by Megan Lowe
Bolt Energy is a sponsor of Ryan Racing and is throwing a massive party in Melbourne. As a representative of RR—yeah, that’s not getting old anytime soon—my presence is required. I had to attend a few of these sorts of things as a Supermoto rider, but the sponsors and amount of cash being thrown around was nothing like what greets me now. Bolt has hired out one of the hottest restaurants in the city and the who’s who of Australian sport and entertainment are here, including a brooding McKnley Rhodes. Maybe it might be worth one last shot, show her who I am now, how much I genuinely do care about her, even if it’s as a friend. What have I got to lose?
Chapter Seven
Knley
After the argument Quinn and I had over Cole at the fan club party, I didn’t speak to her for close to a week. I consider that quite a feat considering how involved we are in each other’s life. It wasn’t even that I was pissed at her; it was more I was annoyed with her because she had a point. I do hide, but in my line of work it’s necessary. It’s how I survive, how I differentiate between the Knley on stage and who I am at home. And right now Cole Matthews is the last person I want to think about. The more I think about him, the more I feel that final barrier weakening. It’s something I can’t let happen because I have a feeling, once it’s down, everything will be different. Hell, things are already different. I’m different, and it’s all because of him. He’s changing things, changing me. There’s no way I ever would’ve been this hung up on a guy for this long in the past. I’m McKnley fucking Rhodes and I don’t need a man. I don’t need anybody.
But enough about Cole. I have a tour coming up and I need to focus on that and only that.
“At the moment, it’s a nineteen-stop swing,” my mother says. “We’re also in discussions to add a three-stop New Zealand swing, but we’re not sure.”
“Twenty-two stops?” my youngest sister Sloane whines. She was thirteen when we started the band, and five years later, I guess she feels like she’s been doing this her whole life. I know it feels like that for me.
“It’s not like we’re doing them over two weeks,” Blake snaps. She’s the eldest at thirty-two and almost like a second mother. When there’s only sixteen years between you and your mother, and fourteen between you and your youngest sister, then I guess it’s somewhat inevitable.
“Blake’s right,” Mum says. “We’ve spread out the dates so as not to exhaust you, two or three shows maximum a week.”
“Plus radio, print, and TV interviews, in-store appearances, signings, and sponsor events,” Ashton adds. She’s always been the most business savvy of us, even going so far as to get a degree in business before we started all this. At twenty-eight, she’s the closest to me in age, but that doesn’t mean we get along. If anything, it means we fight more.
Beside me, Quinn sighs.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Anyone who thinks this life is just playing shows and looking pretty is dead wrong,” she says. I nod. Our lives might look glamorous on the outside, but from our position it’s just a lot of hard work.
“Well yes, there is all that,” my mother continues, “but it’s important we get you out there, keep you in front of the punters.”
“You mean keep us on the front pages,” I mutter under my breath. Sometimes I feel like I’m just a pawn in my mother’s game for fame, especially when she talks like this, which is often.
“Oh please,” Blake scoffs, “you love being splashed all over the front pages. You’re McKnley fucking Rhodes, bad girl of rock ’n’ roll.”
“And who made me that way?” I spit back. I’m so sick of her shit. “Because it’s not like I asked for that title.”
“You didn’t do anything to discourage it,” Sloane points out.
“I didn’t do anything to encourage it either.”
“You do swear a lot,” Ashton says.
“I’m Australian! That’s what we do!”
“Now, now, girls,” Mum interrupts. “We all know Knley being the bad girl of rock ’n’ roll is what works best for the band. It’s gotten us endless exposure, which is why Bolt Energy has come on board to sponsor the tour.”
“Someone is sponsoring the tour?” I ask.
“Not just someone,” Mum snaps. “Bolt Energy is the number-one-selling energy drink in Australasia at the moment. Their involvement with us is huge!”
“So what do we have to do in return for this sponsorship?” Quinn asks.
Mum waves her hand dismissively. “A few appearances, have their drinks for sale at the venues, in the green rooms, and on our rider.”
“But we don’t drink those types of drinks,” I say.
“So we leave them,” Blake suggests.
“You know someone will go through the room after us. If we’re consistently leaving a sponsor’s product, it’ll get noticed, and I can’t imagine Bolt would be pleased with that publicity.”
“So we tip them out. Problem solved.”
I huff. Personally, I don’t think it’s problem solved at all; I think it’s opening us up to a whole new set of problems, but I can tell my concern is wasted here.
“Anyway,” Mum says, refocusing our attention, “they’re having a party tonight and we need to make an appearance.” We all groan. Promotional parties are the pits; that we all agree on. So many people at those things are out to kiss your arse so they can suck you dry later on. “And,” Mum says, raising her voice over ours, “as they are our new sponsor, you all need to be there with your brightest smiles and on your best behaviour.”
“Except for Knley,” Blake sneers. I give her the finger. “See, you don’t even need to pretend. It just comes naturally to you.”
A few hours of primping and preening and we’re ready to hit the red carpet.
“Remember, Knley, you exit last,” Mum says in the car as we arrive.
“I know,” I say through gritted teeth. My tolerance for bullshit has just about hit its limit. I don’t know why my mother thought there was a need to remind me of this; it’s always been this way. The thought behind it is that whoever gets out first signals our arrival. Then we keep the paps hanging and my sisters get photo coverage until I, the most recognisable face, emerge last.
“I want to go first,” Sloane whines.
“You went first last time,” Ashton argues. Quinn just shakes her head.
The car stops and Sloane and Ashton are still arguing. Taking advantage of their lack of attention, I wait for the car door to be opened and then push Quinn out and clamber out after her. There’s a chorus of yells from my sisters, and my mother tries to grab me, but by this time we’re already in front of the cameras. The rest of my sisters follow, sour looks on their faces, but that quickly changes in the light of a million camera flashes. I wave before moving towards the horde of reporters crowding the restaurant entrance. They’re clambering over one another and shouting their inane questions at me, and I can’t understand a word. Instead I give them a smile and tell them I’m so happy to have the support of Bolt Energy.
The door to the restaurant has been opened for me when one reporter’s voice rises above the rest.
“Knley!” he shouts desperately. “Why did you exit the car second tonight?” I turn and spot the reporter straight away. He’s medium height, brown hair, glasses, and as skinny as a rake. I know he’s the one because he’s the only one not still shouting.
“Seriously?” I ask, going towards him. He shrugs. “That’s your question? Out of everything you could’ve asked me, about the band, my relationship with my sisters, my romantic relationships, my opinion on global warming or refugees, you choose to ask me why I got out of the car second?” My anger is rising, the heat rushing to my face, neck, and chest.
“You always get out of the car last, tonight you didn’t. Are you mixing things up? Trying to keep the paparazzi on their toes?”
“Does it matter?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cole Matthews stop in the doorway, and it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I�
�ve had enough of this bullshit. First the car, now this inane question; it’s got to stop.
“You always have a specific order in which you and your sisters exit any vehicle you’re travelling in. Clearly someone thought it matters.”
I put on my best showbiz smile. “You’re right. The order in which my sisters and I exit our transportation does matter. In fact, it’s right up there with the defence of our national borders, healthcare, and infrastructure spending. The reason I exited the car early, because it’s so vital everyone know,” I sneer, “is because I have to pee, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do just that.” I turn and storm into the restaurant, passing Cole, who has an amused look on his face.
“Don’t even start,” I snap at him. He’s the last person I want to see tonight. Apparently my heart doesn’t get that memo though and it’s pounding in my chest. I could brush it off as adrenaline from being in front of the cameras, but that would be a lie. I’m glad to see him, and that has me worried.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.” I spot the bar and start moving towards it. I need liquor and I need it now.
“I thought you needed the bathroom?” I stop and turn to face him. He has a huge smile on his face, his eyes crinkling with his suppressed laughter. Since the fan club party, he’s had a haircut, his blond hair no longer curling over his collar. Instead, it’s long on top, short on the sides, giving him a bad boy edge. The distressed jeans and black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and left open at his neck, exposing some of the ink on his chest and neck, add to the look. I hate to admit it, but he looks good—more than good if I’m telling the truth. Downright irresistible would be more accurate, but we’ll stick with good for now.
“A stupid question deserves a stupid answer. It’s like the laws of physics for journalists.” Cole chuckles and scratches his stubbled chin.
“So that’s a no to the bathroom?”
“It’s a warning cry for hard liquor is what it is.”
“Well then.” He places a hand at the small of my back, his other arm gesturing grandly towards the bar. The heat from his hand through my top burns. The tingles I got when we touched at the gala have returned tenfold.
“What’s your poison?” he asks as we get to the bar and he motions to the bartender.
“Johnny Blue, neat,” I order.
“I would’ve thought you were a tequila girl,” Cole says as he lounges against the wood top of the bar.
“Tequila and I aren’t talking.”
“Bad break-up?”
“Aren’t they always when tequila is involved?”
Cole takes a sip of his beer while I slam down my scotch and motion for another. I know it’s wrong to do that with Johnny Blue, but right now I don’t give a fuck. I’ll probably be paying for it later, but I need this and I need it like, yesterday.
“So you wanna talk about it?” he asks after my second shot.
“Talk about what?” I motion for yet another shot.
“Whatever’s got you committing a crime in how you’re treating that scotch.”
“Nope.” I slam down my third shot. I go to motion for a fourth, but Cole grabs hold of my arm.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’ve had three shots!”
“In the space of five minutes. Did you eat before you came here?”
“Couldn’t. Can’t be looking bloated in front of the press, even the slightest roundness to my stomach and I’m pregnant. Plus, this outfit is hardly conducive to food.” I motion to my signature bustier, blue and black lace today, and leather pants.
“Well, while you look hot as fuck, if you get any more alcohol in your system without something to soak it up, you’ll be passed out on the floor and the press will have even more to write about besides your toilet tanty earlier.”
“Eh,” I say, and hit my forehead with my hand. Okay so I might be a little tipsy. “Don’t remind me.”
“Come on.” He helps me off the stool I’m perched on. I totter on my stilettos a bit before I’m able to right myself. Cole lifts his hands to catch me, but I’m good.
“I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Good.” He leads me through the crowd to a door concealed by a hanging tapestry.
“You’re not kidnapping me, are you?” He doesn’t say anything, just turns back and winks at me. My stomach flip-flops, and it has nothing to do with the $240 worth of alcohol floating around in it. I can feel it starting to kick in now, a gentle buzz warming my body. Tugging my hand—wait, when did he grab hold of it?—he leads me to a private lounge.
“How did you know this was here?” I ask as I sink into one of the comfy couches.
“Places like this always have a few of these rooms. It’s just a matter of finding them.”
“So what are you doing here anyway?”
“Bolt is a sponsor of Ryan Racing. As a Ryan Racing rider, I’m here to represent them.”
“Wait, Ryan Racing, that group from the gala?”
“One and the same.”
“You signed with them?”
“Yep, got myself a ride in the NRS.” His smile stretches wide across his face and he looks genuinely happy.
“Is the NRS good?” I ask.
“Best racing series in Australia. A lot of the MotoGP teams take riders from it.”
“To race?”
“Race, test, fill in.”
“So it’s a step up for you then?”
“In every way.”
“But aren’t you champ of whatever it is you used to race in?”
His smile morphs from happy to smug. “Look who’s been keeping tabs on me.” He leans back on the couch and rests his arms along the top.
“I think they mentioned it once or twice a minute at the gala the other week.” The longer we chat, the more I can feel pieces of the wall I built up slowly being chipped away under the familiarity and friendly rapport Cole and I have.
He chuckles and scratches his chin. “Hometown boy does good. They were proud. Plus with Liam as NRS champ, we were big drawcards.” He lights up when he mentions racing, and I feel a pang of jealousy. I love music. I love making it and I’m grateful I get to travel the world performing it, but if I’m honest, being a member of Places isn’t something I see myself doing for the rest of my life. I want to be more than McKnley from Places.
“So moving to Booker was good for you, huh?”
“Moving to Booker made me. That town is the epicentre of racing in Australia. I couldn’t imagine growing up in a better place.”
I nod. “I’m glad things worked out for you.” And I am genuinely glad. Glad that something good sprung from the fucked-up relationship my mother has with men.
“Knley,” Cole begins, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Really, I’m truly happy things worked out for you and your family. It’s encouraging to know there’s life after Helen Rhodes has her way with it.” I don’t mean to sound bitter, but it comes out that way. Yeah, that scotch is definitely working its magic.
Cole tilts his head and considers me carefully. “Wanna talk about it?”
I laugh and it ends on a sob. “No.” All the emotional turmoil I’ve put myself through the past few weeks comes bubbling to the surface. The three shots I had earlier are in full effect, loosening my inhibitions, and that wall I have around me has now tumbled down completely. The confusion over my conflicting feelings for Cole, anger at my mother, annoyance and aggravation at the way she runs our lives all come out. Quinn was right; I can’t hide myself away forever. Maybe it might be worth opening up to Cole. He’s proved to be a good listener so far, and it’s clear that I’m an emotional wreck, so maybe talking will help.
He comes over to join me on my couch and crushes me to his chest. His clean, fresh, almost menthol scent engulfs me, and I clutch his shirt, feeling his solid chest beneath the material. He doesn’t sa
y anything, just holds me while I get myself together. Eventually I release him, as much as I don’t want to, and sit back.
“You know you can talk to me, right? I know we’re not close and that you can hardly stand to be around me, but I’m a good listener.”
“I can stand to be around you.”
He gives me a look. “You accused me of ruining your family. If that’s not grounds for hating someone, I don’t know what is.”
I blow out a breath and decide to go for it, to let him in. “Yeah, I may have been a little harsh on that front.”
“A little?”
“Okay, a lot, but you live with my mother and see how you turn out.”
“Overbearing?”
“Overbearing I could handle,” I say, relaxing back into the couch.
“Yeah?” Cole asks as he brings his knee up onto the couch, his back resting against the arm so he’s facing me.
“I know she’s done a lot for us, we’d be nowhere without her, but sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if she hadn’t pushed so hard.” I’ve never voiced that thought to anyone before, and it feels good to get it off my chest.
“You don’t want to be in the band anymore?” Cole asks, articulating something else I’ve never voiced before.
“It’s not that I don’t want to be in the band anymore, I just wonder who I am without it, you know?” He nods. “I mean, my whole life, or it feels like it anyway, I’ve been McKnley, lead guitarist for Places. Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to just be McKnley, to not have to worry about exiting a car in a specific order or which sponsors I have to play nice for.” He doesn’t say anything, just sits there listening. “I’ve never said all that out loud before,” I confess.