Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  Grabbing my phone, I sent him a message.

  Em: What do you think you’re doing?

  Of course, I didn’t have to wait long for my answer, and it was one that I couldn’t argue with, even if I’d wanted to.

  H: What I’m good at.

  I push. You fall.

  I walk away. You don’t move at all.

  I tell you everything that is wrong with me, you … us.

  Yet you hear my voiceless words and never give up.

  I could strangle him. I could kick him. I could punch, slap, and hug him. Yeah, I could hug him, because I’d never come across anyone so unrelenting and stubborn in my life. Even at the beginning of our relationship when I’d pushed him away because my mind was a tangled web of confusion, self-hate, self-doubt, and self-destruction, he never gave up. Never walked away. Never abandoned me when he knew that somehow I needed him. So why I thought he would so easily wave the white flag when I’d told him to back off was beyond me.

  I should’ve known better.

  Em: This doesn’t change anything.

  You know that, right?

  Mr Happy: I’m waiting for my sext response.

  Hurry up. Time is money and money is time.

  Fuck you! Time is what you’ll be wishing you never had when I delete your sorry arse from my phone contacts. Grr …

  Waking up my laptop screen by rapidly circling my mouse, I refreshed the interface page, re-read what he’d written, and then answered his fucking sext.

  Lady N: H, no, I don’t know that only you can satisfy me.

  I’m very hard to please, you know?

  Mr Happy: Me stroking my cock

  while thinking of you

  doesn’t make you happy?

  I closed my eyes and sucked in a long, slow breath, trying desperately not to think about his words. His goddamn words. Can I just ignore him? Sure. Of course I can.

  Kinkmaster: I don’t think I will forgive you, Lady N.

  I think I will punish your whore pussy instead. I stuck my finger up at the screen.

  “Punish this, you wanker.” I was so close to giving this Kinkmaster Thundercunt a piece of my mind, but never in the two years I’d been sexting had I ever lost my shit and abused someone. I was super-nice. Professional. At peace. One with my inner chakra. Blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda.

  So no, I wasn’t about to let this idiot bring out my inner Annie Wilkes. Instead, I would kill him with kink-kindness.

  Lady N: K, Yes, please punish my pretty little pussy.

  She likes being punished.

  I bit back a smile. If he were the type of sexter I thought he was, he would not like my insubordination.

  Cumsalot: I want to watch you lick

  my cum from around your mouth.

  I want to watch you lick dog shit, but we can’t always get what we want.

  Clearly, I wasn’t in the best of sexting moods.

  Lady N: C, I’d do it nice and slow for you.

  As I prepared to type another response, H’s smiley face popped up on my screen.

  Mr Happy: Lady N, you’re wet;

  I know you are.

  And thinking of my hand on my cock is why.

  I ignored him. I wasn’t thinking about his cock. I was thinking about dog shit. Ew. I don’t want to think about dog shit.

  Moving on.

  Kinkmaster: I will punish

  whatever I want to fucking punish.

  I will punish your mouth if you’re not careful.

  Oh, go punish a fart. Loser. I was done with this idiot, and I needed a top-up of my Milo and to grab some Tim Tams. Chocolate would be my saviour tonight.

  Lady N: I need to change my panties.

  The ones I’m wearing are drenched.

  Naughty boys.

  I’ll be back later. xo

  Logging out, I pulled the laptop lid down and flopped back on the couch, covering my eyes with my hands when my phone did what it always bloody did—beeped.

  Mr Happy: I didn’t get my money’s worth.

  Seriously? Grring yet again, I typed him a reply.

  Em: You’re lucky I didn’t give

  you a whole lot more.

  Mr Happy: Now you’re talking.

  A whole lot more of what?

  “Argh!” I yelled, gripping my hair.

  Em: You are such a pain in my arse.

  Mr Happy: You have no idea how much

  I want to be a pain in your arse.

  That’s it! I give up. I. Give. Up.

  Em: Going to bed.

  I hope you have nightmares.

  Goodnight.

  Mr Happy: Come on. You have to admit

  you walked right into that last one.

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I just watched my screen, glaring at it, as if my distaste could somehow reach him.

  Mr Happy: I never have nightmares when I dream of you.

  Mr Happy: Don’t be angry.

  Mr Happy: I behaved. I really did.

  Mr Happy: I could’ve said what

  I really wanted to say.

  But I didn’t.

  Mr Happy: I know you’re reading these.

  Mr Happy: Okay. Go to sleep.

  Sweet dreams, love xo

  Sweet dreams? How was I supposed to have sweet dreams when Brad was miles away and H was driving me crazy? No, my dreams weren’t going to be sweet. They were going to be sour.

  ***

  The following morning, I was up bright and early, having decided to ride my bike to the Brighton Beach Boxes instead of running along The Esplanade. Despite the copious photographs Cori had taken of brightly coloured beach shacks that were hanging on our walls, I loved seeing them in real life, lined up in a row along the sand. There was just something about the array of colours and designs the small sheds were painted in that invigorated me and put my mood in a good place for the rest of the day. And a good start to the day was exactly what I needed after the evening I’d had with work and H.

  Wheeling my bike out of the elevator and down the path past the residents’ car garages, I nearly dropped the thing when a deep voice came out of nowhere, scaring me.

  “Nice day for it.”

  “Jesus, fuck … you scared me,” I said, fumbling with my bike and struggling to keep it upright.

  Biker Mike jumped up from his squatted position near his motorcycle and reached out, holding my bike steady, the smell of grease and cigarette smoke attacking my sense of smell.

  I coughed. “Thanks.”

  “Shit. Sorry.” He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and butted it on the ground. “Been trying to quit for months now.”

  “Quitting habits, whether good or bad, is hard. But you’ve got to really want to do it, ya know?”

  “Sounds like you’re talking from experience. You used to be a smoker?” Mike kept his hand on the centre of my handlebars, his wrist brace a contradiction to his bad-arse persona.

  I shook my head and smiled. “No. Other bad habits. So has baked beans weightlifting been helping with that?”

  He looked down at his hand, released it from my bike, and chuckled awkwardly. “Nah, not yet. But I’ll keep persisting.”

  “Good idea. Keep at it. Forming a habit can be just as difficult as breaking one.” I went to bid him farewell and continue walking when he prolonged our conversation.

  “So, where you riding to?” he asked, pulling a dirty rag from his back jeans pocket and wiping his face with it. “I’m new to the area so don’t know much about it.”

  “Yeah? Where are you from?”

  “Rural Victoria. You probably haven’t heard of it. Small, boring, nothing-in-it town,” he said, dismissively.

  “Oh. Okay.” I gave him a small smile, but didn’t probe him for any more information he obviously didn’t want to give.

  “So where you headed?”

  “To the Beach Boxes.”

  “Beach Boxes?”

  “Yeah, brightly coloured bathing sheds. There’s a whole
heap of them on Dendy Street Beach. It’s a half hour ride along the Bay Trail.”

  He squinted his eyes, appearing to assess what I’d said. “Why would you ride to bathing sheds? You goin’ for a swim?”

  “No. Although … the weather is perfect for a dip. I might just stop and twinkle my toes in the water.” I winked. “No, the reason I’m riding there is because they’re beautiful. Trust me. You should ride your motorbike and check them out at some stage.”

  “Maybe I will. Or maybe I’ll get myself one of those pedalling things you have there,” he said, nodding toward my bike, “and then you can show me where they are?”

  His question sounded more like a suggestion, as if he’d already decided it was going to happen. The guy was nice; yeah, not bad-looking; yeah, but he was also just a tad cocky.

  “Maybe. Or you could ride your motorbike there. It’s only ten-or-so minutes that way,” I said, pointing toward The Esplanade and to my left. “Anyway, gotta go before it gets too hot. Bye.”

  I placed my helmet on my head, swung my leg over the seat, and pedalled away, cruising at a steady pace past the marina and over the canal bridge. The Bay Trail was an easy ride: pedestrian-heavy at some points, but for the most part, peaceful and non-strenuous. It meant you didn’t have to think about your surroundings all that much, which also meant you automatically thought of other things or other people instead. Like cocky, older biker neighbours.

  My guess was that Mike was roughly forty years old. Handsome, in a rugged way, he was tall with a slim build and heavily defined arms. His dark brown hair was lightly peppered with grey, and his face was accentuated with deep crease lines on his forehead and around his mouth. Oh, and his eyes were a shade of hazel—not quite green, not quite brown. For an older dude, he was kinda alright.

  Slowing down and pulling to a stop, I parked my bike and locked it onto the public bike rack then made my way down to the beach, sitting in front of my favourite beach box—a turquoise and orange one with seagulls painted on the doors. I just loved it. Out of the eighty-two brightly coloured sheds, for some reason it just called out to me.

  Digging my feet into the warm sand, granules bunched in between my toes. It made me smile every time. There was just something euphoric about the feeling, and one of the many reasons why I adored living by the beach.

  I pulled out my phone from within my bra and took a footfie—also known as a photo of your feet—making sure to capture the waveless, calm water in the background. I then sent it to Brad.

  Em: How am I supposed to surf in this?

  He didn’t respond, so I leaned back on my hands and looked up to the sky, closing my eyes as I offered my face and neck to be kissed by the warmth of the sun. And what an amazing kisser the sun was. It had my skin blushing in no time, which also meant that I needed to cool down before the ride back home. So standing up, I made my way to the water’s edge, runners dangling from my hand as I walked along the beach, tiny waves tickling the sand until I was back at the entrance path.

  As I began to climb the small hill to the bike rack, I noticed Mike standing at the Beach Box information sign, ten or so metres to my right. He was deep in concentration, reading facts about the iconic location, therefore hadn’t noticed me. And I kinda didn’t want him to notice me, because I felt a little weirded out. I picked up my pace and headed for my bike.

  I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt strange about him being there. I had, after all, told him to check the place out. I guess I just hadn’t expected him to do it so promptly, as in an hour later. Regardless, it was time for me to head back anyway, and I stopped at my bike to unlock it from the rack when my phone beeped Brad’s message tone.

  Brad: You’re not supposed to surf that.

  And you should only be riding my board.

  No one else’s.

  I laughed.

  Em: Is that so?

  I reached for the lock and noticed my tyre was flat. “Shit!” I muttered to myself. I didn’t have my air pump. “Double shit!”

  I plonked my arse onto the ground and my phone beeped again. I was too shitty to type so figured I might as well call him.

  He picked up after two rings. “Speak to me, sexy pixie,” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly, as if he’d just woken up. It distracted me momentarily. He was all kinds of hot in the morning, and it made me miss him even more.

  “Hi.” I sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I miss you.”

  He chuckled, a sexy, sleepy, fuck-my-face chuckle. “I miss you, too.”

  “And I have a punctured bike tyre. AND I’m approximately an hour and a half’s walk from home. It’s hot. I’m cranky, and I’m not looking forward to walking my bike all the way back.”

  “Shit, babe. Can someone pick you and the bike up? Family maybe?”

  “My family live too far away.”

  “What about a neighbour?”

  A wave of recognition flowed through me, and I snapped my head toward the beach where I’d just seen Mike. “Actually, I just saw my new neighbour down at the beach. Maybe he has a pump on his motorbike somewhere.”

  “I doubt it. But maybe he could take you home to get yours.”

  “No,” I said with exaggeration. “Did you not hear he has a motorbike? I’m not getting on that thing.”

  “Either way, he can help. Go ask him.”

  I stood up and brushed down my shorts, removing any gravel stuck to the backs of my legs and arse. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sweet. And I miss the taste of your lips, you know. All of them.”

  A big, fat smile took up residence on my face. “My lips miss you tasting them. Maybe I can show you just how much they miss you tonight, via video chat?” My body heated and the beat of my heart amplified at the thought of driving him completely crazy with having me literally right there in front of him, but not actually having me there. Oh, the things I can do.

  “Mm … I think I’d like that. We’re heading to Brisbane today, so I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Looking forward to it.” I blew him kisses through the phone before disconnecting, then made my way back down to the beach in search of Mike, spotting him not far from the path.

  “Mike!” I called out, jogging to where he stood.

  He turned to face me, wearing a knowing smile. It was quite charming, if not a little conceited. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Ha ha,” I mocked. “Nice place though, huh?”

  “Yeah, it is. I can see why you like it. It’s very … colourful.”

  I giggled. “Told you. So … um …” I ran my hand through my short and unruly hair, a little nervous to ask him for help. I didn’t know him all that well. “Do you happen to have a bicycle pump on your motorbike?”

  He laughed. Big time. As in a full-on belly laugh. “No. Can’t say that I do. Why?”

  “Damn it.” I sighed, laughing at my stupidity but also a little frustrated. “Because I have a flat tyre, and I don’t fancy walking my bike back in the heat. It’s a long way.”

  “No sweat. We can put it in the back of my truck.” He held his hand out, gesturing I head up the path.

  “You have a truck?” We started to walk.

  “Yeah. I can’t ride my bike everywhere. My wrist would be fucked. And then I’d never be able to wank.”

  I stopped in my tracks and burst into laughter, a little shocked by his comment, but also impressed with his … er … honesty. “I guess that’s true.”

  “Guess? No, it is. Trust me.”

  My hand flew up in defence. “Oh, I trust you.”

  Stopping at my bike, I squatted and unlocked it then stood back up. “Okay. Where to?” I put my hands on the handlebars ready to move when he threaded his hand through the frame and picked it up, balancing it on his shoulder as it were as light as a feather. Oh … wow!

  “Um … thanks. But I can wheel it.”

  Mike glanced over his shoulder and winked at me. Okay then. I’ll take tha
t as a no.

  “Just over here,” he said, amusement lacing his tone. He stopped by an old, white Nissan Navara Cab Chassis and lifted my bike into the aluminium tray before opening the passenger-side door for me.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the assist handle and pulled myself up, feeling the warmth of Mike’s hand on my hip as he helped me into my seat.

  Our eyes met, and for a split second, I swear his wanted to speak to me. The funny thing was, I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He looked down and swallowed. “Buckle up.”

  I nodded. It was all I could do. What the frig in hell was that, Em? Seriously. What just happened?

  He walked to the back of the truck, and I watched him stop by the tray through the reflection of the side mirror. For a second, there appeared to be pause in his movement, followed by a minor shake of his head before he made sure my bike was secure. No, Em. There’s absolutely nothing sexual going on here. Not a damn thing. You’re imagining it. Get a fucking grip.

  I breathed in deeply through my nose and let it out quickly before Mike opened the driver’s side door and climbed in. “All set.”

  “Thank you for this. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s nothing, Em. It is Em, right?” he asked.

  I tilted my head just slightly, mildly confused and somewhat amused. “Um … yeah. It is.”

  “Sorry. Forgetful,” he apologised. “So is it Emma, Emily, or Emelia?”

  “Well …” I giggled at his naivety. It was kinda cute. “Emelia is normally spelled with an A, not E. Am-elia. So it’s not that—”