where their success came from, not simply genuine talent, but foresight and dedication on Rand’s part, and dynamism on Rielle’s.

  He was beginning to see new sides to her, new ways to interpret how she acted, and didn’t that just make his meltdowns in front of her something extra special to be proud of.

  8. Bonne

  By day’s end Jake was spent. His head was pulp, and he’d not been able to stomach the thought of food. All he wanted was a good lie down. He’d made the crew check and test that bloody trapeze until it was working flawlessly and he had a crick in his neck from looking up at the bugger of a thing from the back of the stage where he could do it without feeling sick.

  They had an early start tomorrow, and a long day and night with their first gig, followed by the need to strike the stage and pack the trucks. They had four days to get to Perth and set up all over again for two gigs. In those four days, they had to cover two thousand seven hundred kilometres—that was like London to Berlin and back again or LA to Kansas—and re-build the stage. It was a punishing schedule that meant driving day and night, changing drivers every four or five hours. The band would fly and be there in Perth in about three hours.

  Most tour managers travelled with the band, but Jake went with the road crew whenever he could to avoid flying. He was grateful he had Sharon working as advance manager. She was already in Perth, and would meet the band, give them a preliminary venue tour, and settle them into their hotel, all before the road train changed over their first driver.

  He was locking his document case and gear in one of Bonne’s panniers, and mentally pouring himself a drink from the hotel mini bar when he saw Rielle detach herself from the rest of the band and the security team and make her way over to him. Rand called for her, but she waved him off, and the group let her go, jumping in two hire cars and taking off. This was trouble. This was not being ten minutes from the blissful oblivion of a fresh made hotel bed. Fucking fantastic.

  Jake had spent most of the day following the trapeze incident keeping his distance from Rielle. And he was keen to avoid her now. He didn’t need to give her one more excuse to think he was incompetent, and he was beyond humiliated about the whole fear of heights thing. Both from a professional and a personal point of view.

  But now she was intent on getting in his face. She was striding across the car park, the long tendrils of her vivid hair flying in the breeze and her arms swinging. Before she got to him she called, “Jake, is that your bike?”

  “Yeah.” He threw his leg over the royal blue Triumph, avoiding eye contact, and focussed on a quick getaway.

  She stopped in front of the bike, forcing him to lift his head. “Take me for a ride.” She stood there, head tilted to one side, hands on her hips, an amused smile on her face.

  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.

  Rielle’s weight was negligible. If it wasn’t for her arms holding him, Jake might not have been conscious of her at all. As it was, he was terrified of her getting hurt. It wasn’t as though he was going to drop Bonne or let anyone run into them. And he doubted it was the first time she’d been on the back of a bike. She knew how to move with him, leaning into the corners. But she was barely dressed, and now he’d accepted her as a passenger, she was his responsibility. She should’ve been with her band mates and her brother or a security goon, but she was flying with him on the back of Bonne, her hands flattened over his ribs, trusting him totally.

  If he smiled any harder he’d be picking bugs out of his teeth for weeks.

  The traffic was light, and the air was warm. With twilight held off by daylight savings, it was a perfect night for a ride. Jake headed out towards Henley Beach, but Rielle didn’t want to stop amongst the restaurants or the families fishing from the pier. He drove through West Beach and on to Glenelg and again she wasn’t keen to stop. At Brighton Beach, he pulled over under a stand of massive Norfolk Pines and killed the engine.

  “Thank you,” she breathed in his ear, no longer holding on to him, and with the helmet in one hand. She climbed off, finger combed her hair. “They suit you.”

  It took him a few seconds to work out she was talking about the sunglasses. “Ah.” He took them off, holding them out to her. “Thanks. Saved me from bug blindness.”

  He went to wipe the lenses on his shirt, but she said, “Hang on to them. Is it okay if I go for a walk?”

  “Sure.” The beach was deserted, but he was damn sure he wasn’t supposed to let her wander off alone. “Want some company?”

  “No. If that’s all right, I’d like to be alone for a while.”

  He nodded. “No problem.” It was her life. Hijacking him in the first place was out of the rule book. And Rand knew what she was up to. If she wanted to go walkabout on a quiet beach who was he to stop her.

  Rielle unlaced her boots, leaving them with her socks, wallet and miniature mobile phone tucked inside, on the ground beside the bike. Jake watched her walk over the soft white sand and down to the water’s edge. She looked small and vulnerable with the broad expanse of blue sea in front of her and wide empty beach behind. He wondered what she was thinking. He wondered how often she got to be alone. Seeing her today, as she worked and played with the other band members, he’d figured her natural environment was with her pack. But watching her now, he wondered how much lone wolf she had in her. Hadn’t sh
e joked with Rand she was raised by wolves?

  Rielle walked into the ocean letting the low waves break against her knees. The sound of the sea and gulls wheeling above flowed through her body. She felt her shoulders relax, but her stomach was still churning. The sick feeling that had been with her on and off all day was back, same as always before a big gig. Worse than ever this time, because it was home.

  She’d never been to Adelaide before. Never stood on this beach with her feet in this sand and looked at this horizon, but she couldn’t convince herself it was somewhere that didn’t matter. Every minute that passed was a minute she’d be closer to Sydney.

  She bent forward, put her hands on her knees and threw up. She hadn’t eaten much during the day but still, breakfast and bile splattered the white foam, churned under, slapped the sand bed and washed back out to sea. She hoped Jake hadn’t seen that. She rinsed her mouth with salt water, which almost made her sick again and breathed the briny air, letting the surge and drag of the small waves bury her feet to the ankles in heavy wet sand. Now she felt suddenly anchored to the world in a way that recalled her childhood, when she and Rand built sandcastles and squabbled over buckets and Paddle Pop sticks on endless summer days, with both parents watching lazily from towels further up the beach.

  She shook her head to clear that image, a stupid thing to remember. Ben and Maggie, both long gone. She took one huge breath of sea air, imagined it cleaning out junk thoughts and bad vibes and headed back up the beach.

  Jake was stretched out on the sand, his eyes closed behind her sunglasses, breathing steadily. He’d ditched his shirt and had his hands behind his head as a pillow. At a guess he was in his late twenties, early thirties. He was a good looking man. She’d known that since the day in the gym. Lying there, feigning comatose, he was doing a fair imitation of a rock god in her Persols. His muscles were all in the right places. He had a light sprinkling of hair across his chest and arms and that tattoo—not a star—a compass, was an interesting touch. She wondered what it meant to him.