? 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 fuck, 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 fucking 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.