She knew they’d be caught. She just hadn’t known how long she’d have to struggle on her own before help came. She could hear Rand yelling, she could see the cops on their way and she thought from the look on Jake’s face he might take the whole brawling mass on alone just to get to her.
If that look—fear, rage and vengeance was Jake’s offer of friendship, he’d earned a lifetime of it in return. Then the tenderness he’d shown her when the danger had passed, holding her, soothing her, was another thing altogether. More than friendship, but what else? She wasn’t sure and was too exhausted to work it out. She wanted a drink, to see Rand and to sleep. Then she might be able to think about what Jake’s touch and the look in his eyes had been telling her.
She’d lost a couple of earrings, her hair was in bad shape, pulled and yanked out of style, half the pins she’d used to style it missing and she didn’t have the tools to repair it or anything fresh to wear but the hotel robe. She finger combed the shampoo tangles and towel dried her hair, leaving it loose down her back. She gave her face a once over—no obvious bruising, but a smattering of freckles showing through what remained of her airbrushed makeup. She’d have to reapply it later. And the marks on her arms were no worse than those she gave herself practising the trapeze or the pole.
She belted the robe and left the bathroom, finding nearly everything she wanted in the room outside: hot coffee, burgers and chips, pizza slices and chocolate mud cake—a feast of comfort. And there was Jake, an unreadable expression on his face, something between concern and wonder. There was Harry, holding her favourite shoes, scuffed but they’d clean up; and there was Rand, her rock, her constant. She threw herself at him and he hugged her close, folding to rest his face on her wet hair.
“Jesus Christ. That was fucking close to real bad,” he said.
She nodded into his ribs.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
She looked up. “I’m fine, two against one though. I need more training for that.”
“You can have whatever training you want, but you’re not ever going to have to go through anything like that again. I’m a fucking halfwit. All this relaxed security because it’s Australia crap. If I’d have been more vigilant this wouldn’t have happened.”
Rielle shook her head. “You couldn’t know that it would get so out of hand. You can’t turn us into prisoners over one incident. We tried it remember, we hated it.”
“Yeah, watch me.”
“No. We’ve had years of doing it our way, and no trouble. This was just a fuck up. We can’t let it change things.”
Rand huffed out a breath. “I’ll think about it.” But she knew from the tightness in his eyes, he’d already decided. Security would be stepped up no matter what she thought.
Watching the siblings, seeing the power of their connection, Jake felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He found it hard not to stare at Rielle, to watch for signs of her falling apart. He busied himself pouring coffee and handing Harry a plate with a slice of pizza.
“They’re something else aren’t they?” Harry said.
“I guess they had to be,” he said, struggling to keep his gaze averted. “You wouldn’t want to be the one who came between them.” He handed her a napkin. “Are you worried about that?”
“A little,” she admitted. She frowned, taking a bite of pizza, but then her expression brightened as Rand and Rielle came across to the table.
Rielle said, “I love you for the hot chips, Jake.”
Heat filled his chest as he looked at her no jewellery, messy, wet hair and her bright violet eyes. She was a fighter, a survivor and clearly starving, when she could well have been catatonic with shock, rolled in a ball and sobbing her heart out—halfway to a lifetime of nightmares and trauma counselling.
They feasted on the burgers, chips and pizza. They ate chocolate cake and avoided talking about the morning. Elsewhere in the city, the promoter, the network, the police and several lawyers were working out where the fault lay and what the damage was.
A call from Sharon confirmed the media stakeout was still going strong. The best plan was to stay put for the afternoon while she arranged a third hotel unknown to the paps for the group to settle into. Rand’s overtly cheeky expression signalled that idea was fine with him. He phoned reception and organised his own room, giving Rielle another long hug and taking Harry’s hand in his as they left.
With the business side of the event over, Jake was suddenly without a purpose. He stacked plates, tidied the room, dawdled about, uncertain what to do. Rielle looked exhausted, curled up on a sofa. Sleep would do her good, he was better off to leave her to rest. Trying not to disturb her he went to the door, but she called him.
“Jake, don’t go.”
He stopped, hand on the door latch. “You should sleep, Rie. I’ll come back later, bring you some clothes, and take you to the new hotel.”
She sat up, tousled and sleepy, voice crackling. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
He came back into the room, taking the hand she’d stretched out to him.
“Will you lie down with me til I fall asleep?” she asked, childlike need showing in her eyes.
He nodded, not sure he could speak without his voice betraying his feelings. It was hard to swallow past the tender ones that’d jammed up in his throat when he looked at her. So very brave and strong, and letting him see her like this, without any defences.
She led him into the bedroom and they lay on the bed together. Rielle in the thick robe that swamped her body and Jake fully clothed but without his boots. He opened his arms and she snuggled back against him, he spooned around her, one arm under her pillow and her head, the other over her waist.
“This all right?” he said gently, against the curve of her ear.
She said, “Hmm,” and he knew she was relaxing, drifting. He felt her breathing slow, but when he thought she was asleep, she whispered, “You really are my friend, Jake. Thank you,” and the remaining tension left her body.
She didn’t seem to need a response, and he didn’t have one for her. Lying there was almost more dangerous to him than seeing her violated on stage had been. He was her fan; he was her friend; he was her champion. He was irrevocably anything she wanted him to be.
31. To the Flame
Today Rand missed Jonas. He sat with Rie, Harry and the video director Martin Levin in a darkened meeting room at the hotel and second-guessed himself about going ahead with the shoot.
They hadn’t shot a video without Jonas for several years and while the whole thing had been planned from LA months ago, it was tainted with the after effects of what went down yesterday at the Bolt from the Blue gig—because that had been planned months ago as well.
He’d wanted Jake here too, but the guy was busy with a hundred new issues. The insurance tangle alone would take days to sort through.
He considered putting the whole thing off til later in the tour. Of course that would bring the record company, the lawyers and a bucket load of other crap down on them. Rock and roll was the bomb—rock and a hard place only looked funny in cartoons.
He’d talked to Harry and was comforted and surprised by her insights. Harry thought her crew had captured some extraordinary scenes of the tour so far that might be adapted to the music video format.
Her crew had filmed hours of footage of the shows, the roadies at work, rehearsals, the audience, the band and crew mucking about, as well as backstage activity. She’d identified the sequences she thought showed the most promise and edited them together with a soundtrack so they could watch a rough edit of selected highlights.
His angel was a centrefold, and she was also a shit hot TV producer and making Martin twitchy about maintaining creative control. Martin had eaten three pastries to Rand’s one and they’d yet to start rolling tape. And Martin was not a dude who needed to be eating pastries.
“What’re we waiting for?” said Rie. She looked impatient, but none the worse for yesterday—not th
at she’d admit to feeling bad anyway.
Harry rolled tape, and Rand immediately regretted getting out of bed. His angel was devil spawn. The screen showed him in the grip of two unusually dressed groupies. He shot out of his chair yelling, “No—you can’t,” as the vision showed a thickset girl with a long scraggly plait making cow eyes at him, and Stu in the background trying not to laugh and not succeeding.
“Harry, you can’t,” he said again, laughing. She was so going to pay for this. He’d take it out on her in bed, or maybe the shower or the back of this room, if she didn’t watch herself.
“Oh, yes you can.” Rie shot forward in her chair. “When did that happen? How did I miss that?”
Harry left the vision playing, now showing the short plump girl falling out of her high-heels and clutching at him. He glanced at Martin—not amused, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
Rie was amused though. She’d climbed onto the table. “Who are they?”
“They were sweet girls, but so drunk. Jonas gave them backstage passes. The price for breaking into Jake’s room to scam his Zanect.” He looked at Martin. “We’re not using any of that.” He blew Harry a kiss. “You’re dead to me.”
The next scene was an unintentional slapstick routine featuring Bodge, Teflon and Lizard, a bunch of cables, a ladder and a pot of black paint. At any moment, the ladder and the paint pot threatened to either flip or drip and Bodge’s face as he tried to stop a minor mishap was Three Stooges funny. Rie’s butt was back in her chair and she had a huge smile plastered on her face. Martin’s sigh was prolonged and accompanied by the sound of him rapidly clicking the top of his pen, but after the stress of yesterday, laughing felt good.
He looked at Harry across the table from him. She’d done this deliberately to lighten things up. She was sweeter than any pastry, or the sugar they rolled in.
The three stooges were followed by Neddy in his starring role as the hanging roadie and Rie groaned. No prizes for guessing Harry would edit in shots of her and Neddy during the football game. She had; so what followed was Rie’s punch and her knee in Neddy’s groin and Teflon and Lizard hailing her. Rand grunted in sympathy with Neddy and Martin’s eyes popped.
Then Harry’s presentation changed mood. There were shots of Glen and the Ng brothers at work, of the stage construction and the band rehearsing. There were shots of manic backstage activity. Jake laughing at Teflon and Bunk, and Lizard crawling in the rigging. Martin sat forward now, paying more attention. Another mood change showed dressing room doors slamming and runners with headphones on, security men standing in shadows, and lines of punters ready to enter the stadium. There was a powerful sequence of Rielle on the trapeze, flying, fearless and fabulous in a blaze of smoke and filtered red light. Another of her in the Hand with Bunk; his little sister teasing the audience into a frenzy.
Next came a rocking segment with him and Stu; another of How pounding the drum kit, his sweat flying. A lovely close up of Ceedee standing in the wings waiting to come on stage showed her steadying herself and then stepping into the bright lights, and a two shot of Brendan and Jeremy had them seductively bathed in speckled lighting effects.
Now Harry had Martin’s full attention, because some of that would make great cut-aways. He abandoned his pen popping; he was staring at the screen, not moving. Rand watched Martin change his mind about what he was seeing. He changed his too. They’d go ahead tonight.
He heard Jake slip into the back of the room with a quick “Hi,” in time to see a shot of himself and Rielle backstage. On the screen Rie pinched his arm and he pulled her hair and they both laughed and stepped forward into the wings ready to go on.
In the room they both laughed too. Harry had captured the push and pull essence of their relationship in that one quick sequence. He looked at Rie and his throat got clogged. He sipped some water but you couldn’t wash away pride so easily. She was his little sister and she was mess-up scared, and she was awesome.
Harry’s final sequence was Rie and Ceedee rehearsing their pole routine. It was the night there’d been dead moths all over the stage floor. This must’ve been earlier. On screen the girls went through their stuff as the Bogongs blew in. The way Harry had captured this, the moths seemed to take on a mystical quality as they fluttered about the two dancers, high on their silvery poles. The whole thing made Rand itchy as he watched Rie continue to rehearse alone, chasing perfection. She looked like a powerful witch, an otherworldly being, charming nature itself when the moths invaded her.
“Cool,” he said.
“Extraordinary,” said Martin. He was standing, transfixed.
Rand looked at Harry and she blew him a kiss.
From where Jake stood at the back of the room, he could see Rielle’s profile. She had her heels on the chair rung and was hugging her knees with her chin tucked down, her mouth open in wonder and her eyes locked on the screen. She was seeing this for the first time and she loved it.
He swallowed as he recalled how dry his mouth was that night and how he felt when he stood close to her and brushed Bogongs from her hair, like he wanted to lay down his life and worship her. And everything that made him feel that way, uncomfortable, surprising and raw, was there on the screen.
He was so intent on watching the real Rielle, he almost missed the shot of himself. Harry’s crew captured him gazing at his moth goddess with a look of pure adoration on his face. The tenderness of the scene where he almost held her, and deliberately tangled his hands in her hair, hit him with a force that knocked the air out of him. He leaned back against the wall because his knees might not hold him.
He was in love with this woman. With her goddess and her bitch, with her tough rock chick persona, and with the self she didn’t even want to be.
Rielle dropped her legs and spun to him, her eyelids flaring, shock in the set of her shoulders. Their eyes met, but Jake couldn’t handle the pointed intensity of her focus. He pushed the door behind him and stumbled out of the room, blinking in the brighter light of the corridor. He should’ve kept moving, should’ve bolted, because he wasn’t ready to face her. She came through the door and flung herself in his arms.
Shocked, he caught her, but pushed her away, his hands at her waist, bending to bring his face level with hers.
She thrust her chin up. “You and I have a thing. We’re not done yet.”
He shook his head. “Rie, we tried. It’s not meant to be.”
“That look in there with the moths, it was after that awful night together—after it. You looked at me like that, like you’re freaking in love with me and you’re going to stand here now and tell me it’s nothing.”
He dropped his gaze to the carpet. He couldn’t face that truth. “I like you, Rie; I admire you. I’ve never hidden that.”
She pushed him and he took a step back. “You’re a liar, Jake Reed.”
There were two spots shaped like Rielle’s palms that burned along his ribs. He’d never wanted anything in his life more than he wanted to grab hold of her now, but it had to be all of her, not this half world where she kept part of herself hidden.
He looked up. He was breathing heavily, focussed on the frustration and anger in her expression. “All of you. It has to be all of you: the good and bad, the actress and the imitation. All or nothing, Rie.”
She punched him, her fist driving into his arm, her words pounding at his heart. “No, you don’t get to say who I am. You don’t get to make that choice.”
“You already made that choice for me. You already showed me parts of all of you. From the very first day we met. I don’t want less now.”
She shouted, “No!” making a chopping gesture with both hands.
He closed his eyes to block out the vision of her resentment. “Your call, Rielle.” He stepped back from her. He needed distance to stop from wanting to snatch her up. “You know how I feel; you just saw it and you know what I want. But if you can’t handle it, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for both of us.”
32. Kiss
or Kill
In theory, Jake could’ve legitimately avoided attending the video shoot. The staging trucks were due in so he had other demands to deal with. He had exercises to do from the behavioural therapist as well, but feeling the absence of Jonas, Rand wanted him along for moral support and he couldn’t turn the guy down.
In practice, this atmospheric back alley in St Kilda was the last place he wanted to be. If Rielle came anywhere near him he was liable to kiss or kill her and there wasn’t much of a gap between those contrary feelings. She’d characteristically stormed off after their last confrontation, though she’d only beaten him to that punch-line by seconds. Whatever this madness was, it certainly wasn’t over. She was infuriating. She was stubborn, hard headed, outrageous and wondrous beyond words.
He figured by the end of the night, he’d either be holding her with impure intentions or strangling her with out of control passion. Fighting off going too fast at the mere touch of her or arrested for manslaughter. Either seemed a reasonable end to it. Meanwhile he was miserable, congested with feelings he didn’t know how to clarify.
She was dressed in a barely-there outfit that looked like a collection of bandages with far more of her uncovered than covered. It was a costume she wore in the show as well. They’d shot half a dozen different takes of the song with three costume changes and this strappy little number was the last of them.
If he’d have been concentrating, Jake could have made sense of it all: the repeated takes, the jump cuts and the sections identified for clips from Harry’s footage. But sitting on an upturned milk crate behind the camera crew, he was stewing instead.
Every move Rielle made felt like she was playing for his audience of one. Her eyes were locked on his, her focus absolute. She teased him, seduced and romanced only him. The other twenty or so people operating cameras or lights, running security or managing wardrobe, hair and makeup—including two stills photographers, a publicist and Harry—might well have been dust.
Getting Real Page 21