Getting Real

33. Score



Jake stood with Glen looking at the tangled wreck of a dropped lighting console. “Can you MacGyver that?” Glen said to Bodge.

On his hands and knees, Bodge grunted which was his way of saying, ‘Yes sir, right away sir, no problem sir’.

They were running behind on the set build, having battled typical Melbourne four-seasons-in-one-day weather that sent them a morning thunderstorm and stopped work for two hours. Now the sun blazed and it was steamy hot and in less than an hour the band was doing a site inspection. Jake wanted the construction crew off the stage as soon as possible, the show crew on in thirty minutes, and he wanted pigs to fly whistling the theme song to Game of Thrones as well.

Then the band showed up early. Friggin’ early. Sharon took them backstage.

“We’re not ready for a sound check.” Glen moaned, as roadies ran left and right of them, readying the stage with new urgency.

“I know, I know,” Jake said holding his arms out in supplication. “I’m sorry, I told them we had weather problems, but they were keen to get going. They’ve got another sponsor commitment tonight.”

“Not helping me, mate.”

“Okay, give me a job. All hands to the pump.”

That’s how he happened to be running cables, like the good old days, when the band appeared on stage.

“When’d you get demoted, Jake?” asked Stu.

He laughed. Stu had never mentioned the incident with the pool at Cherry, but he might’ve been getting a dig in now. Best to keep moving. “Step to your right mate, could you?” He shunted a power cable past.

He was around the back of stage, head and shoulders under an amp stack, attaching the cable to a booster when a voice said, “That’s how I like my men—at my feet.”

Thrill was a ripple of feeling up his spine and through his arms, like pins and needle pricks. He clicked the cable in place, tightened the screw and went to wriggle out when he realised Rielle was standing across his body, one leg either side of his hips. The more he wriggled, the more of her he could see: heeled ankle boots, smooth muscled legs, cut-off black denim shorts, a pierced belly button, defined abdominals, a really tiny red sleeveless t-shirt. Purple black lips suppressed a grin; eyes guarded by glittery lashes blinked at him.

He came to a stop when her feet were level with his chest. He ran his hands up her calf muscles, feeling them jump under his palms. He gripped behind her knees.

“You couldn’t take the heat last night,” she said, chin tucked in to look down at him.

“You know you can tease a man too much, Rielle.” He jerked her knees towards him, tipping her weight backwards, forcing her to sit down hard across his hips.

She gave a surprised, “Oh,” and planted her hands on his chest as her feet slid back and her knees hit the floor.

“And when you tease a man too much, you might not like what happens,” he finished, eyeballing her. Under her makeup she flushed pink. She tried to scramble to her feet but he caught her hips and held her in place. “This is how I like my women.”

Her eyes flared and she stopped struggling immediately, quick to realise the position he’d gotten her in and exactly how much he was enjoying her shifting about.

“Now who can’t take the heat?” He laughed. And as abruptly as he’d tipped her over, he let her go. That round goes to me. Three-one. Now we’re getting somewhere.

He expected her to spring to her feet; a slap or a kick wasn’t out of the question either. Instead she rocked her pelvis forward, grinding in to him, lay down over his chest, and whispered in his ear, “Say that to me when we’re alone and naked. Then let’s see what happens.” Before he could react, she sprang to her feet and was gone.

Now it was his turn to flush as heat coursed through his body. He lay on the floor with no will to get up until his heart stopped auditioning for its own drum solo. To be fair, point to Rielle. That makes it three-two.

By the time he got back to the main stage area, the band was ready for sound check. Bodge tossed him a radio mic. “You still on the job?” He nodded, so Bodge said, “Go mic Rielle.”

He found her testing the climbing rig on the Hand. She saw him coming and completed her climb, setting him up to chase her. She stood in the open cage and baited him. “You want me, Jake?” She gave him a face all innocent and fresh, but her voice was all “Come f*ck me and hurry up about it”.

“Yeah.” He tried not to let the word carry extra meaning. Epic fail. It was one syllable and still he could hear the longing in it. Pretending he didn’t want to chase her down was like fish without the chips; half a meal, totally unsatisfactory.

He could’ve won a lot of money on predicting her next line. She planted her hands on her hips and said, “Then you better come get me.”

He groaned, put his hand on the first rung of the climbing rig and looked up at her. Without knowing it she had point to me written on her face. He took a deep breath, steadied his focus and hoisted himself up. The Hand was folded shut. He knew it wasn’t active so it wasn’t going anywhere, and that helped a lot. He looked up again to see her surprised grin and five seconds later was in the cage with her.

He said, “Four-two,” and let go of the railing.

“What?”

“I’m keeping score. I’m four, you’re two.”

“Score of what? Wait, I’m losing?”

“Sure are, baby.” He spun her around and clipped the battery pack to her shorts. Then he ran his hand up her back, under her shirt, threading the mic cords from the battery pack to her earpiece.

Rielle shivered as his knuckles grazed up her spine, flicking over her bra strap.

When he leant into her and said, “Done,” in her ear, she spun around to face him.

“Taken any Zanect today, Jake?”

He smiled, “Nope.” She looked puzzled, definitely a point to him. Maybe even a bonus point for difficulty. The thought made him laugh as he grabbed the railing to start his descent.

She stepped up close behind him. “My turn.” She fanned her palms over his mid back and up to his shoulders where she tucked her fingers into the neck of his t-shirt and pressed her body against his. There was no suppressing his groan of delight.

From the ground where he was micing Ceedee, Teflon watched Jake. When Ceedee moved off, he elbowed Lizard and jerked his chin up to indicate the Hand. “How long’s that been going on?”

“F*cked if I know,” said Lizard, mouth dropping open as he stared up at Rielle and Jake.

“What are we looking at? Aw, what the f*ck?” said Bodge joining them. “How long’s that been going on?”

“Yeah, that’s what we wanna know,” said Teflon.

The three of them watched as Jake turned back to face Rielle. She pulled a thread on the shoulder seam of his t-shirt and it unravelled, opening a flap in the cotton at his neck. They watched as she stood on tiptoe and dropped a kiss on the skin revealed under the torn shirt and Jake’s head tipped back as she nuzzled close.

“Geez, get a room,” said Lizard.

“I’m too old to watch this,” growled Bodge. But he kept watching.

“I’m not,” said Teflon, “bring it on!”

They were still watching when Jake jumped the last few steps to the stage floor, “What?” He walked towards them, knowing full well he’d been sprung.

“You gettin’ a bit, Reedy?” asked Lizard.

Jake was trying to fold the torn neckline of the shirt to stop it flapping, but gave up. “Cheap tour shirt,” he said, ignoring Lizard and the whole issue until Bodge clapped a big hand on his shoulder, and gave the loose cotton flap a tug, widening the hole.

“You be good to that girl, Reedy, or you’ll be worried about more than a torn shirt.”

Lizard stepped up, grabbed the shirt flap, pulled, and over the sound of ripping cotton said, “Yeah, what Bodge said.”

“Hey!” Jake tucked his chin down. The rip in the cotton opened the t-shirt to his mid-chest.

“Ah Reedy mate, the quality of the roadies on this tour, all arse, no class,” said Teflon, holding up his hands, shaking his head, aiming to give off a superior air. He went to walk past Jake, but at the last moment spun back, grabbed his shirt front and tore the rip wider.

“Shit!” His shirt almost in two halves now and most of the cast and crew were laughing at him.

Glen called out, “Jake, that’s a safety hazard mate. You wanna work on my crew, you can’t be wearing that. Next thing you know it’ll get caught on something and strangle you.”

“What the f*ck, Glen?” He laughed.

“You heard me mate. You’re a safety hazard.” Glen scratched his head, looked about furtively, as though hoping to avoid being overheard. “Our tour manager is a bit of a bastard, runs a tight ship here. He sees you looking like that, he’ll take me off his Christmas card list.”

“Yeah, you don’t want Reedy to see you like that mate,” Bodge chuckled.

“Ah, everyone’s after an Academy Award.” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“They’re right. I know that tour manager. He’s f*cking Godzilla,” said Rielle, coming up beside Glen.

Jake gaped at them, noting Glen’s smirk and the challenge in Rielle’s eyes. He put a hand to the base of the tear and completed the rip, shrugging the shirt off and tucking it into the back of his jeans.

“That do you?” He jerked his chin up defiantly, opening his arms crucifix wide and turning in a slow circle as the cast and crew cheered and whistled.

When he completed his circuit and was facing Rielle again, he said, “Five-three,” punctuating the score by holding up his open palm and then folding his thumb and index finger down. She shook her head at him before turning to Glen. “I like the new crew uniform, but it seems not everyone got the memo.”

“I got it,” yelled Lizard. He stripped off his shirt, dropping into a body builder pose, arms curled towards his body to show off the wall of his chest and his tattoo sleeves.

Teflon followed, dropping his shirt, lifting his arms to his sides and flexing his biceps. Bunk was next, folding his arms behind his head, his impressive abs drawing a coo from Ceedee.

“Shit,” said Glen, caught by his own game, pulling off his shirt and flinging it at Jake.

“I’m in,” called Roley. He and How dumped their shirts in a puddle at their feet, both striking matching side-chest poses, one leg bent at the knee, balanced on the toe, twisting sideways, hands clasped to pop their pecs. Laughing, Rand and Stu followed and one by one every man on the stage doffed his shirt, except Bodge who’d taken the opportunity to slip back into the wings.

“One in, all in, where’s Bodge?” said Glen, and the chant, “Bodge, Bodge, Bodge,” went up.

Dragged out of the wings by a shirtless Bunk, the only man physically capable of making Bodge do something he didn’t want to, Bodge was protesting loudly, “I’m too old, I’m too fat. I’m not doin’ it!”

The crew were cheering and Jake was laughing so hard Glen was virtually holding him up. Or maybe he was holding Glen up. Bodge had mentored both of them over the years. Generous with his knowledge, quick with a smack to the back of the head if they screwed up and forever falling in lust with the female talent—though he’d have flipped a switch if they ever returned the favour. Seeing him discomforted now was payback for many a trick he’d played on both of them.

Above the hisses and boos Rielle called, “Do it for me, Bodge!” She sauntered up to him and put her hands on his chest.

Bodge blushed. “Aw no, Rie. No one wants to see me without a flamin’ shirt on.”

She said, “I do,” running her hands down his body, and lifting the edge of his shirt.

He pushed her hands away. “Nah Rie, don’t.”

“Will you do it for a kiss?”

That brought a round of “Wooo,” from the expectant crew. Bodge looked around, glared at the group, silencing them with his gruff expression as only he could.

Jake figured it was all over. He’d liked that hot look he copped from Rielle, he’d felt it in the soles of his feet, and he’d heard her whistling and calling his name. He’d like to hear her do that again, but without the spectators and while he had his hands on her. But right now he needed to scrounge a new shirt from somewhere.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden loud roar of a wounded mythological beast. He looked up to see Bodge drag off his shirt, slap it on the ground, and thump his chest, warbling King Kong style.

The chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss,” was airborne only seconds before Rielle herself. She jumped straddling Bodge’s ample hips. The big man, red faced and wheezing with laughter, caught and held her as she kissed his cheek.

Now the fun was over.

“All right,” yelled Glen, clapping his hands. “We’ve got a show to prep.” He glanced at Jake. “Shirts optional, but everyone back to work.”

As the crew returned to the jobs they’d been doing, Rielle appeared at his side. She was all eyes. All over his chest. Wasn’t that something.

“I’m three, you’re five?”

He breathed deeply. God why weren’t they alone. “Yep. You gonna look at me when you talk to me?”

“Oh, I’m looking. You got a point for the shirt stunt, right?” He nodded, but she was using magic heat ray eyes to make his stomach tighten, to make him feel x-rated. It was distracting. It was f*cking great. “So I’m still losing?”

“Yep.” He put a finger under her chin and lifted her head. He wanted to see what was in her eyes as well as feel it.

She put innocence and mild outrage into saying, “But I don’t understand the game.” And her expression—Jesus, it wasn’t fit for public consumption, it was closed doors, it was lights out, it was sure bliss.

He dropped his hand, allowing it to travel in the air along the length of her body, not touching but threatening, until it reached his side. “Girl, you invented the game.”

She inclined her head, her eyes looked like liquid velvet. “Okay, but I don’t like losing.”

There’d be other eyes on them, but he didn’t care. He stepped closer, so her breath flowed in a warm whisper over his chest. “Neither do I and you already know my terms for surrender.”

“Will you give me a chance to even the score?”

He wanted to touch her. He wanted her to keep looking at him like he was the sun she revolved around. “Maybe.”

“A gentleman would.”

He scoffed. “Since when have you ever been interested in gentlemen?”

He got the flirtatious eyelash fluttering of an actress but a quiet response. “Since I met you.” She slid her hand into his; it felt like she was touching him all over. “Tonight?”

He wanted to break character and say, “What? Are you really interested in me?” but he sensed she was still joking. Well that’s what the game was about after all. “You have a sponsor’s dinner function.”

“Rand owes me one. My turn to jig.”

He grinned. If she wanted to earn points, who was he to stop her? “What do you want to do?”

“I want to go for a ride, Jake. Are you up for that?”

She was the ultimate ride, like one of those fun park roller coasters that aim to frighten you to death by twisting your gut in loops. He brought her hand to his lips, as a gentleman might, and said as a scoundrel would, “I’ll let you know,” and left her dangling.