In the midst of her own insecurity about the performance, she’d seen him standing there, so solid and secure and she’d wanted to be with him, right then, right in the middle of it all with thousands of people screaming for her. It made no sense. This tour was ripping her apart and with no logic, she’d reached for a man who was frightened of what she did and rejected who she was. Jake frowned, his eyes narrowed. His mouth was a rigid line. Ah shit. She couldn’t have Jake hating her tonight as well as Rand. She folded one arm across his knees and put her forehead on her arm to avoid his hard stare.
He shifted in discomfort. “A brain snap.” He slid out from under her arm and patted the space beside him. All she was doing was making him more uncomfortable. She got up and sat on the couch, shoulder to shoulder with him. There was nowhere else to sit. They were silent, awkward, too close, arms, hips and thighs touching. She was cold, but heat came off him in waves.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you.” Her voice came out weak, soft like a child’s.
“Felt like it. I don’t have to tell you how bad it was for the show.”
She dropped her head. “I’m a complete fuck up. I’m making a hash of everything. Rand is furious with me. You hate me,” her voice cracked, “and I I’ve hurt my hand.”
“Show me. That’s why I’m here.”
She gasped. “Not to flay the skin off me?”
He quirked a shoulder and an eyebrow in concert, in agreement, in denial, who knew. He was giving nothing away, but reached for her hand and had her make a fist. The top of her knuckles were split and bruised blue, her hand felt stiff and tight, but she could move her fingers.
“I want to take you for an X-ray.”
“I don’t think it’s broken.” Not her hand anyway. The rest of her was broken so long ago she barely knew how to live anymore, and all of that hurt was so fresh, so present because she was back under the blue Australian skies.
“I want to be sure.”
She looked at him and instead of rage saw something else, resignation, comprehension? But there was only so much Jake could understand and nothing he could fix.
“I don’t hate you, Rie.” He folded his fingers through hers.
She looked down at their hands. Was he testing her injury or something else? He’d shortened her name. He didn’t let go. He was forgiving her and it was too much. “After what I just did, with no good reason?” She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “You’re a candidate for canonisation.”
“You must have had a reason. Is Bunk making you uncomfortable?” She shook her head. She couldn’t talk about her reason. Though perhaps Jake was the only one in the world who could understand what panic could make you do. She dropped her head down on his shoulder, said in a miserable little voice, so unlike the power she had on stage, “I think you’re growing on me.”
He kinked his neck to look at her face. “What like a fungus?”
“No, like for real.”
He swivelled and took her shoulders in his hands, surprise rang in his voice. “What? You think I’m weak as piss and you just proved it again tonight in front of fifty thousand witnesses.”
“I—”
“God, Rie. I’m not sure it’s possible to shock a phobia out of someone but if anyone can do it you can.”
She looked in his eyes, so remote earlier, but now she saw he was amused. He’d forgiven her enough to laugh at her. She had another brain snap. She put her open palm on his cheek, leaned into him and kissed him.
He made a surprised, “haah,” under her lips and then hissed when her tongue touched his.
“Yeah,” she whispered, “you’re growing on me.” She kissed him again, this time less tentatively, opening her mouth to his.
He resisted until he didn’t. Until he kissed her back, until he cupped the back of her head and held her to him. He tasted of coffee and mints and safety and escape. And she wanted that so badly. She moved over his lap and he shifted to let her straddle his thighs, his hands now on her back, sliding on the silk of her robe. Her hands were on his chest, pressing, holding, hanging on to the solid reality of