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She pushed him again and he had no strength to fight her, so he lay back on the seat and she straddled his hips. He was straining for breath, but when he felt her lips close on his, her teeth graze him, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her in a hard hug and the crowd roared and his senses spun, and he held that kiss like it was the only thing that could stop him falling.
They rode the cage back to the stage locked in that panicked embrace. When it bounced to a stop, and he knew her mic was off, he shouted, “I hope you’re happy, Rielle Mainline,” and lifted her away from him with shaking arms. He gripped the side of the cage and hoisted himself over it, jumping the short distance to the ground where he snatched his headset off Bodge and walked away with only his pride holding him upright and not a backward glance.
In the seconds she had before being back on stage, Rielle watched Jake go. Instead of feeling victorious, she felt horribly, horribly ugly and diminished.
Oh fucking hell, Rand was steamed. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
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.
