“Arsehole.” I place two hands flat against his chest and push. I follow this with a punch to his shoulder before I stand up, dusting my bottom till most of the sand has fallen on him.
“Hay-gen. I’m sorry. I—” he pauses to put a hand to his mouth and swallow. Even in the dim lighting, he looks a little green. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that.”
“Yeah. I hope you wake up tomorrow with the worst hangover you’ve ever had,” I say, kicking sand onto his lap for good measure before I storm off.
Chapter 18
I wake up with the sun filtering through our room’s curtains. I look over at Penny softly snoring on the other bed. She has a black sleep eye mask on—the only person I know who wears one who’s not in a movie or TV show. On her sleeping aid are fake eyelids and drawn on curled, blonde lashes. Her arms and legs are sprawled on the mattress, making me wonder if she usually sleeps like this even when there’s a man in her bed.
The digital clock on the bedside table between us tells me it’s just after seven. After all those jugs of alcohol everyone else had, I must be the only one in our group awake. My hand goes to my lips while I wonder if I’d imagined my encounter with Keats last night. I cannot believe he’d said her name. I never imagined I’d ever be put off Keats. Obviously, my imagination doesn’t extend this far.
I take my tablet out and connect to the hotel’s Wi-Fi. Miz Peggy is a full-time job and this morning, my website is filled with requests for the next instalment of my erotic “fat fiction”. It looks like my followers have chosen the dirtiest thing I’d put on my list of possible scenarios to choose from. I open up my Word document which contains the first four parts of this six-part story. Why did I include a sex swing on the list of choices? I’ve never actually been on one before. I’m not sure they make them big enough for my butt.
I stare at my cursor, waiting for the next words to take my horny characters to a place of kinky passion. I think of the strength in Keats’ hands. The anticipation of his next touch. The caress of his breath on my lips just before we kissed. And eight hundred words later, I read over what I’ve written and it’s passionate…vanilla sex. I totally forgot to put in the sex swing.
I highlight the text, but just before I delete it, I change my mind. I press Control C instead and paste the excerpt to a new Word document. Maybe I’ll use that for a book another time. I go back to my initial task. I type “Sex Swing” so I at least have two words of the eight hundred I need. I close my eyes, trying to conjure up my faceless man, so that I can imagine all the wicked things I could do to him. There he is. I see his silhouette. Come on, wanton sex ideas. He comes closer. He looks thinner than I remember—almost lanky. But no, there are muscles on those arms and in those broad shoulders. His face takes shape. Two deep dimples, baby blue eyes. It’s…Keats. Dammit!
I turn off my tablet. There are two more days before my paying followers expect to see the heroine’s next pornographic encounter. I’ll come up with it before then.
“You a Facebook addict?”
I jump at the sound of Penny’s sleepy voice.
“Just working,” I say before I think about it.
“It’s Saturday. I thought you were a receptionist? Oh, are you a receptionist slash personal assistant?”
I’m so glad Penny provided me with choices. “Yeah. The second thing you said.”
She yawns. “That sucks having to work on weekends.”
“You ready for breakfast? Our booking includes a complimentary breakfast but they stop serving that at 9:30 a.m.”
“What? That’s worse than McDonald’s.” Penny peers at the clock. It’s already 8:45am. “Dammit. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ve gotta at least draw on my eyebrows!”
***
It seems that instead of a hangover, Keats has woken up with amnesia. I hate it when people do that—use their drunkenness to do things they don’t want to face up to in the morning. My father did that all the time, except he usually followed a night time bender with an all-day drinking session. Keats is definitely turning out to be different from the guy I’ve been fantasising about all these years. For one, he reciprocated my feelings more in my fantasies.
Our four companions are already seated at breakfast when we reach the same restaurant as yesterday. Blake is still yawning, Isabella and Byron are fresh-faced and holding hands, and Keats is pressing a cold glass of orange juice to his temple.
I head for the buffet table, hoping they have something on the list of food I’m allowed to eat. I walk past dry-looking Danishes that still make my mouth water at the remembered sweetness, colourful kids’ cereals (also one of my favourites growing up), Penny and Blake laughing about something in low voices at the coffee line, and finally a sad bowl of fruit with spotty bananas and dull apples. I choose the least abused-looking Granny Smith. I pass the sweating jugs of juice (too much sugar, natural or otherwise) and pour myself some earl grey tea, no milk or sugar.
I arrive at the table and set my yellowing plastic tray down. Isabella looks at my fare but doesn’t comment. She knows what it takes to battle a lazy metabolism.
“Did you sleep well, Jess?” she asks me instead. Judging by the crumbs and streaks on the empty plate in front of her, she had toast and some scrambled egg and bacon. Byron is still eating his cereal, right hand on his spoon, left hand on her thigh.
“Yes.” A lie, but I’m not about to tell them I tossed and turned last night from a mixture of anger, sexual frustration and emotional angst thanks to Mr Hungover over there.
“What have you got planned for us today?” I bite into my apple. It’s spongy. I look around for a serviette, my mouth closed but trying to make as little contact with the rancid fruit as possible. I glance across the table and find Keats watching me with an amused quirk to his lips. I narrow my eyes at him before deciding to use one of the cloth napkins on the table. Tea it is for breakfast.
“No plans, but there is a list of activities we can do here, so whatever we can all agree on and fit before the five o’clock ferry this arvo. I was thinking beach volleyball first?”
No one dares to disagree with the bride, so after chitchatting about the weather and whether feeding the ibis is really that bad, we all decide to meet down by the volleyball courts on the beach in fifteen minutes.
By the time we reach the beach twenty minutes later—Penny is a notoriously slow walker—Byron and Blake are already hitting the volleyball to each other over the high net while Isabella puts on sunscreen on the sidelines.
“Do they serve cocktails on the beach?” Penny asks me. “Or snacks?”
Honestly, with the amount of food she consumes, she should be much bigger. A spike of jealousy stabs me. She seems to eat and drink whatever she wants, when she wants and how much she wants. All the time. I don’t know where she puts it. I think she’s 60% boobs and then the rest is just a little padding all over. I never noticed it before. Maybe she’s bulimic—this thought makes me feel relieved and mean at the same time.
“I don’t think the waiters come all the way down here. But if you go up there and order, I’m sure you can take it back here.”
She looks behind her at the hotel’s restaurant fifty metres away and shrugs. “Too far.”
“Blake, is Keats coming soon?” Isabella asks, standing up and dusting her bottom.
I can’t tell if she wants her ex-boyfriend to turn up or stay away, especially after the huge pissing contest between the brothers at tobogganing yesterday. Surely, she noticed that they’d almost killed themselves racing down the sand hills.
“He’s got a cracking hangover, shorty,” Blake tells her. “Not sure he’d be much use on anyone’s team even if he did join us.”
“Okay, so we could play two on two with one person sitting out,” Isabella suggests, ever the natural organiser.
“I’ll sit out. I don’t do running,” Penny says. “Especially before ten o’clock.”
“Okay, we can play two versus three—whoever has Penny can have three
players.”
Penny flashes Isabella her middle finger, chuckling.
“You’re with me,” Byron says, wrapping his arms around Isabella from behind. “Blake can have with Penny and Jess.”
“Or I could sit this one out, chick. I’ll cheer. Sort of,” Penny says, extracting a tiny tube of Shiseido sunscreen from her beach bag and applying protection all over her exposed fair skin. “You want some?” She offers me the tiny container.
“I’m good.” I don’t want to use up the precious liquid inside. I take out my big bottle of supermarket sunscreen and slather that all over.
Isabella walks up to her and pulls her up off the sand.
“You’re lucky I love you.” Penny reluctantly gets up with a grin, her eyes straying to Blake who is waiting on his side of the volleyball net, spinning the ball on the tip of his middle finger while we get ourselves organised.
Penny’s right. He is gorgeous, and the perfect height for me. I could wear high heels around him and not feel like a tank. I’ve been wearing flats so much these last few months just to stay level with Keats. But other than the fact Blake is engaged, I don’t feel anything for him.
The game starts and Blake and my height advantage immediately has our opponents scrambling as we block shots at the net. Is it petty of me to enjoy kicking Isabella’s much smaller arse? Yes. Am I going to stop? No—especially since we have a handicap with Penny an obstacle on the court. She doesn’t even move to get out of our way.
Keats arrives a few minutes later while my team leads 8-3. He gets put on the other team to even out the numbers and the height difference—now both teams have four members at six feet tall or over, and two short arses barely over five feet. Keats is looking a lot less nauseous, and after he slips off his shirt, I fear our lead might be in danger because now I’m totally distracted by the brothers’ matching lion tattoos.
Keats keeps his sunglasses on but his smile tells me he likes the arrangement as he tries to sail his response to Blake’s serve over my head. I jump and spike it right at his face, biting back a swear word when he dodges the volleyball, easily turning around to set it up for Byron. His brother hits it back to our side, right at Penny’s feet where it leaves a dent in the sand, despite Blake’s valiant dive to reach it.
Isabella cheers, and high-fives her fiancé, barely pausing before she does the same to her ex. Both men grin back at her, totally smitten. Four more straight points later and the three of them are hugging each other like they’re fighting for their lives in The Hunger Games.
“Aww,” Penny says, totally not caring that the score is now tied at eight all.
“It’s a freaking threesome over there,” I mutter under my breath as Isabella takes the ball behind the service line again.
Byron and Keats position themselves near the net like a wall of hotness that so far Blake and I have been unable to penetrate—all of our attempts have been blocked by the McAllister brothers, who have an uncanny knack for knowing where the other is on the court.
Isabella serves again. I back up, my eyes trained on the ball as it arcs over to our side. I jump, aim for Isabella, hit the volleyball, and flatten her already flat chest.
“Ow!” she says as the ball bounces off her, immediately out of bounds. “Geez, Jess!” She rubs the gap between her tiny tits.
Byron and Keats are at her side in a heartbeat, and there’s an awkward pause as Byron waits for his brother to step away, so he can attend to his fiancée.
“I’m fine. Nothing to really injure here,” Isabella says self-deprecatingly, touching the younger McAllister’s face.
I watch Keats walk back to his position, his stance stiff as he runs a hand through his short, cropped hair. But with his eyes behind his dark sunglasses, I can’t read past the neutral set of his mouth.
“Sorry,” I say belatedly. “That’s 9-8 to us.”
“Nice,” Keats mouths to me, his sarcasm obvious despite not making a sound.
Mental note: try hitting him again next time.
Blake retrieves the ball and runs over to hand it to Penny who looks at it like it’s a severed head. “What do I do with this?” she asks.
Apparently, other than getting in our way, she also hasn’t been paying attention.
“It’s your turn to serve.” Blake must have the patience of a saint. Or he likes her because he seems totally okay with her cluelessness.
Penny puts the ball on her left hand to use her right to hit it over the net. A second later, the volleyball thumps against the back of my head. Talk about instant karma.
“Nine all,” Isabella says past a smile as Blake rolls the ball under the net to Keats. “Two more and we win.”
Keats walks to the service line, looking impassively at the three of us on the other side, probably wondering who to target. Is Penny hiding behind me? I thought it was obvious that she’s the weak link on our team. I shift my slightly parted legs, making sure I’m on the balls of my feet and ready to receive his serve. With the shit I’ve been having to put up with, thanks to the love triangle on the other side of the net, I need to win this game.
The right corner of Keats’ mouth turns up, making my legs wobble with the remembered touch of those lips. He tosses the ball up, draws back his right arm ready to strike, jumps and sends the volleyball hurtling towards Penny.
“Mine!” I yell, right arm already up and ready to smack that ball back into the other side of the court. My eyes track the volleyball as I jog backwards, totally focused on not letting them get ahead. I jump, the heel of my hand hitting the ball firmly back between Isabella and Byron. I see the lovebirds scramble to get to the shot as I land back down to the sand.
And that’s how I flatten Penny. I look up from the ground to find Keats extending his hand out to me. Everyone else is surrounding Penny who is clinging onto her ankle. There’s a grimace on her face while Byron tries to coax her to let him look at it. I slap away Keats’ hand and get to my feet unassisted.
“You’re dangerous on a volleyball court, Hay-gen,” he says, humour in his voice.
“It’s probably just sprained,” Byron tells Penny, putting five years of his unfinished Medical degree to use. “But you could have it x-rayed if you like. I’ll get some ice from the restaurant, and see if they have a first aid kit.”
“Sorry, Penny. I’ll go with you,” I offer since Byron and Isabella are booked to stay on the island until tomorrow evening.
Penny nods, still grimacing as she clings onto her ankle. Guilt stabs me as my eyes drop to the swelling.
“I didn’t take my car over so I can drive yours, Penny,” Keats offers.
“There’s a barge departing soon, mate,” Blake tells Keats after checking his watch. “If you hurry, you can make it on board. There’s a hospital at Redlands.”
“I’ll help you pack,” Isabella offers, holding Penny’s hand.
“Thanks, chick,” she says.
Forty minutes later, Penny, Keats and I are on the barge to the mainland in Penny’s Porsche. Our “patient” is reclining in the back with her leg up on the seat, Keats is behind the wheel and I’m riding shotgun.
As soon as we’re allowed to leave the vehicle, I make an excuse to get away from Keats. Weaving my way through the cars, I go up the narrow, steel stairs to the viewing deck above. I walk over to the rails and look at the wake of the ferry, letting the biting bay breeze whip my hair about my face.
I sense Keats beside me before I see him. He’s got his arms resting on the rail next to me, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. I straighten up, my body stiff with repressed annoyance. I don’t speak, undecided how much of my feelings to reveal to him. I don’t want him to know how much last night hurt me. But I’m also not letting him get away with using me as a surrogate for Isabella.
He opens his mouth, closes it, shifts his stance, takes off his sunglasses and concentrates on hooking it to the neck of his jumper. He leans forward, rests his forearms back on the rail, studies his hands, and finally, finally gla
nces up at me.
He looks rough. Sleep-deprived red eyes, a five o’clock shadow and a greyish pallor. He puts a hand over his forehead and slowly runs it down his face.
“I fucked up. Last night.”
I nod, still unsure what to say to him.
“Having Isabella so close and with Byron…” He looks out at the bay beyond. “It’s driving me nuts.”
I keep my expression neutral—it’s well-practised so it hides the fact he’s just making what he did last night worse in my books.
“I don’t usually drink that much. That’s not a cop out. I totally take responsibility for my actions. But if I’d been sober, I would never have done what I did last night—wouldn’t even think of doing that to you. I don’t want to mess up what we have. You’re a good ‘mate’, Hay-gen.”
Ouch. Too bad he doesn’t mean the American meaning of “mate”.
Chapter 19
Early-August
With my parents the way they were, I never thought I’d be friends with anyone from their generation. But there’s something about Heather Radley McAllister that I connect with. And, surprisingly, it’s not her cute, misguided eldest son. In fact, I’m still so annoyed with Keats after the Moreton Island debacle that, even a week later, I’m still hesitant to go anywhere near Heather’s house. Still, I can’t fully stay away from my newfound kindred spirit. Life has screwed over both Heather and me. And even though she’s got years on me, I’ve got years on her in coping with the hand I’ve been dealt.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the RSL yesterday,” she says as she supervises me choosing mushrooms at the supermarket. I only pick out the whitest and firmest ones. I’ve learnt from her and her son that almost all fruit and vegetables require a little squeeze test.
“Who?”
“Pete Barker, Blake’s dad. His wife passed away six years ago—breast cancer—and he’s one of Jeff and my friends who didn’t become too busy to see me after the divorce.”
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