Getting Real

1. If Only

Los Angles, USA. Twelve months ago.

It’s a twenty-five city tour. We’ll be on the road for eight months and we start in Australia.

Jonas Franklin looked around the boardroom table, big toothy grin, dancing eyebrows. From the top of his shiny head to his blunt fingertips he radiated excitement as he fanned the heavy contract document with his thumb. We iron the bugs out in Oz and then do Europe and the US. What do you think?

Rielle Mainline pressed back in her seat, put her feet up on the table, and looked at the bleeding heart tattoo on her ankle lit by the down-lights in the ceiling. She pushed today’s blood red fringe off her forehead and sighed. A tour this size was the culmination of five years of sell-out local tours, each more elaborate and to a bigger audience than the last. She wanted this bad and so did Rand.

After ten years in the business, two platinum and three double platinum albums, two Grammy Awards, an American Music and Billboard Award plus countless MTV awards, it was what they deserved.

Not that it would ultimately change anything. Nothing that was important, anyway. Nothing ever would.

But why start there? Of all the countries in the world, why that one? Of all the places where their music charted, where Ice Queen had lunatic fans and a ready audience, why start where it all began?

Not that Jonas understood that. Jonas was the best executive producer in the business, but he thought it all began in Eagle Rock when Ben bought Rand his first electric guitar. With Ben gone, no one but Rand would understand it.

If only. If only. If only.

She shot a look at her brother sitting opposite, both hands flattened on the table top, his purple nail polish horribly chipped. He tapped the edge of his black titanium thumb ring on the wood, the riff to Over n Done from their latest album, Flagrant Disobedience.

What? he said, sounding annoyed, but he stopped tapping.

Rielle? asked Jonas. He took a seat alongside executives from the record company, the legal firm and the media consultancy. What do you think?

"I think everything but the schedule is fantastic. Can’t we start in Europe? Why do we need Australia at all?

Are you kidding, Rie? You’re huge in Australia, the support of the hometown crowd, why wouldn’t you start there?

Because we’re already huge there would be one reason.

Jonas scratched his hairless head. We could take it out of the tour but it’s worth millions. You’ll earn more in Australia than half of Europe. What about you, Rand?

Rand rocked his boardroom chair more violently than its makers ever intended. He looked like he’d had about two minutes sleep and needed the motion to stay awake. I could live without Australia.

Rielle plucked another hole in her fishnet tights. They all watched.

Can we have the room? Rand said.

When the suits exited he stopped rocking and shifted around the table to her. He’d deferred this decision to her deliberately. He was making her choose for him, for the whole band. We can do this, Rie. It’s kinda fucking cool. Twenty-five cities. I mean, shock and awe.

I know we can do it. She tucked her chin down to avoid looking at him. I just don’t want to do Australia. Anywhere else but there.

Rand stood behind her chair and pressed his thumbs into the tight muscles of her neck, making her groan. Rie, it’s time we went back. Twelve years—it’s time.

She snapped, Why is it time? Why do we need to go back ever? There’s nothing there we want.

What’re you still so frightened of?

She swivelled the chair around and faced her brother. I’m not frightened.

Right. He sighed, palms raised in submission.

I’m not. What have I ever backed away from? Tell me.

Rand pulled up another chair. Fuck all. You’ve never backed away from anything, or anyone, except this.

Rielle dropped her eyes, looked at the twist of silver chain around her waist and bounced her rubber boot heel on the floor. So we do Australia, but skip Sydney. That was like making an album without a hit song. But Rand would be too good to call her on it.

Too good but not too stupid. Rie, that’s too weird. His eyes narrowed. Jonas is gonna flip out, but if that’s what you want?

"What do you want?" She knew what he wanted. For her to forget, to get over it, and that was never going to happen.

He sighed again. For this not to be such a big deal for you.

Yeah, like that’s happening.

Rand laughed. He twisted the hoop in his ear. I want twenty-five cities. I want Sydney. I want to go home.

She took a deep breath. She wanted to tell him to go without her, go today, but she knew he wouldn’t. He’d had a hundred, a thousand opportunities before this tour came up. It still hurt him too. Okay.

What? He nearly left his seat.

I said okay. Rielle swallowed the muddy taste of rising panic. You’re right, I’m shit scared about going back, but yeah, all right. Let’s do it.

Rand grinned, rocked the chair back to its outer limit and folded his arms behind his head. He had a look on his face like he’d just learned Santa was real. You sure about that?

No.

He laughed, his purple-black hair falling over his eyes. Twenty-five really great cities, eight months.

Sydney. She sighed. Sydney was thudding rain, slick road, tearing metal. Sydney was screaming and blood and awful silence. Sydney was pain and reality sharper than nightmares. But Rand wanted to go home.

All right then, he fist pumped, twenty-four really great cities, and one really bad memory.

She tried not to smile, but Rand was having his own personal Christmas morning. Twenty-three really great cities, and one really bad memory.

He released his pressure on the seat back and it sprang upright. Shit, where else do you have a problem with?

Rielle looked at him sideways. You can’t call Adelaide a great city.

He laughed. Okay, twenty-three really great cities, one overgrown country town and one really bad memory.

Put that in the tour bible and I’m there. She put her feet back on the tabletop. It is kinda cool, biggest tour we’ve ever done, longest time we’ve ever been on the road in one stretch.

Don’t tell me you’re excited now? Rand put his feet on the table as well.

I’m too cool to be excited.

Yeah right! Wanna call the suits back in?

Nah, let ‘em sweat for a while.

You were so badly brought up. He exhaled an exaggerated sigh. How much do you reckon it’s changed?

Rielle pulled her feet off the table and climbed on it instead, sitting cross-legged, facing Rand and the pinkish, smoggy haze of an LA afternoon beyond the glass walls of Global Artists Management’s offices. Sydney?

No. The Yarra bloody River.

Some things won’t ever change. She shook her head, pushing a strand of red hair behind her ear, tracing her fingers over the tattoo of a planet and three orbiting stars at her hairline.

Rand climbed on the table as well, stretched out on his back, his full six foot three length. We survived it, Rie. It’s okay to go back.

We did better than survive.

Shit yeah, twenty-something city tour.

Shut up.

I mean maybe if it hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be here now.

Rielle flicked his nose with a fluorescent yellow nail and he made an ‘ow’ sound. You don’t believe in fate, neither do I. It’s not like there’s some cosmic lottery that gave us a payback.

Rand rolled his eyes back to look at her. He always knew when she was talking shit—she was doing it now. She might not believe in fate, but she believed in fault and that’s why she didn’t want to go back. Too many if onlys.

He pulled a strand of her hair. And if we don’t get this tour right, imagine the way the media will hunt us.

Does it matter? We can retire rich. She flicked his nose again.

Ow! Quit that!

Yeah it matters. We never did this to get rich. We did it to eat.

But we never have to worry about food in the fridge anymore. We could quit and stay home, said Rand, closing his eyes.

Retire at twenty-eight, are you kidding? You’d be dead or in jail within six months if you didn’t have the band.

Hardly, he drawled. But I would be deadly bored. He broke into song: Turning heads wherever you go, whiter and brighter, smiles to die for. Use Macrodent Light.

What was that? Rielle leant down over him so her face was cross-eye close. She deliberately exhaled coffee breath on him.

Stupid jingle stuck in my head. Who’d want to rhyme ‘brighter’ and ‘die fer’ anyway? He opened his eyes wide. Except maybe people with coffee breath.

The door cracked open and Jonas stuck his head in. Ready?

No, they chorused, and Jonas grimaced and retreated, closing the door.

We are ready aren’t we? asked Rand.

Yeah, just keeping them keen. It was only one city for a couple of days. One city. And two dozen after it to help her forget.

Rand rolled off the table, went to the door, flung it open, stuck his head out and yelled, Ready.

When the suits rejoined them, expectant looks on their faces, Rielle said, Okay, let’s do it.

All of it? asked Jonas.

Yeah. But there’s one stipulation, she said. Sydney comes last.

2. Home

Sydney, Australia. Two months ago.

Mum gestured with the gravy boat. Are you having seconds?

It was more an instruction than an invitation. One glance when Jake arrived and she’d decided he wasn’t eating properly, so dutiful son that he was, Jake held out his plate for more roast beef and a slosh of brown salty gravy. Not knocking it back. Thanks, Mum.

I can hear beeping. Dad screwed up his face and peered around the dining room.

Jake jerked a thumb over his shoulder. My mobile, it’s in the other room.

Good place for it, said Mum. Can’t a man have his dinner in peace any more without someone wanting to talk to him?

Dad made a face, thinned lips and a squiggled brow. She’s a laugh a minute your mum. How’d you think we paid off this house if it wasn’t for people’s dinner time electrical emergencies?

Jake laughed. Yeah, didn’t you pay my school fees with the money from after-hours electric hot water repairs?

And Issy’s ballet lessons, said Dad, with an air of great seriousness. She’s a real comedian, making you miss calls during dinner, especially if it might be about work.

Mum shook her head, pretending to be offended. She said, Mick, and when the phone in the kitchen rang, Ooh, that’ll be Sophie. She leapt to her feet, a chorus of howls chasing her out of the room.

Her absence gave Dad the opportunity to pinch a fat golden baked potato from her plate and for Jake to steal into the lounge room and check his phone. A call from Ron; it would be about work. He dialled his voicemail. Yep, a new tour. Excellent. He needed to call Ron back, but it would wait.

Work? asked Dad, as Jake took his seat again.

Yep.

Bugger, he said, with a mouthful of peas. I was hoping you’d be around to help me out with a job next week.

Let’s see. Might only be a couple of dates. It’s still possible I can help out. I’ve paid my licence fee again, might as well get some use out of it.

Is that new work? said Mum, rejoining them. Are you eating properly?

Jake grinned. What’s the relationship between those two things, Mum?

There isn’t one. I don’t see you much anymore, and you’re so busy. I just want to know if you’re looking after yourself.

He’s not wasting away, Trish, said Dad. His days of being weedy are long gone.

Mum ignored Dad and zeroed in. Are you eating lots of fast food? You look thinner. Is there anyone significant in your life?

Jake laughed. This was the usual third degree. Everything his mother knew about the touring music industry was based on the movie Almost Famous. She probably thought he had his own groupies. That’d be the day.

She didn’t wait for a response. Did you bring washing, love?

Yeah, Mum, but I’ll do it.

No. I’ve got a load of your father’s work gear to do. I can put yours through with that lot.

Jake nodded; it was useless arguing with her, not that he wanted to. Visiting home always meant a good hot meal and laundry service—two things that were random and uncertain on the road and nothing beat Mum’s baked dinner. Not that he was going to admit it, but despite catered ‘crew chew’ there was too much fast food in his life. Too much fast food, and too few opportunities to feel at home.

His flat had been shut up for the last two months. He knew the fridge was empty and the cupboards unlikely to yield much in the way of nutrition. He should go home, but the thought of crashing in his old room tonight and having a Mum-cooked breakfast in the morning had a strong pull.

Why don’t you stay the night and your stuff will be ready in the morning?

I should go home. Home meant facing eight weeks’ worth of bills and junk mail, and unwashed sheets. He could scarcely remember what state he’d left the flat in before the Jay Jays’ tour kicked off.

Oh, stay tonight, darling. You can take off after breakfast.

He knew Mum would’ve already put fresh linen on the bed in his old room. If it’s not too much trouble? She’d be in a huff if he seriously tried to leave, but it was expected he’d put up at least the hint of a protest.

That’s settled then.

Jake lay his virtual protest placards down and grinned at his dad.

Mum picked up plates and headed towards the kitchen. I’ve got homemade cheesecake for dessert.

I’ll whip the cream, he said, taking a serving plate and the gravy boat into the kitchen, leaving Dad to clear the remains of the meal.

After dessert and a cup of tea, Jake took his mobile into the backyard where Monty was slobbering over a dried pig’s ear, his big Lab tail thumping the grass, and called Ron.

As usual Ron Teller, Australia’s biggest entertainment promoter was straight to the point. Mate, I’ve got a new job for you. I want you on a stadium tour, a month’s prep and two on the road. Shows scheduled for Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and Perth. Oh and Adelaide. You in?

A stadium tour—that meant it was a big name artist. The only big name Jake knew about to tour was the rock band, Ice Queen. And that was big. That was awesome. That was the pig’s ear in his world. I’m in.

It’s ‘Re-elle’, mate, said Ron, drawing out the pronunciation of the lead singer’s name for effect. "This Side of Purgatory. It’s a sell out, capacity crowds. Their first time touring here. The media are wetting themselves over it."

Monty made a little whine of contentment, the sound perfectly capturing how Jake felt. A sell out stadium tour with one of the biggest bands in the world—tasty. It more than compensated for spending the last two months touring regional centres like Newcastle, Ballarat and Bundaberg with the Jays.

Who’s opening? he asked.

Problem Children. Ron named another chart-topping local band just breaking into the US scene.

You want me as tour manager?

Yeah mate, the band’s bringing their own exec producer and I’ll leave you to put together the rest of the crew.

Mentally he assembled the rest of the people he’d need to provide staging set up, catering, security, transport, and logistics. What do you know about Rielle? Jake knew she was a talented performer and a media darling because of her explosive temper and outrageous stage presence, but that was little more than what was public about her and the band. He wanted the inside story. The more he knew, the easier it would be to run the tour.

She and her brother have managed themselves since they were teenagers, they’re tight. He’s the business brain; she’s the star. I hear she’s one hundred percent pure bitch, mate, said Ron. Talented yeah, but from what I know, relentless about quality, rides everyone hard to get what she wants and not nice about it.

In the dark backyard, with the whir of the washing machine and the slobber of the dog, Jake nodded. The expression ‘pure bitch’ covered a lot of ground and was usually applied to female talent if they were in any way strong-willed. He was well aware of the double standard that applied in the industry. No one thought a male entertainer was a bastard if he was focussed on a quality performance, but a demanding woman—bitch.

Seriously a bitch or just, you know…?

Reedy, mate, from what the US promoter tells me, she doesn’t pull any punches and she’s the boss on stage, warned Ron. Anyway, she’ll be your problem now, whether she’s a bitch or a pussycat. We’re leg one of their global tour, they want to get it right here, where the fans are more laid back, before they take it to the US and Europe. So we’re the guinea pigs, and when I say we, mate, that’d be you, playing the part of the rodent.

3. Gemini

Adelaide, Australia. Now.

Jake stepped up on a cross trainer, set the computer for a twenty-minute session, plugged his earphones into the socket, and tuned into the music channel, scoring a Black Eyed Peas video that matched his stride. Five minutes later, he was feeling warm and fluid and enjoying an old Lady Gaga clip, the one with the biker apostles.

One of the side benefits of working on a big, high profile tour was getting to stay in decent hotels with access to facilities like pools, gyms, bars, and cafes. It’d been a while since he’d been in a gym. His usual workout was a run or a surf when he could get one in. He didn’t notice the place start to fill up until the cross trainer beside him started to move. He glanced to the side and saw a cute girl in fitted black gym skins begin her workout. She had short blonde tousled hair and when she glanced back at him, he saw big green eyes and freckles scattered over the bridge of her nose and cheeks, and a gap in her front teeth that bit her plump bottom lip. Cute.

Fifteen minutes into his workout, he picked up his pace. As he pushed faster on the pedals he noticed she did as well. The arms on their cross trainers swung back and forth in sync. He chanced another glance. She had her earphones plugged in and was watching the same music channel he was. He pushed his heels down harder and kicked his pace up again. And so did she.

Okay now, that can’t have been coincidental. He’d thought she was simply pounding the same rhythm to the music as he was, he kicked it again. Now he was running hard and she matched him. Damn, she was a little thing but she was fit. She had no trouble keeping pace with him. Was she grinning? He didn’t dare look directly at her. He was sweating buckets. The heart rate icon on the computer screen leapt into the purple zone and pulsed brightly—was that the exercise or the girl?

When his twenty minutes were up, the machine automatically lost traction, but she kept pounding away, never looking at him directly. He slowed to the pace of a light jog, and then stepped off the machine. Now he could get a good look at her. Not cute—hot as! Standing behind her, he could take in her narrow waist, slim hips, the flexing, well-formed muscles in her legs and arms. Hmm, real sweet.

He moved to a rowing machine and set it up for another twenty minute cycle; strapped his feet in, grabbed the handles and started to pull. This machine didn’t have a sound and TV system to plug into, so he contented himself with trying to beat the pace boat on the onboard screen.

Five minutes in, and ahead of the pace boat by a full length, someone settled in the rowing machine beside him. It was Green Eyes again. When he pulled back in his stroke, he could see her strapping her feet in. When he slid forward, she grabbed her machine’s handle and they both pushed back together. But his stroke was harder and faster than hers, so the rhythm they had was in opposition. When he was forward, she was back and he couldn’t see her. But when he was back, she was in front of him, and he could check out her perfect form, bent into the task of rowing, head down, puffing her breath out with each push through her legs and pull of her arms.

He wasn’t sure he had enough air in his lungs to have a conversation, but he was going to give it a go. Are you trying to kill me?

She looked at him blankly as he passed her, moving backwards.

He tried again. I wondered if you were trying to kill me. I haven’t been in a gym for a while and you’re obviously used to this. I can hardly keep up with you.

Oh. She passed him again, and on the next pass, she added, No.

Good, ‘cause I think you could do it. He slowed up, letting the on-screen pace boat catch him, taking the opportunity to spend a fraction more time behind her—watching her.

She was sweating heavily too. A rivulet of moisture trickled down her arm. He shook his head to clear the kind of thoughts that didn’t belong in a public gym, or a public anywhere, but made him want to lick her, like she was flavoured ice.

Do you work out here often? he said, on the pass.

She shook her head. Tucked her chin down to avoid him. She had to have known he was checking her out. He had about as much subtlety as sunburn.

He brought the rower to a stop and released the handles. He was defeated on the field of flirting, but he was still genuinely interested in her. What do you do to stay so fit?

She pulled harder. She was well ahead of her onscreen pace boat. I don’t get distracted.

Crash and burn. Good on you. Jake released his feet from the stirrups and stood. He laughed at himself under a swipe of his towel. He’d had more practice pushing women away than reeling them in on the last tour. On most tours. And how it showed.

He dragged the towel across his face and chest again and watched the girl a moment. She was focussed, intent on the machine and her skin glowed with the effort. When he entered the weights area, it was with a spring in his step. Just watching her, even if she’d made it clear he was as annoying as gum under her shoe, made him feel warm inside and out.

He sat on a weight bench. He could still see her across the room. If she lifted her head she’d be able to see him in the mirror. He wondered if she’d bother. He lay under a set of weights and tried to concentrate on bench pressing instead of pressing something else entirely. Like his hands against her hips, or his lips against—

He groaned out loud, which would’ve been more embarrassing if half the other occupants of the weights area weren’t grunting and groaning over dumbbells. He was the dumbbell. She didn’t even know he existed.

He grunted again, but this time it was because his chest was burning and his arms felt boneless from the number of reps he’d done. If he’d been hot before, he was a furnace now. He sat and dragged his towel over the back of his neck and when he lifted his eyes he met hers. It wasn’t an accidental glance, but she dropped her head the minute he caught her out.

So she could get distracted.

The workout left Jake feeling totally energised. Tomorrow he’d be sore, but right now he was ready for anything. And anything might happen in his first meeting with Ice Queen’s management.

He was showered, changed, and waiting in the hotel’s outdoor terrace café. This meeting would establish the band’s expectations and give him a feel for what they’d be like to work with. Sometimes the talent showed up at pre-production meetings, but mostly they sent their management. Jake expected to meet with the executive producer and stage manager, Jonas Franklin.

He knew Franklin by reputation. He was considered a genius EP. Jake was keen to see if the publicity matched the man. Ten past the hour and he was wondering if Jonas had gotten lost, but then it was hard to get lost in Adelaide. Twenty past the hour and he was feeling like his date was going to stand him up.

Then a shadow fell across the table and a deep voice said, Jake Reed?

Jake looked up to see Rand Mainline blocking the sun, and leapt to his feet. Yes, hi, I’m Jake.

Good to meet you, Jake, I’m Rand. The rock star offered his hand to shake. He wore black denim and a Grateful Dead t-shirt featuring the iconic Deadhead skull in a top hat. This is my sister, Rielle. They shook. Rand’s grip firm and steady. Jake shifted to offer his hand to Rielle, but she waved him off.

Next to the lanky Rand, Rielle was fairy tiny with an outrageous mop of multicoloured hair in red, gold and black, snaking over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a skin tight black singlet that finished well above her pierced belly button and showed off the arrowed muscle of her abs. Now that was hot.

Jake, we seem to have lost our EP. He’s around somewhere, but we’re not sure where. I thought we’d come and introduce ourselves. Rand took a seat, and gestured for Jake to do the same. Rielle slumped into a chair and folded her arms. Her mouth was a tight line. She had fishnets on. They had holes in them here and there. Jake sat across from her and wondered if the crossed leg she was kicking would connect with his knees. Her boots weren’t steel cap, but not far off. She had ‘could do you damage’ written all over her.

She ignored him and looked at Rand. I knew there was something off about Jonas on the plane. I’ll fire his ass if he so much as looks like he’s been high in the last six hours. She pulled off her sunglasses and turned unnatural violet coloured eyes on Jake. You look like a nice guy, fit and healthy, but you’d better be clean and sober or I’ll fire your ass as well.

Jake grinned. She was as feisty as her hair colour and pint sized but—like that blonde in the gym—a little powerhouse, or rather a powder keg. With a short fuse. I run a professional team. You won’t have any cause to complain.

She grunted and tapped bright lime green fingernails that matched the jewel in her nose, on the tabletop. One of her fingers was tattooed. She had another tattoo on the inside of her wrist.

Jake, please forgive my sister. She has no manners. She was raised poorly by itinerant fruit pickers, said Rand. He might’ve been saying mangoes are good this season; there was no trace of irony in his voice—a mongrel mix of Australian and American accents.

Wolves, you forgot the wolves, said Rielle, with an accent that gave no hint to her origin, but a bite, with perfectly formed white teeth, that could’ve severed a finger.

I always forget the wolves. Rand sighed.

Jake laughed. According to rock history, the Mainlines were born in Sydney, but moved to the US after their mum was killed in a car accident. Two years later their dad, a classical musician, was dead from cancer. They raised themselves, starting their music careers at eighteen and sixteen. Rielle was still a schoolgirl when they had their first hit single. That was before they formed the band, before they became music icons.

Please don’t laugh, it only encourages her, said Rand.

Okay, said Jake, still grinning. I’ll take a note of that.

Rielle scowled. I don’t like this goddamn waiting. Her booted foot kicked back and forth beneath the table, winking in and out of Jake’s eye line.

He refocussed on their faces. I was hoping to go over the tour bible, the show schematic and discuss how you like to run things. Would you like to wait for Jonas or make a start?

Rand said, Wait, at the same time as Rielle said, Start.

Jake said, So? and got exactly the same response, but this time brother and sister glared at each other. He laughed. It’s like you’re my sister and me. If she says black, I say white. This must be what Mum feels like being stuck in the middle.

Rand laughed quick and generous, but Rielle rolled her eyes, not amused. We start, she said.

Fifteen minutes later, a beaming Jonas Franklin joined them. Sorry I’m late, folks. I was checking out the town. So this was the famous producer. He looked more amused than sorry, more asleep than ready for a meeting. Was he drunk? Stoned?

What’s there to check out—it’s Adelaide for God’s sake. snapped Rielle.

Sorry, sorry, said Jonas, holding his palms up in surrender. I thought Australia was all laid back and groovy, you know—bloody hell, she’ll be right, no worries, crikey mate, Crocodile Dundee.

Oh yeah, Jonas was off his face. This was going to get interesting.

You’re high. Rielle stood quickly, her hip hitting the table edge making it bark loudly on the floor.

No, lovely one, just happy to see you, said Jonas. Can I get a coffee? They have coffee in Adelaide, don’t they? He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the cafe’s counter.

What are you on? Rielle demanded.

Sunshine and fresh air, my lovely.

Take your glasses off and look at me. She leaned across the table to get in close to Jonas. An attack dog in a tartan skirt. Jake didn’t want to have to be the one to muzzle her, but he liked the skirt—what there was of it, and what it didn’t cover.

Jonas pulled his glasses down his nose, revealing bloodshot eyes with pinhead pupils.

Rielle slapped her open hand on the table knocking the menus out of their plastic stand.

Rand groaned. Jonas, what were you thinking? This is not acceptable.

Go sleep it off, said Rielle, in a hard, gritty voice that made Jake super glad he wasn’t in her sights and absolutely determined to make sure it stayed that way. Here was the bitch of legend in full living colour with special spitfire effects.

She thumped back down in her seat and folded her arms as though trying to hug her anger close, oddly as though it hurt her to let it out. He had no time to let that thought ripen, Jonas was in his face.

You must be Jake. Welcome to the Mainline show. And yes that is their real fucking name. You’d think it was made up wouldn’t you? He’s too much of a nice guy and she’s too much of a bitch. If you’re smart, you’ll run a mile before she gets you hooked.

Words were still coming out of Jonas’s mouth when Rielle erupted, flinging a glass of ice water at him. Rand caught her hand before she could release the glass as well. Jonas, fuck off. We’ll talk later.

Jonas wiped his hand across his sodden face, pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and slowly rose from the table. Run Jake, run. He laughed, nodded to Rand, cut Rielle with a knife-like glance and left.

I’ll talk to him; I’ll sort this out. It won’t happen again, said Rand, as they watched Jonas weave across the cafe and through the doors.

He had a hand on Rielle’s shoulder. She pushed it off. Fucking right, it won’t. He does that again, he’s out. I don’t care how much of a genius he is. She turned to Jake, those violet eyes violating his relative calm. This wasn’t his first rock star tantrum. It wasn’t his first shouting match over creative differences. He’d sorted out set-ups and lock-downs and walkouts and everything in between but there was something about Rielle Mainline he found unsettling. That tight coil of anger with that edge of something else he couldn’t identify.

She cast her eyes over him, a top to bottom examination, the kind men did to women they were interested in, but with none of the trying not to get caught about it, or the barefaced hope the interest was reciprocated. She meant to be offensive. It should’ve made him cranky, but it did something to his temperature the shouting hadn’t. It lit the furnace, again.

Welcome to the show, she said.

4. Ground Control

Four days until show-time and Jonas Franklin was conspicuously absent—again.

All Jake’s stadium crew department heads were present for a pre-production meeting and he wasn’t prepared to waste time waiting

They had a stage to build, rehearsals to schedule and fifty thousand punters to please on one night, with a high octane performance that would include laser lights, a highwire trapeze and pyrotechnics, as well as a set design with two acrobat poles and a telescopic tower device called the Hand of God that would carry members of the band over the heads of the punters nearest the stage.

While the team settled in and a waitress took coffee orders, road manager Glen Ague turned to Jake. Two things, Reedy. Your bike is here and what’s the low down on the talent?

Ta Glen, where is she? The Triumph was Jake’s sanity on tour. For the smaller tours he had no choice but to leave her behind, but when a road train was involved, and if the stars aligned, Bonne