Getting Real

by Ainslie Paton

Rielle took a sip of water, stalling. Rand rarely got angry, but he’d politely asked Ceedee to leave the dressing room, then lost it—slamming the door. Now he was standing over her, fury coming off him in electric bolts, bashing against the grubby painted surfaces of the room and frying her with heat.

  The worst of it was she didn’t know what to say. She had no idea why she’d hauled Jake into the Hand. It was a stupid thing to have done. Stupid and cruel. Unforgivable.

  “Brain snap,” she said looking at Rand’s boots.

  “Brain snap! Fuck me.” He flung himself down on the couch. “Was I wrong to want to do this tour? Arielle, you tell me, was I wrong?”

  Oh Jesus, he’d used her full name. “Why are you asking that?”

  “Because you can’t get it together. Your first show was awful, but I figured you needed to settle in. Then today you punched a guy. And tonight you could hardly hold onto the trapeze or the pole and you probably took ten years off Jake’s life in the Hand. If he quits it will be your fault. I want to know why you’d do that.”

  She swallowed. Her eyes felt tight. She could take just about anything but Rand’s anger. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know! Well, that’s fucking peachy isn’t it? That’s some terrific excuse. Real mature. Real professional. You’ve got some apologising to do to the rest of the band and to Jake. And you need to fucking well get it together.”

  She nodded. She couldn’t look at him. She started to fix her makeup, trying to avoid Rand’s eyes, flashing bad vibes at her in the mirror. She had no idea how she was supposed to make this right.

  Sometimes when Rand lost it, he calmed down as quickly as he frothed over. She waited, hoping he’d huff and puff, and then hug her, and she’d know she was forgiven. But he kept his distance and held onto his anger. He was sitting hunched over on the couch, drumming his heels to some vaguely familiar rhythm. She turned to him to beg his forgiveness, but he looked through her, stood up and left, slamming the door behind him so savagely it bounced back open again. She was in deep shit.

  Back in the green room, Rand let go a long stalled breath. He took a cold beer, surveyed the party, and could think of no good reason to stay. He’d been irrationally angry. Fuck, he was scared. What if Rie couldn’t pull it together? What if he’d pushed her too hard and this leg of the tour was a huge mistake? He’d been way too tough on her given this was all about coming back home and she was so spun out, but shit what was she thinking doing that to Jake, to the performance?

  He turned to go back to her dressing room to talk it through with a cooler head and was accosted by two fan girls. They didn’t look like the usual models, actresses and special girlfriends of the band, and they didn’t look like girls any of the road crew would’ve given passes to. They just weren’t backstage pass material.

  One was short, plain, plump and awkward. She had bad skin and thick makeup. The other was tall and solid, with thin, dark hair in a single stringy plait that reached her nonexistent waist. They were both dressed in bright party clothes as if for a posh dinner or a special event, when backstage fashion was generally black is best and less is more. They were out of place, nervous, very drunk and too over-excited to realise.

  The plump one squealed when she saw him.

  The one with the plait said, “Hello Rand. Jonas said you and Stu were interested in meeting local girls.”

  Rand said, “Jonas?” as though the concept of the man was foreign to him and let the girl take his arm and draw him back into the green room.

  “Yes, I, um, met him at the hotel.”

  “The hotel where we’re staying?” It was dawning on him how they’d gotten here. “You didn’t by any chance let him into a hotel room did you?”

  “Oh yes. I’m the one. He didn’t want to keep you waiting, so I let him into that room. He was very grateful.”

  “I’m sure he was.” Rand glanced about for Stu. He was drowning and needed help. Seeing him with Roley, he made his way across the room, his two new friends trailing happily behind him.

  Stu gave him a quizzical look and then laughed in his beer.

  Roley said, “So Rand, looks like a threesome for you tonight,” grinning manically.

  “Actually, the girls are friends of Jonas’s,” and made a help me gesture above the plump girl’s head.

  “Shame he’s not here to meet you,” stuttered Stu through his laughter. “More for you eh, Rand.”

  Roley said, “I’d offer you both a drink, but I can see you’re already pretty legless.” He and Stu cracked up.

  Plait now had her arm around him and Plump was smiling as if someone had just found her lost puppy.

  Rand shifted uncomfortably. He was desperately trying to think of a way to extract himself with some grace, and not completely humiliate the two girls. Most of the room had seen them now and there was a general tittering. He heard someone say, “Is this a joke? It’s a double bad taste fat-a-gram.”

  Ceedee joined Stu, standing in front of him, letting him wrap his arms around her and Roley used the general laughter to break cover and melt into the crowded room.

  When Plait kissed Rand’s cheek, he knew he had to extract himself quickly. There were phone cameras everywhere. There were Facebook pages and Twitter feeds simply begging for some of this. “Girls, it’s been nice to meet you, but it’s been a long day for me. I need to be getting back to the hotel.”

  “That’s cool,” said Plump, “we’ll come with you. I get a staff discount so I got us our own room for later, you know. We figured you’d probably throw us out after a while.” She tittered.

  Bloody hell, what had Jonas told this chick? Way more than was sensible, that’s for sure. “I… ah… have some things to do here first. I need to speak with our tour manager.”

  “That’s okay, we’ll wait,” said Plait. At least she let go of his arm.

  “No, I don’t want you to wait, I— ah, I don’t want to ah, inconvenience you,” he muttered, watching Ceedee and Stu split their sides laughing at him. When Plump stumbled in her six-inch, hot pink stilettos, grabbing at him to stop from falling, he thought Stu might need a fresh pair of jeans.

  “Look, what I want you to do is to go back to the hotel. I’ll organise a limo to take you. I want you to order room service on me and have a good night.”

  “And you’ll come and join us when you’re finished here?” asked Plump. Hope glittered through the clumps of flaky mascara around her eyes.

  It would’ve been easy to just say yes. Accept the inevitable room key slipped in his pocket, toss it in the next rubbish bin and be done with it. But he couldn’t do it.

  “You know, I’m—I’m not that kinda boy. Everyone just assumes, you know, that, well—” He deliberately stumbled and stuttered, hoping they’d get the point. Any point.

  Plait’s eyes popped and her hand flew to her mouth. Plump said, “We just thought, Jonas said—we—oh!”

  Rand dropped his head and tried to look bashful. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourselves. It’s not good business for the band. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh my God,” said Plump. “Your secret is so safe with us. We’ll never tell. Never.”

  He replaced being bashful with being relieved and wondered if there would be a Rand Mainline Comes Out headline somewhere in the next few hours. He put an arm around each of the girls and steered them to the door where he hoped to find a roadie who’d get them back to the hotel safely. What he found instead was the camera crew and an amused looking Harry who called, “Thanks for signing the release forms, ladies.”

  He grabbed a runner and explained what he wanted and gave each girl a hug, watching with an overwhelming sense of deliverance as they staggered off down the corridor. Plait, who wore sensible flatties, supported Plump in her stripper heels.

  When he turned back, Harry was still watching. “Great footage.”

  “Ah, you can’t use that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It was embarrassing enough most of
the room had been laughing at his expense, but for Harry to have it on tape. Roll over and die.

  “Access all areas,” she said, quoting the contract at him.

  “Aw, I don’t know if that’s more unfair to them or me.”

  She laughed and he watched her face light up. The J Geils Band riff in his head once more. “What did you think of the show?”

  She curled her lip, tipped her head. “Oh, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. Tell me what you think.”

  She leaned in close to him, whispered hotly in his ear, “I think you are the sexiest thing on two legs.”

  Rand gave a surprised hiss and when Harry drew back she was laughing at him, and he knew she was joking.

  She said, “Really great footage. A behind the scenes look at the famous Rand Mainline’s groupies.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t play fair. You owe me one for letting me think you were serious about the legs thing.”

  She shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to answer one question.”

  “One.” She nodded.

  “Harriet Young, are you married?”

  She grinned. “No.”

  “Are you with someone?”

  “We said one question.”

  “That was one question, it has two parts. Are you with someone?”

  “Are you Randall Mainline?”

  “I’m asking the questions tonight. And I won’t call you Harriet, if you don’t call me Randall.” He shuddered.

  Harry sighed. She looked away. She was going to break his heart. He had no idea what was going through her head, but he’d been a fucking idiot to think she’d be interested in him again. He was as bad as Rie making up gothic horror fantasies in her head about being home. He was about to let Harry off the hook when her eyes came back to his.

  “No.”

  He grinned. He felt the force of his smile in the skin around his ears. “Well what do you know.”

  She was grinning now too. But she had no idea how much trouble she’d just put a rocket under.

  17. Brain Snap

  The sharp-toothed gnawing, that swallowed-a-rat-whole feeling in Rielle’s stomach eased when she heard the knock. Rand had come back—he wasn’t angry anymore. It was going to be all right. She opened the door and flung herself through it into his arms.

  “Whoa,” said Jake, his surprise hot in her ear, his hands coming up to catch her. She had a light silky robe on, it slithered under his fingers as they grasped her.

  “Oh shit!” She pulled away. She wanted Rand; she wasn’t ready to face Jake. “I thought you were Rand.” She dragged the robe closed, and belted it, but not before he copped a look at her skimpy black lace underwear. “Come in.” She stepped back to allow him into the room.

  “I’ll wait til you’re dressed.” His voice was flat, expressionless. His eyes were on the floor. Her mouth was full of chewed up heart and lung, but if she didn’t deal with this now she was a coward as well as a complete bitch.

  He reached for the door handle; she put her hand on the door. “Stay.”

  He stood half in, half out of the room with his hand still on the door handle.

  “Please.”

  He came in, closed the door and when she gestured to the couch, he sat, but he was four continents away, his face was Switzerland, a mask of neutrality. It cut worse than if he’d raged at her. Whatever he’d come to say, she needed to speak first. She went down on her knees in front of him. The same posture he’d taken when he cleaned the cuts on her neck, when he’d thought he was at fault. Even if she lay face down at his feet she wouldn’t be low enough.

  “Jake, I’m so sorry. I have no excuse. I had a brain snap. I have no idea why I did that to you.”

  In the midst of her own insecurity about the performance, she’d seen him standing there, so solid and secure and she’d wanted to be with him, right then, right in the middle of it all with thousands of people screaming for her. It made no sense. This tour was ripping her apart and with no logic, she’d reached for a man who was frightened of what she did and rejected who she was. Jake frowned, his eyes narrowed. His mouth was a rigid line. Ah shit. She couldn’t have Jake hating her tonight as well as Rand. She folded one arm across his knees and put her forehead on her arm to avoid his hard stare.

  He shifted in discomfort. “A brain snap.” He slid out from under her arm and patted the space beside him. All she was doing was making him more uncomfortable. She got up and sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with him. There was nowhere else to sit. They were silent, awkward, too close, arms, hips and thighs touching. She was cold, but heat came off him in waves.

  “I wasn’t trying to kill you.” Her voice came out weak, soft like a child’s.

  “Felt like it. I don’t have to tell you how bad it was for the show.”

  She dropped her head. “I’m a complete fuck up. I’m making a hash of everything. Rand is furious with me. You hate me,” her voice cracked, “and I I’ve hurt my hand.”

  “Show me. That’s why I’m here.”

  She gasped. “Not to flay the skin off me?”

  He quirked a shoulder and an eyebrow in concert, in agreement, in denial, who knew. He was giving nothing away, but reached for her hand and had her make a fist. The top of her knuckles were split and bruised blue, her hand felt stiff and tight, but she could move her fingers.

  “I want to take you for an X-ray.”

  “I don’t think it’s broken.” Not her hand anyway. The rest of her was broken so long ago she barely knew how to live anymore, and all of that hurt was so fresh, so present because she was back under the blue Australian skies.

  “I want to be sure.”

  She looked at him and instead of rage saw something else, resignation, comprehension? But there was only so much Jake could understand and nothing he could fix.

  “I don’t hate you, Rie.” He folded his fingers through hers.

  She looked down at their hands. Was he testing her injury or something else? He’d shortened her name. He didn’t let go. He was forgiving her and it was too much. “After what I just did, with no good reason?” She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “You’re a candidate for canonisation.”

  “You must have had a reason. Is Bunk making you uncomfortable?” She shook her head. She couldn’t talk about her reason. Though perhaps Jake was the only one in the world who could understand what panic could make you do. She dropped her head down on his shoulder, said in a miserable little voice, so unlike the power she had on stage, “I think you’re growing on me.”

  He kinked his neck to look at her face. “What like a fungus?”

  “No, like for real.”

  He swivelled and took her shoulders in his hands, surprise rang in his voice. “What? You think I’m weak as piss and you just proved it again tonight in front of fifty thousand witnesses.”

  “I—”

  “God, Rie. I’m not sure it’s possible to shock a phobia out of someone but if anyone can do it you can.”

  She looked in his eyes, so remote earlier, but now she saw he was amused. He’d forgiven her enough to laugh at her. She had another brain snap. She put her open palm on his cheek, leaned into him and kissed him.

  He made a surprised, “haah,” under her lips and then hissed when her tongue touched his.

  “Yeah,” she whispered, “you’re growing on me.” She kissed him again, this time less tentatively, opening her mouth to his.

  He resisted until he didn’t. Until he kissed her back, until he cupped the back of her head and held her to him. He tasted of coffee and mints and safety and escape. And she wanted that so badly. She moved over his lap and he shifted to let her straddle his thighs, his hands now on her back, sliding on the silk of her robe. Her hands were on his chest, pressing, holding, hanging on to the solid reality of him.

  She got lost in him. Lost in the rush of sensation and the roar of sweet need. It was familiar and foreign and from nothing, now ess
ential. It took her breath away and it made a gift of forgetting.

  She gasped when he pulled away, pulled back into the world, breathing heavily, and she heard the beeping—his phone. He snatched it out of his pocket.

  “Yeah. Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

  His face was flushed. He hung up, pinned her with a squint; maybe now he was angry. “What was that about?”

  She looked at his throat, working to swallow. He was as affected as she was. “Brain snap.” His voice softened. “You’re prone to them tonight.”

  She sighed. “I’m something out of the ordinary.”

  “Are you sorry that happened?” Was still happening. He was still holding her, his hands on her hips, his phone and the real life it brought set aside. She shook her head. “It’s not like me, but I’m not sorry.”

  He breathed out hard and closed his eyes. He tipped his head til it hit the back of the couch. He wasn’t buying it. He’d think she lied. She knew he’d seen her sitting in Jonathan’s lap. He’d think it was the same thing, that she was anyone’s. But she was suddenly too tired and it was too hard to explain why Jonathan meant nothing.

  Jake lifted his head. He was focussed again. All business. He pushed her away. “I want to get you to casualty tonight for that X-ray.”

  She stood. She needed distance too. “Yes, that makes sense.” She looked around for clothes, thinking of what she could put on quickly to give her a disguise.

  “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  She looked up and he was gone.

  They took the bike, arrived at a riotously busy casualty department full of stoned, drunk, disorderly, sad and stupid accident victims. Half of them were probably Ice Queen fans. In the crazed activity of the waiting room, with her hair under a cap and a sloppy jacket on, no one took any notice of her, though Jake was on edge, watchful for signs of her being recognised and hassled.

  She pretended to doze on his shoulder, but while her eyes were closed, her thoughts were wired open, fizzing and firing around her head. She’d dragged Jake up on the Hand and it was wrong and screwed up. Then she’d kissed him and loved it and made things worse.