Getting Real

32. Kiss or Kill



In theory, Jake could’ve legitimately avoided attending the video shoot. The staging trucks were due in so he had other demands to deal with. He had exercises to do from the behavioural therapist as well, but feeling the absence of Jonas, Rand wanted him along for moral support and he couldn’t turn the guy down.

In practice, this atmospheric back alley in St Kilda was the last place he wanted to be. If Rielle came anywhere near him he was liable to kiss or kill her and there wasn’t much of a gap between those contrary feelings. She’d characteristically stormed off after their last confrontation, though she’d only beaten him to that punch-line by seconds. Whatever this madness was, it certainly wasn’t over. She was infuriating. She was stubborn, hard headed, outrageous and wondrous beyond words.

He figured by the end of the night, he’d either be holding her with impure intentions or strangling her with out of control passion. Fighting off going too fast at the mere touch of her or arrested for manslaughter. Either seemed a reasonable end to it. Meanwhile he was miserable, congested with feelings he didn’t know how to clarify.

She was dressed in a barely-there outfit that looked like a collection of bandages with far more of her uncovered than covered. It was a costume she wore in the show as well. They’d shot half a dozen different takes of the song with three costume changes and this strappy little number was the last of them.

If he’d have been concentrating, Jake could have made sense of it all: the repeated takes, the jump cuts and the sections identified for clips from Harry’s footage. But sitting on an upturned milk crate behind the camera crew, he was stewing instead.

Every move Rielle made felt like she was playing for his audience of one. Her eyes were locked on his, her focus absolute. She teased him, seduced and romanced only him. The other twenty or so people operating cameras or lights, running security or managing wardrobe, hair and makeup—including two stills photographers, a publicist and Harry—might well have been dust.

His body felt overheated, his palms sweaty. There was an ache in the back of his jaw from clenching his teeth to stop from simply marching across the set, stripping the stupid bandages off her, and taking her then and there in front of everyone. If he didn’t get to her first, she was going to do him in, make an internal organ explode. He had visions of her standing over him half-naked and laughing as he bled out. There was no God and she was Satan.

When Jake sat behind the main camera, Rielle laughed. She owned him now. He was a goner. If he’d sat almost anywhere else it would have been harder. She’d have had to ignore him to watch the camera’s red light instead. Maybe he’d done it without thinking; maybe he’d done it on purpose. But it gave her all she needed to make sure he was aware of what he was missing out on. He couldn’t have all of her but he could have this and this was at least seventy percent pure Rielle Mainline. She was the performance and she was going to make him love her on her terms.

The way he was looking at her now though, like he might be capable of eating her uncooked with a spoon, was a little distracting. She’d had to ask Martin twice about the next part of the shoot and Rand, who’d figured out what was going on, was shaking his head at her.

“It’s like watching a dog gnaw on a bone, Rie. You’re not giving him room to breathe. You’re going to turn him inside out if you keep this up.”

“Well, he asked for it.”

“Just don’t break him. I like him and we need him.”

Martin said, “When you’re ready, guys.” They took their places to run the sequence again.

While the camera operator was making an equipment adjustment, Rielle saw Harry clue Jake in. Hah, no! He dropped his head in his hands, but then took himself out of her sightline. She spun around to follow him, turning sideways to the camera, only to have Martin say, “Rielle, something wrong?”

She said, “No, Martin.” Except she could no longer see the object of her prey. “Everything is wonderful.”

So wonderful she mucked up that take. She went left instead of right and smacked into Stu. Stu went, “Whoa!”

She said, “Argh. Sorry.”

Martin said, “Take it again.”

She looked over her shoulder to see Jake laughing at her. He was leaning his back against a rough brick wall, one booted foot crossed over the other, his arms folded. He was so casual, so unaffected, so utterly unaware of what his nice boy-next-door shtick did to her. Made her want to get him good and dirty, sweaty and messy. But he wasn’t that wily, he’d needed Harry to tell him which way was up. Harry who was sitting there, looking smug, enjoying every minute of this.

The band repositioned themselves for another take and this time Rielle turned the right way. But the movement brought her around to face Jake for a split second, and when she caught the look on his face—smug, arrogantly teasing—she stumbled.

“Shit! Sorry!”

“Don’t worry, go again,” called Martin.

They re-grouped, and crossing past her to take his place, Rand smirked. “Something got you rattled?” She flicked his nose making him flinch but his laugher was loud and infectious, some of the crew catching and echoing it.

On the third attempt, she turned the correct way, completed the movement without stumbling and then promptly sang the wrong words. The set exploded into laughter. “Aw, f*ck!” she yelled, stamping her feet. She swung around to Jake and glared at him, hands thrust on her hips. She tried to look annoyed but he was on to her game now and had her in check, making her unaccountably nervous with his cool, detached appraisal.

Martin said, “Is something distracting you?”

“Yeah. He is. I was fine when he was sitting over there,” she pointed to the abandoned milk crate, “but now that he’s there,” she pointed directly at Jake and pouted, “he’s putting me off.”

“You go back to where she wants you right now,” Martin said, waving a hand at Jake as though shooing an annoying insect.

The band and the crew shuffled about while Jake, head down, went back to his milk crate seat beside Harry.

Crossing past Rielle to take his place again, Rand elbowed her. “You break him, you pay.”

She said, “What if he breaks me?”

Rand said, “I’d pay,” and earned himself a stinging smack on the arm.

Now Rielle was back in control. She had Jake where she wanted him again and she was determined to make him squirm. She blocked out the screams of the fans barricaded at the end of the alley and the traffic noises behind them. She closed off her vision of crew moving around and band members beside her. She narrowed her focus to seducing him. She looked past the camera and into Jake. This man she’d once come close to despising for being weak and out of control, who’d stood up to her, shown his strength and capability—his inner Godzilla—so many times. Who didn’t apologise for who he was, and wanted to know all of her.

He’d worked a little hole though the steel plating she kept between herself and the world. He’d touched her like no one else ever had. He’d battled with her intellect and tangled with her heart, and there was this indefinable thing they had: an itch that couldn’t be scratched out, a flare that burned her skin, a rolling in her stomach, a pinch in her brain.

Rielle Mainline had long ago taught herself to go after what she wanted and now what she wanted was Jake Reed.

Jake wondered whether it might be possible for a grown man to simply combust, burn up on the spot like a Phoenix, crumble to ash, and then rise up and do the whole thing again. Because as long as Rielle was standing there looking at him like that, he was kindling put to the match.

According to Harry they were one-all in this battle of senses. One-all and he was already all in. But there was no backing away from whatever this was now. Bring on the ash.

When Martin called a stop to re-align lighting and the band members moved about, Rand and Stu strolled over to the fans at the barricade, making the screaming lift a few decibels as they approached. Ceedee sat to have her makeup touched up, and Roley and How sculled water. Jake strode out from behind the camera to confront Rielle.

“What are you trying to do?”

“It’s called making a music video, Jake.”

He stood toe to toe with her, crowding her, predatory. “You’re doing more than that.”

Rielle held her ground, shifted her weight to her hip, brushing his chest with her shoulder. “If you know what I’m doing, why are you asking me?”

“I just want to be sure I’m reading you right.”

“Well, what are you reading?” She tucked her fingers between the buttons of his shirt, skimming his abs, just above his belt and the breath shot out of him in a hard thrust, but he said, as calmly as he could muster, “I’m reading memory lapse on your part.”

“Memory lapse!” She balled his shirt in her fist, pulling her body into his.

He brought his face down close, angling his cheek against hers, a fraction off touching. “You seem to think I’m going to forget what happened last time. I don’t just want your body, Rie. I’m wondering if that’s all you’re offering?”

Now her breath stuttered. “You won’t know til you try.”

He turned his head to whisper in her ear. “I won’t try til I know.”

“You play too safe, Jake. Aren’t I worth the risk?”

God yes! She was. Just to feel the silk of her skin moving on his was worth more than he could say, but he couldn’t face it if she shut down on him again. “I need to know if you’re in this all the way.”

She put her hands on his waist and pressed her body against his. “You’ll enjoy the ride while it lasts. I don’t think you’ll want a refund.”

He could tear her net costume off with one hand. He could toss her over his shoulder with the other. He didn’t think she’d mind. They could be somewhere private in fifteen minutes. Hell, who needed private? He looked into her violet eyes, put his flattened palm against her cheek. “All the way.”

She dropped her eyes and in that moment he knew it was still a game to her. He was simply another obstacle for her to conquer, like any other fear she had. Hearing her sobbing from the corridor outside her room that night had torn him up enough; but knowing she was reacting to him as a problem to face, a challenge to overcome was somehow worse.

He breathed her in, cosmetics, shampoo and something of the night and its dark atmosphere—mystery and revelation, secrets and lies. He kissed her softly, far more softly than their words—a kiss with no agenda. Probably not what she’d expected. She’d have wanted to taste passion but he gave her goodbye.

Her eyes flicked open when she caught the taste. She murmured, “No,” and caught his bottom lip with her teeth, bit down, not to hurt but to warn she wasn’t letting him go. He broke away laughing. He should’ve known she wouldn’t make it easy. Kiss not kill, but two sides of one coin. But she wasn’t going to get to call all the shots. He’d surprised her. They weren’t done yet and that was a point to him. Two-one.

By the drum kit, How absently tossed and caught his sticks. He said to Roley, “Did you know about that?”

“F*ck, no,” said Roley incredulously, his eyes fixed on Rielle and Jake.

“Reckon we should warn him off?”

“F*ck, no.”

“But he’s a nice guy; she’ll mash him up.”

“Nah, look at him, he’s got her number. We might actually get to see the day the Ice Queen melts.”