35
Jem
Ruby’slight shines through the broken glass of my world creating rainbows and filling my life with colour. What worries me is rainbows are illusions and when the darkness returns they disappear.
We’re closer but the barriers are still there; me and Ruby don’t talk about emotions or share ourselves outside of the physical intimacy. Not that we’re hiding who we are in public, there’s no way I can avoid touching Ruby’s skin or stealing a kiss if I need a kick-start away from the darkness.
A week passed since she gave herself to and trusted me, and believed I had no expectations. We joke about the fact we’ve dealt with this and moved on, but Ruby spends the next two days in and out of my bed. I tell myself sex without drugs makes the experience different with Ruby—the physical intensity of every sense operating at full capacity is the drug. Gradually, I realise I’m lying to myself. Ruby who makes everything different.
I crave Ruby more than anything in my life before, her presence a blinding light pouring into the shadows I’m surrounded by. I need her to stay, to never take her radiance away or leave me lost in the dark again.
But I can’t fall in love with Ruby.
I don’t love.
We return to everyday life, back to the studio and moving Ruby’s life in the direction she spoke about: forward. The first time I slid an arm around Ruby’s waist and kissed her cheek, the horror on Jax’s face was unmistakable. I don’t care what he says; Jax wants Ruby. They share a bond through the band and the music they create together.
Ruby’s adamant she never considered Jax in a romantic way, but I knowhedoes. Jax spoke to her about us the first day I touched her in public, throwing glances at me as they had a heated conversation in the sound booth.
From the look of her hand gestures, Ruby gave him a mouthful of unpleasant words.
The Ruby who lives in my house, who exists in my space, is a milder version of her public persona. I get that; I’ve behaved the same for years. As soon as you show people the slightest hint of vulnerability they poke until a hole opens up that lets out more than you want, and in turn lets in too much. Only because Ruby has vulnerabilities of her own can I let my guard down a little. Our unspoken agreement not to push each other into revealing any more of our hidden thoughts works. For now.
Inevitably, I fuck this up.
Since returning from the States, I lost myself in Ruby Riot and then Ruby. I forgot loose arrangements I’d made, missed a meeting with a pissed-off Liam, and didn’t notice today’s date until it arrived. And until Kristie arrived.
I’m in bed and Ruby answers the front door. A few minutes later, Ruby comes into the room with pink cheeks. She’s dressed in my T-shirt, always pulls one off the floor the morning after a night in my bed, and walks around in the shirt and her panties for half the day, which is bloody distracting.
“You have a visitor,” she says coolly.
“Bryn?”
“Kristie.”
I sit and pull back hair from my face. “Crap. Okay. I’d forgotten she’s coming over today.”
Ruby stares wide-eyed for a moment, then her face straightens into her neutral, closed-down expression. “I told her you would be down in a minute.”
“‘kay.”
Shit.
Kristie Dawson is a friend from years back. She’s older than me, widow of Sam Rayne, the front man of Easy Ride, a band as big as Phoenix in the ‘90s. Kristie now has her own band, proving she had talent. She had to fight against accusations she only got a recording contract by riding the coat tails of her husband’s fame.
When I visited LA last month, we hooked up as we always do. I completely forgot I arranged to meet Kristie—ahe’s over for a media tour promoting an art house movie she’s in, playing someone who’s basically herself. We share a drug-filled past and were fuck buddies before the phrase even existed.
When I get downstairs, Kristie is in the kitchen, sitting on the counter. Her platinum blonde bob is styled to look as if she just got out of bed. She favours the same style of make-up as Ruby and still wears the ‘90s bohemian mix of skirts and tatty jackets. Although Kristie is ten years older than me—I suspect more—she’s smoothed some of her drug-damage with botox and fillers.
“I’m sorry, Kristie,” I say from the doorway. “I forgot the date.”
“Hey, no problem!” She walks over and places a hand on my cheek, her strong perfume reminding me of past sex with this woman. “I’m good for a few hours. We can do lunch? Is that little cafe on the corner still open? Loved the fries there!”
“Yeah, I guess.” I rub my tired eyes. “You should’ve called.”
Kristie laughs and pokes my ribs. “Because of the chick? She’ll know the score if she’s screwing Jem Jones.”
I cringe at Ruby seen in that light. “She’s cool.”I hope.