Page 67 of Doc Rock
Mai
She really should have taken the wig off before they started playing, but then the photographer caught her attention, and she was glad she hadn’t.
Even now that they’d stopped, the woman had her camera up to her eye, about to take a photo of her, and Mai said,“Please don’t. I’d rather not have any without the wig.”
The photographer hesitated for a moment, looking across at Donnie, who nodded.
Mai rolled her eyes.It wasclear who was in charge in this room, and it wasn’t the band that made millions of dollars a year. Donnie grinned back at her, silently acknowledging the fact that they allknewhe ran the show.
“Why don’t wegetthe picture done now, and then break for some lunch?”Donnie stepped away from the door frame he’d leaned on while they played.
“Ah shit, I shouldn’t have taken the stupid wig off. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll go and put it back on.”Mai grabbed her wig off the microphone stand, but Ford gottherefirst, snatching it up.
“Stand still, I’ll do it.”His voice sent a shiver through her, and she froze as he reached for her, his fingers touching the side of her face as he manoeuvred the dark hair back onto her head.
She wanted to close her eyes and savour his touch, but managed to keep them open and fixed on him. Holding her breath, she waited until he settled the hair back over hers, then she ducked her head, fighting to stop her pulse from racing when he gently tucked the rest of her hair back up into the wig.
“Thanks,”she muttered, still not looking up. Not wanting Ford toseethe desperation in her eyes.
His hands were on her again as he adjusted the wig, his fingers grazing over her cheeks.
Her heart raced. She needed to step away from Ford—she couldn’t concentrate standing this close to him.
Mai asked the photographer,“Where do you want us?”
She moved away from Ford, ignoring the cold that washed over her when he was no longer touching her.
“Right overthere. I love the light.”The photographer indicated that they should stand in front of the instruments, the light streaming in through the open door of the shed highlighting them.
Mai stood between Scotty and Ford. The drummer slung his arm around her shoulder, but shehearda quiet growl from Ford, and he pulled it back. She gazed at Ford, but the singer stared resolutely ahead, not acknowledging the fact that he just growled—again—to stop one of their bandmates from touching her.
Did he hate her that much that the thought of his friends touching her upset him?Then her mind flitted to his gentle fingers as he put the wig on. That didn’tfeellike the actions of a man who hated her.
Mai shoved her confusion aside, instead staring down the lens of the camera, channelling Sie Harrington, and the slightly angry look she wasknownfor.
The only photos from her time with the band of her smiling were when she wasn’t looking at the camera;it waswhen she was staring up at Ford in adoration.
She’d downloaded all of those pictures and kept them in a folder on her computer. She occasionally allowed herself to look through them and remember a time when she was happy. Before she lost her parents, and when Ford occupied her every waking and sleeping moment.
If she were honest,it wasthe last time she had ever been truly happy. She was fulfilled now; her job was everything she hopedit wouldbe—every day she made a difference in someone’s life.
She loved her tiny house, which was all hers. She was growing to love her new friends, who, despite all being a little barmy in their own rights, were proving to be incredibly loyal. And she loved Burra Creek, the funny town in the bush that she never expected to enjoy living in, having chosen the job to stay hidden and away from the big cities.
But true happiness?That was something she lost sixteen years ago when she walked away from the man standing next to her.
“That’s great. Thanks, guys,”the photographer called.
Mai started; in her musing, she’d forgotten they were doing a photoshoot that was going to be shown to the whole world.
Stepping away from the band, she pulled the wig off again, hoping this time she was done with it, as she definitely couldn’t cope with Ford helping her put it on again.
Strolling over to her handbag, she stuffed the wig in, then rifled through it until her hand closed around her pink, sparkly notebook. Pulling it out, she tugged the pen from the spiralwhere it always lived and began to quickly scribble down the lyrics that flitted through her head while she thought about being truly happy.
“Are you writing lyrics?”
She started in surprise. Ford stood next to her, his gaze trained on the notebook in her hand.
“Yeah.”She wrote the other two lines that were floating through her head down, then shut the notebook and was about to put it back into her bag when he held his hand out.
