This time he was in control.
Jake could feel his heart clobbering his ribs, the combined effect of being in the Hand, of having Rielle in his arms, and the anticipation of appearing in front of seventy-five thousand screaming fans. What the fuck was he doing? But he had a lock on his fear, and while it was burrowing away at his consciousness, he was keeping it fastened down and out of his knees and hands, out of his head.
When the Hand of God rose above the pit, and the spotlight hit them, the crowd went ape. Jake released Rielle enough to allow her to sing the verse, but he kept her in his arms. And he concentrated on her. She was the centre of his new calm, the level horizon, the rational argument, the strength and reason that could beat his demon panic. Because she’d been doing that by herself since she was fourteen years old and she loved him.
When she stood, he stood with her, running his hands up her hips, over her ribs and coming to cup her breasts, pulling her back against his body and nuzzling her neck. The punters in the pit below them roared. Every man there wanted to be him and every woman Rielle.
How many times had she sung this song? How many times had she gone through this routine with Tef, Bunk and even Lizard? Not once had she reacted to their hands, been more aware of them than of her own breathing? But Jake knew he was making her feel him. She lost all sense of the performance and the crowd below and breathed into his hands, letting her head fall back against his arm and looking up at him.
She misplaced a word in the song, mumbled over it, then caught herself. He felt her chest expand under his hands as she sang the next line correctly, and in the beat between it and the next, he spun her around to face him. He had his legs planted wide apart making their height difference less obvious and he pulled her hips against his, arms around her waist.
If he looked out at the mosh pit he might not have made it through this, but when he looked at her, every wondrous, sexy, changeable and dangerous part of her, his paralysis was love not fear.
Under the intense heat of the spotlights, he felt her shiver and he threw back his head and howled her name.
He barely waited for her to sing the last word before he crushed her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss—bending her backwards, breathing his desire into her. When he straightened up and released her, he was aware of the swell of noise from the crowd and the look of wonder on her face. She leapt at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and they kissed again.
Poor Bodge wasn’t sure what to do for the second time that night. He should’ve had the cage moving before now, but because they were still standing—well he was—it was too dangerous. The crowd was going wild, and when the song ended Rand and Stu looked at each other for a clue on what to do next.
Rand said into his mic, “It’s in the Hand of God!” and the punters went crazy. Bodge reckoned half the stadium either had their tongue down someone’s throat or wished they did.
It wasn’t til Bodge came up the ladder to break them up that Jake really knew what day it was. If he didn’t let Rie go, she’d miss her cue. He could see Bodge looked kind of proud of him. It was very rock and roll.
That night Ice Queen played five encores. The final one being a new song Rand and Stu played impromptu, just for the hell of it. That made it three times in one night Bodge had to scramble. He had to send Tef, Liz and Bunk on stage to re-set gear. Not that punters cared if a few black shirts crawled around the set; all they cared about was not going home yet.
When the band took their last bows, Bodge sighed. He’d already said goodbye to Rielle when he fitted her mic and sound pack at the beginning of the show. He wasn’t ready when she came off stage and barrelled into his arms. She jumped and he caught her legs and she straddled his hips and looked him straight in the eye.
“You ever need work Bodge,