Getting Real

28. Intervention



Lying on his side, Rand watched Harry. Curled beside him, warm and soft, abandoned to her dreams. He dared not move in case he woke her. He wanted this moment to be a long-play track, to stretch heroically forever. After two nights, he couldn’t imagine not wanting to wake beside her. Not that either of them had slept much.

He’d only dozed and then woke with music in his head—creeping out of the rumpled sheets to scribble in the filtered light of early dawn. Something fresh and gentle, not Ice Queen style. Beautiful instead of punchy, lyrical instead of throbbing, older and wiser and full of secret intentions.

This thing with Harry was almost enough to make him believe in minor miracles. She had swum out of his near forgotten longings and punctured his sense of the future with new meaning. Now there was a choice. A life with Harry or a life without. A life without her was a black pit of despair—inconceivable that he should have to attempt to live it. A life with her needed her permission.

Until the day claimed her, he had every glorious possibility open to him, so he wanted her to rest, long and tender, while he fantasised his way through the building blocks of loving her.

He saw her smiling at him across a dinner table, home cooked food on the plates. He saw her working, coming home to him with stories of her day. He saw her opening presents on Christmas morning, and annoyed at him about spending too long in his studio. He saw her in his arms by firelight in winter, and splashing him in the sea in summer. He saw her in jeans and evening dresses and nothing at all. He saw her happy and sad, excited and quiet, delighted and angry, and he saw himself with her in every mood and motion. She was home.

But the longer she slept the more nervous he became. He climbed back into bed to be nearer her. What if she didn’t feel the same? What if this whole romance was a just a flash flood, out of nowhere, quick, deadly and done with, leaving him impossibly, inadequately prepared to go on alone?

He checked himself. His runaway passions and dire self predictions made for good song writing, but poor life management. If growing up with Rielle had taught him anything, it was that few situations were ever as bad or as complex as you thought they’d be, and there was always a way to make things better. He’d take whatever Harry would give him and make a life that worked.

While he watched her chest rise and fall with even breaths, and her eyelids twitch with the deep pull of sleep, his thoughts skipped to Rielle. It was a bad time to leave her alone. The closer they got to Sydney, the worse it was for her. Growing up had taught Rie life hurt and the only way you could survive it was to fight against it and pretend you didn’t care. The accident had made her into a warrior and him into a sage and both of them survivors and poets.

He’d almost dropped off to sleep himself when Harry made a breathy sigh and stretched. He was instantly awake. This was it. What would he see? He lay still and let her meet the morning. She rolled toward him, her face serious, a slight frown above her pale eyes. He felt his breathing kick up a pace, catch in his throat.

“We’re in big trouble,” she said softly.

“There’ll be a flight this morning.” He lurched for the simple explanation for her solemn expression, grasping at the obvious first.

She shook her tousled head, and he started a swift calculation of what he could do to make things better. He could back off a little, give her more space; he could let her call the shots; he could quit the band.

“No. We’re in big trouble because one of us might need to move house.”

He heard a choir in his head, a host of angels singing new anthems he’d write for them. To be sure it wasn’t just the early stages of tinnitus, he said, “Do you mean that?”

She wriggled into his arms, pressed her forehead on his. “Not to be melodramatic or anything, but if you leave me I’ll quit work and become your number one most scary, stalking groupie. I will follow you to the ends of the earth, or your last tour date, whichever comes first. I will simply force myself on you until you take pity on me and let me,” she faltered, “I don’t know, let me shine your guitars.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Like a prayer.”

He brushed her lips lightly. “You think we can do this thing together?”

“I think we can do anything we want together.”

“I won’t always be in this band; there’s other stuff I want to do.”

“And I want to keep my career going, but it’s a portable credential. I can move.”

“You move beautifully.”

“I think you had something to do with that.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around her and rolled her on top of him. “I think I did too. Did you like it?”

“I like everything about you Rand Mainline. I always have.”

I can live with ‘like’. I can make ‘like’ work. He said, “I loved you, Harry Young, when you were just a little smart, shy thing and I didn’t know what love was. I love you now you’re clever and worldly, and we both understand heartache. I’ll love you when you’re wrinkly and cranky too and, even when you wise up to me, take half my fortune and throw me out—I’ll still love you.”

“If I ever threw you out, Rie would put a contract out on me, so you’re safe from that one.”

He chuckled. “Rie would take you out herself.”

“I love you too, Rand.” He sucked in a breath and held it and she smoothed her hand across his brow. “I don’t understand how it’s happened, but I can’t be without you now.”

“Are you sure? Because if you’re not, it’s okay. I’ll just write lots of appalling crap about broken hearts for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sure then, because that would be a terrible waste of your talents.”

“I’m going to need reminding.”

She slid down his length so that she could plant kisses on his chest. “I’ll have it tattooed somewhere for you.”

He grinned, twitched under her searching tongue, his fingers carving into her hair, “You’ll need to find the right place.”

She said, “Mmhm,” between her nips and licks, and in his head the angel choir sang them home.

Rielle gave Stu a shove. “He’ll be here. When has he ever let us down?” Typical, Stu would be the one to complain.

“How about yesterday?” he drawled.

“Yesterday was fine. Totally optional for Rand and if you were so worried about me doing the interviews on my own you could’ve stepped in.”

“Not unless we wanted to build a reputation for the worst radio interview ever,” said Roley. That stopped the squabble, but earned Roley icy stares from both of them. He pantomimed surrender. “Sheesh, I’m just saying.”

Stu regarded Roley. “Always just doing something aren’t you.” He caught him in a headlock, resulting in a noisy scuffle in the hotel reception where they waited. He gave Roley’s gelled head a rub with his open palm, knotted his hair and released him suddenly, making him stagger backwards, almost smacking into Rand and Harry on their way in—hand in hand.

How saw it too and broke into song: Gaga, muscle trucks and stakes through the heart.

Rielle felt happiness flow over her like sunshine. Rand looked so pleased with himself. Harry looked so split between proud and embarrassed at the attention they were getting. The noise they’d made had half the staff and guests in the lobby clocking their antics, the singing made them the centre of attention.

“Thank you, Lady Gaga,” said Rand with a laugh.

How took an extravagant bow combining it with an Elvis Presley style “Thankyouverymuch.”

The next thing Rand said was, “Ooof,” when Rielle punched him in the solar plexus. Getting on Rand’s case was her job not Stu’s.

“That’s for leaving me with the media crap—twice.”

He straightened up and wheezed. “You do want me to be able to walk and talk for the broadcast right?”

She flipped him the bird. “I can live without it.”

Roley said, “Right, everything back to normal then.”


Seeing Rielle’s punch made Jake smile. After yesterday’s strained mood, she was back in rock diva mode and raring to go. She wore the tightest pair of blue jeans he’d ever seen, slung low on her hips with a studded belt. Getting into them must have required a contortionist’s skills, or oil, or both. The edge and straps of her red lace bra peaked out deliberately from her white fitted top which left a good portion of her concave belly on display. Her heels were dangerously high, her lips provocatively red. With sparks in her eyes and fire on her tongue, she damn near took his breath away.

He’d spent much of last night trying to solve the puzzle of Rielle. Trying to figure out his reaction to her. It was a shock to realise how harshly he’d judged her, how unfair he’d been about who she was and how she wanted the world to see her.

Okay, so she needed her armour. He understood that a little better now; it wasn’t just about her performance—it was about her life. Okay, so he’d caught her out in a lie, but she hadn’t been flaunting it. In fact she’d tried not to engage with him in the gym, especially the second time, when she knew who he was.

Off stage he had no right to question how she dressed, talked or behaved and he was ashamed to realise how harshly he’d judged her. But there was no going back either, their ‘thing’ whatever it was—a hot infatuation, a fantasy trip—was clearly over, too much real world had intervened.

Looking at her now laughing with Harry, her body an open invitation with raised lettering to sleepless nights of wondering what he might’ve done differently, Jake didn’t know if he could be her friend. He thought the cost of friendship with Rielle Mainline might be his sanity.