24
Ruby
A weekof looking over my shoulder, but Dan hasn’t reappeared. Every day I expect to see him at work or at the house but he never comes. Instead, Dan sends texts, taunting me with clever hints that he’s watching me, telling me where he’s seen me each day. Dan’s threats and my fear are enough to maintain some kind of control. Has he decided that’s enough for now?
Shuffling shifts around to fit in with recording this week means I finish later and leave work at dusk. Jax knows the situation and insists he’ll meet me after work and take me home. I want to tell him not to but a small doubt niggles. No, if Dan backed off again, I’m sure I’ll be okay. Psychological fear was Dan’s favourite weapon and he knows how effective it is on me.
I don’t want to think about Dan. He’s the past and today I’m one step closer to my future. Another piece of my dreams just became reality: Ruby Riot is in a recording studio. My impression of recording studios comes from movies and this one is nothing like I imagined. It’s bigger and the technology beyond my understanding. Nothing like the little place we hired to get a couple of tracks to upload to YouTube.
The large mixing desk dominates the room and the sound engineer runs through something on a laptop screen. Will and Nate have settled themselves onto a nearby sofa taking selfies and uploading to Instagram. Our pages have a big following since the tour and their constant updates recently make us masters of spam.
“Don’t forget to get Jax in a shot,” I say, indicating the lusted after guitarist tuning his guitar. His blonde hair has grown, falling into his face. I’m relieved that his confessions haven’t changed our relationship, but if I were at all interested in this guy, I’d need to fight off other girls who want a piece of him too. Judging by his popularity on tour, they’ll form an orderly queue for Jax next time.
I don’t notice Jem appear as I absentmindedly compare Jax to other guys, but when I do see him, the reason I’m not interested in Jax becomes abundantly clear. The moment we look at each other, my heart skips into my mouth and I realise exactly how much I’ve missed him. Jem returns my look, eyes expressing the reality of what we are. This isn’t just about clumsy attempts to deny physical attraction; our similarities slowly bind us.
Why does he have to be Jem Jones?
He tears his gaze from mine and greets everyone in his typically gruff fashion, ensuring no special welcome for me. My stupid heart retreats back to my chest.
We spend half the morning working through the ins and outs of the studio, what we’re planning, and a couple of practice tracks. Jem’s different than on tour last month, looser than he was when I stayed with him. I haven’t seen him for almost three weeks and as Jem sends a text, I surreptitiously study him. He’s bulked up a little too and lost the edge of skinniness that in his wiry frame. Aware of my scrutiny, Jem looks up, eyes shining. Has somebody rather than something breathed life back into him?
We break for lunch and this includes beer for the boys. I despair at their continued lack of thought about Jem’s situation and mutter something to them before walking away. Jem sits next to me, sinking into the brown sofa, and opens a bottle of water.
“It’s okay, Ruby. I don’t mind. Just because I’m dry, doesn’t mean I expect everyone else to be,” says Jem.
“I think it’s fucking rude. Dickheads.”
Jem snorts. “You and your mouth.” I don’t miss his lingering look at the mouth he’s talking about. “How’s things?”
“Yeah.” I can’t say good; Dan ensured of that. “How’s things with you?”
“Better. But you’re not.” He drinks. “You’ve lost weight again.”
“Checking me out already?”
He sighs. “No, Ruby. Don’t start getting bitchy with me. What’s going on? Is it Dan?”
I slide a look to my bitten fingernails. “I’m fine.”
“Your singing is shit when you’re stressed,” he remarks. “No point paying for studio time if you’re not up to par.”
I jerk my head back up and fight against launching into an unhelpful string of expletives. Of course, Jem’s concern isn’t for my welfare. I told him not to care about me, so what do I expect?
“I’m tired. Tomorrow will be better.”
“Where are you living?”
“I moved in with a couple of girls. Students.”
He tips his head to the guys. “Not them?”
“Not Jax.”
I can’t fathom the look Jem gives me. We’re not close enough to touch accidentally, but the hyper-awareness of the proximity is intensified by the memory of the night his mouth all but touched mine.
“As long as you’re not with Dan,” he says quietly and stands.
When Jem walks away, I’m pissed off by the limit of his attention. Almost-trysts in hotel rooms on tour mean nothing to him; I’m long forgotten and back to being part of his project.