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“I thought of that as well,” he said.
Rielle barked out a laugh and pushed away from him, making both their trapezes sway backwards.
Jake yelped and grabbed for her but his motion tipped him backwards in the harness, rotating him until he was head down, legs up. He yelled and gripped the upright cables, but had no idea how to right himself. Rielle’s laughter got caught in her windpipe the second she realised she’d tipped Jake over. She put her hand on his calf and pushed him and when his legs swung down, she was ready to stop him rotating again. She caught him with both hands on his shoulders, and braced against him. She pulled her trapeze and his closer together. Now he couldn’t tip, unless she let go.
“Jake, I’m sorry.” She felt terrible she’d caused him this additional terror. “You won’t fall. I’ve got you. I’m not falling either. We’re okay.” He was unresponsive, so she said, “Jake, can you hear me?” putting her hand on his forehead. He was burning up and his chest was pumping with quick breaths. He’d fused both hands to the cables.
“Give me your hand. Jake, I want you to slow down, breathe deeper. Give me your hand.” She pried his right hand off the cable and held tight. His other hand grabbed for her, his fingers digging into her bicep.
She took his right hand and placed it over her chest. “Jake, breathe with me.”
>
They stayed like that. Rielle’s arm numbing, bruising from Jake’s grip. His other hand spread across the top of her chest, feeling her steady intake and exhale of breath, until he stopped panting, breathed in time with her, and opened his eyes.
At least Jake wasn’t a bore. He was a freak, that’s for sure. But he did have crazy courage. Completely useless, foolish courage—something she understood. So she couldn’t sack him now. She was stuck with him, unless he did something truly awful, and if he could put himself willingly through this for the tour, he could probably handle anything.
“Pathetic,” she said, but she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him steady.
“Totally.” He gasped.
“You’re no Godzilla, but you’re not sacked, so you’re going to have to recover.” He didn’t look like that would ever be possible. He looked like a candidate for heart surgery, followed by a padded cell. She tucked his head down onto her shoulder. “You’re an idiot, Jake Reed.”
“That’s now official,” he mumbled into her cotton shirt.
“I want the person who screwed up.”
“That’s me. My tour. My screw up.”
“God, you’re stupid.” Did they think she didn’t know what happened? “I want the guy who took the part and didn’t replace it.”
“Okay.” Jake wasn’t sure what he’d just agreed to, but he’d give Rielle anything right now, so long as she kept on holding him. She was this tiny fairy girl but she was holding him up, holding him together.
He had no inkling how long they floated up there; it might’ve been years. He was exhausted, but when the trapezes started moving, he lifted his head and pulled away from Rielle, holding her at arm’s length. She’d long since stopped yelling, but he knew this wasn’t over.
He opened his mouth to apologise. To say something that would make this mess seem less careless and unprofessional, but she put her hand over his it. “Shut up, Jake.”
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.”
