41
Ruby
“I am not goingto one of your bullshit awards ceremonies,” I inform Jem as I pull my boots on.
He laughs at me as I search around for my leather jacket. “Ruby Riot will attend them one day, best get used to the situation.”
“Screw that. I’m already over all the ‘Jem Jones’s girlfriend’ crap and the insinuation I’m screwing you to get a recording contract.”
The man who completes me sits on the bottom stair in his house, watching with increasing amusement. “Now, now, everyone in the industry knows that’s bullshit—don’t get all high and mighty.”
“Plus, the press don’t like the foul-mouthed rock chick who throws things at them.”
He chuckles. “I’ll keep anything away from you that could be used as a projectile missile. I’m not paying another photographer for minor head injuries from flying phones.”
I switch tactics and pull an exaggerated pout. “Jem, please…”
“Nope. You’re coming with me.”
Sulkily, I stomp out of the house with Jem following, as we head to our favourite coffee haunt. The autumn sun hovers behind clouds and the chill of the air heralds winter. Winter. That means we’ve only a few months until the tour.
“Naw, c’mon, stop sulking.” Jem slides a hand around my shoulder and kisses me fiercely on the head, his hair brushing my cheek. “I want the world to see us—the changed Jem Jones and the foul-mouthed rock chick who kicked his backside into line.”
I humph but smile as he traces a heart shape across the back of my hand. We still won’t say the words, as if what we have is greater than everyone else’s. Ours is honest and open, scary but getting easier. Jem slides his hand into mine and squeezes, the simple gesture flooding calm over my growing anxiety. Two months ago, we took our lives, shook them up, and watched as the pieces settled into a crazy, mixed-up Jem and Ruby world. What other place could we live in?
“Fine, I’ll go, but I don’t think I fit in with the other Blue Phoenix girlfriends.”
“Talk to Bryn’s,” he suggests.
Huh? “He doesn’t have one, does he?”
“Exactly. So you won’t be able to piss her off.” Jem smirks.
I smack his arm. “Ha fucking ha.”
* * *
Jem neglectedto tell me the awards ceremony is in Germany, which doubly pisses me off. Bad enough when English-speaking paparazzi mob me, now I don’t understand what these ones say to me. The press seem to understand the English swear words I throw at them though.
My sulking intensifies when a Blue Phoenix PR girl suggests I dress up, indicating an up-and-coming designer will pay me for kitting myself out in their creation. I pretend to comply by accepting a dress, and then deliberately leave the expensive item on the bed in Jem’s house.
Hence, I’m sitting around a table, in the star-studded venue amongst the overdressed in my black dress covered in skulls and unicorns. Jem comments that at least I match his black shirt even if I do fail at looking like a normal person. I stomp on his foot with the heel of my matching green and black shoes.
“No, look, I put a sparkly clip in my hair,” I say as he pours me a glass of water.
“Right. A sparkly skull shaped clip.”
Jem in a suit amuses me—the PR girl’s magic works better on him. I don’t normally go for men in suits, but I can look forward to removing his designer clothes later. Jem already removed the jacket and hung it over the back of the dining chair. Yes, I’m definitely unbuttoning his shirt and getting my hands on the taut muscles barely hidden by the cut of his shirt as soon as I can.
Jem spots my scrutiny and arches an eyebrow. When I smile, he bends closer and kisses my cheek. I run a hand along his arm, hoping his stressed aura over the last few days is about coming to the ceremonies he dislikes—and nothing to do with us.
A woman—an actress I vaguely recognise—sashays past our table. Perfectly primped in a sparkling silver designer dress I can only describe as unique, her disdain for me is obvious. I lift my glass in a toast and she looks away.
Liam and his fiancée, Cerys, sit across the white-clothed table. I haven’t seen them since they came to a Ruby Riot gig a few months back, and they’re a nausea-inducing, lovey-dovey, holding hands under the table couple.
Cerys also missed the designer clothes trap, opting for a simple black dress and an inexpensive-looking necklace with a heart-shaped pendant. Liam rests an arm across Cerys’s shoulders, as he rubs her neck with his thumb. She’s what I’d call down-to-earth—not the kind of girl I’d imagine falling in love with a longhaired rocker. But what do I know? Nothing about these people; Jem barely discusses them.
Despite the fact Jem forced me to attend, his shoulders are stiff and fingers tapping on the table. He doesn’t want to be here either. Why make us attend?