Ridge Creek Reunited (Ridge Creek Duology)

by C L Green

  Screwing up the note and tossing it back on the bed, I pick up my phone and slide it into my back pocket. Moving quickly to the tallboy, I yank out a black t-shirt, rip off my white top and pull on the black one. Not stopping to think about Jake’s note for a second longer I plan my evening. Cook tea, edit photo’s for Luke’s website and then go to bed.

  Stay busy.

  Too easy.

  Chapter Nine

  Lost

  Three hours later, Jake…

  Sitting at the bar staring at my half empty beer, I cringe. Maybe I should have stayed at the Harley shop. At least there’d have been others to sit and distract me from the garbage circulating in my head.

  Why the fuck I came home I don’t know.

  This sitting and waiting shit is not my style and patience is not one of my virtues. She wanted me to back off. I have. The ball’s in her court. She’d better hit that fucker back sooner rather than later. In other words before I lose my shit and give her a real reason to leave.

  Grabbing the beer, I suck it most of the way to the bottom. Grimacing, I feel the sting of beer against a split on my lip and I realize the fucking thing is now warm and tastes like shit anyway. Standing slowly, I round the bar and tip the warm beer dregs into the sink. With a quick flick, I turn the Flick Mixer tap on and off quickly for a burst of water to rinse the waste away. I then turn and drop the empty bottle into a recycle bin behind the bar.

  As the bottle bounces on the bottom of the empty bin, I grin to myself. I love this bar, I love this shed and I love this house. I love it so much I actually make an effort to keep it clean. It also helps that Ma turns up twice a week to clean up after me but that’s a secret I plan to keep to myself.

  Everything is built exactly how I wanted it with no expense spared. It’s the dream home that my dad always talked about. The dream home he would have given his wife and two sons if only he’d had more time. The dream home he painstakingly described to me in detail as I sat perched for hours on the chair next to his bed.

  As a sixteen year old boy, I soaked up every last word that slowly whispered from the mouth of my dying father. A man I loved and respected more than any other man on this earth. A man who slowly starved to death as the pain of slowly rotting from the inside out took its course. Cancer is one of the most fucked up ways to die. I’d take a bullet to the forehead any given day over slowly rotting away in bed.

  Turning from the bar I growl angrily, “It’s too fuckin’ quiet in here.” Becoming increasingly agitated by the minute, I storm to the sliding glass door. Sliding it open with too much force, it slams onto the end of its guide rail and bounces noisily.

  Fuck.

  Ignoring the high probability that I just derailed the damned door, I grab for the sliding screen door and drag it closed with a slam. The sound of the aluminum door slamming against its frame echo’s through the night. The dull roar of the night creatures stops momentarily as the door slams. For a brief moment the crickets silence their constant creaking and the bullfrogs fall silent. It’s as if the entire world around me is holding its breath waiting for my next anger fueled move.

  Realizing I don’t have one, the world moves on. The forest noises return loudly as I stare down the gravel path to the back door of my house and wonder if I should go back to the house.

  Fuck no.

  Moving back into the room I head to the wooden box that holds all of my boxing gloves.

  Time to beat shit out of something.

  Sliding on my favorite pair of gloves, I wince as they scratch across my already bruised and swollen knuckles. Images of the night before flash before my eyes and I quickly shut them down. What happened last night was necessary. And enlightening. Although it may not physically look like it, I feel a fuck of a lot better for it because at least I know where everyone stands.

  Slapping the Velcro down tightly on each glove, I check they’re firm on my hands. Arianna threatening me to up and leave pisses me off. I’m well over manipulation by women so hearing that shit come from her, the one woman I thought might be different, does not sit well. It has a slight stink of Victoria in it which is reason enough for me to take pause and rethink. Rethink how far I want to take this with her. Perhaps I have Arianna pegged wrong? Perhaps she only appears able to take a beating and get up again. Perhaps she doesn’t really deal with shit at face value.

  Which is why we still need to talk.

  Having to deal with Victoria’s shit again last night was the timely reminder I needed to remember that secrets and shadow games with the woman in your life does not, and never will, work. If you can’t trust the woman in your bed with all your secrets, she shouldn’t be there.

  Fuck.

  Walking across the room, I stop in front of the floor to ceiling ball. Staring momentarily at the round leather inflatable ball suspended between the floor and the ceiling by elastic cords I take a deep breath to focus before lifting my arms.

  Starting slowly, I jab carefully as I feel the pain burn through my already bruised knuckles. The ball rebounds fast and I pick up my pace, ignoring the pain. The rebound on a floor to ceiling ball is fast. It can be difficult to track and hit using normal hand eye coordination so it takes skill and concentration. It forces me to relax and start focusing not on the ball direct but on its track and its direction. It encourages me to use my peripheral vision because I need to predict where the ball will be, rather than where it is as I swing my arm through.

  As my knuckles numb out, I continue to jab faster and faster as autopilot strokes take over and my mind wanders back to my father. As I have been prone to do of late, I find myself reminiscing like an old man. Wondering what my life might have been like if I’d have spent my teenage years doing homework in my bedroom instead of growing and harvesting pot in the garden shed out the back of my parent’s house.

  I was a smart kid. Too damned smart perhaps. Smart enough that I scraped through school while managing to earn enough income to keep my mother where she needed to be; at my father’s side. At his side as he slowly, painstakingly, crept his way towards death. A long-drawn-out process that took over two years. Two years of watching him shift from a fit, healthy, active man to a shriveled up bony corpse unable to even feed himself.

  Not that I regret my life choices and my lifestyle. I love the Harley Shop and I love my brothers. I am surrounded by good people. At first glance many of us appear rough and dangerous. Which is how we like it. But if you take the time to scratch the surface, you’ll find every one of us carries a clear conscience and that in itself makes for good people.

  Starting to sweat, I continue to punish the speed ball in front of me. Aware that I can no longer feel my knuckles, I grunt as the dull thud of another pain starts radiating from my side where the bullet scratched me yesterday. Pain is good. Pain is what I need.

  The familiar sound of a text message alert cuts through my thoughts. I consider ignoring it for another jab or two before deciding there is still too much shit brewing around Arianna to let messages go unanswered.

  Slamming the small leather ball with one last hard swing, I turn and walk away. The sound of the ball vibrating on its cords still audible as I reach the bar and pick up my phone. Dragging my finger across the screen I see that it’s a message from Willy back at the Harley Shop.

  She’s on the move.

  Fuck.

  I stare thoughtfully at the screen as I wonder whether I it was right to give her a set of keys to Dad’s truck. I’m still not convinced Emma and Zane have this right. They’re both convinced we have enough security in place (including Anton following her around) that she should be okay.

  They think giving her some freedom might be what she needs to cool down. Emma thinks her threat to head for Sydney is a reaction to feeling like she has no control over anything in her life. Giving her the truck gives her more choice and more freedom. The ball is now in her court on where she goes and when she does it. I hope to fuck Emma has this right and I hope to fuck Arianna makes the rig
ht choice.

  Making a snap decision on how I will deal with this information, I press and hit send on my single letter response to Willy’s text.

  K

  Sliding the phone into my back pocket, I walk around the bar and grab two cold beers from the fridge. Without waiting for any more texts I head to the door. Thankful the sliding door is still on its guide rail, I lock the shed behind me before heading to the house for a shower.

  *****

  Forty minutes later…Arianna.

  I’m still not sure how my late night decision to take Jake’s truck for a spin got me here. Here being the middle of butt fuck State Forest nowhere, in the dark and seemingly lost.

  Goddamit.

  Deciding it’s high time to do something about it, I pull the truck slowly to the dirt on the side of the bitumen road. With my foot on the brake pedal, I knock the engine out of gear but decide to leave it running. The road ahead looks scarily unfamiliar and appears to lead to the middle of nowhere. I can’t recognize a single landmark and I’m not even sure I’m on the right road anymore. All I can see is trees lining each side of the road and I haven’t seen a street sign for kilometers.

  The headlights of the car that’s been not so discreetly following me since I left the shop mirrors my movements and pulls up slowly behind me. I squint into the rear vision mirror as the black car creeps slowly to a stop and once again I try in vain to catch a glimpse of the driver.

  I wonder if I should be nervous as I stare intently into the mirror. I’m almost sure the car behind me is the car that Anton was sitting in out the front of Jake’s shop.

  Surely it’s Anton?

  A hint of unease stiffens my inners as I consider the possibility that someone else is now driving the same car. Unsure whether I’m doing the right thing, I decide that I’ll wait for the driver to get out of the mysterious black car and if it’s not Anton, I’ll just drive off.

  To where, I don’t know. But hey, it’s a plan right?

  Too easy.

  As I wait I think about my conversation with Emma earlier today. Emma and I are in agreeance that Anton’s presence as my shadow is legitimate. This follows Emma’s confirmation earlier today that Stephen Bradford’s missing daughter story is true and that he employs a large staff of security to protect him against an unidentified threat to he and his father. She also disclosed the car parked out the front of the shop was listed as rented to a Mr. Anton Angel. So far there is no reason to believe that Stephen Bradford has been lying to me.

  The headlights on the car behind me shut off and the parking lights come on. I blink quickly as my eyes adjust to the sudden change in brightness. Moving my focus to the driver’s side mirror, I lean forward slightly in my seat as I watch the driver’s door of the car behind me.

  For what seems like a long minute or two, nothing happens. The car door remains closed. Whoever the driver is, they appear happy to wait. For what, I don’t know.

  Frustrated at the lack of movement, I wind my window down and stick my head out to look backwards. As I do, I hear the car engine turn off and the park lights on the car dim down a little more. I can now make out the shape of the driver.

  My head out the window tactic works and the car door suddenly swings open. The interior light comes on. Anton lifts from the car and relief floods through me about a half second before I gasp.

  Holy shit, what the hell happened to him?

  Even with the limited light coming from the car’s interior light, I can see Anton has had a run in. He has a black eye, a split lip and tape across the top of his nose.

  What the fuck?

  Leaving his car door open, Anton moves towards me shaking his head. “Not smart pulling over in the middle of nowhere girl,” he announces as I continue to hang my head out the window, my mouth dropping open and my jaw slack.

  “What the hell happened to you?” I ask shocked that his face has clearly taken a severe pounding.

  “Nothing,” he deadpans as he continues to move closer to my car, his eyes locked on me. “Are you carrying a weapon?” He asks as he takes a few quick strides and stops outside my window.

  I continue to stare at him, dismayed at his battered appearance and wonder if I should insist that he tell me what happened. The thought that he may have taken a beating on my behalf crosses my mind and I blanch. Poor guy, he could be yet another person who has had to stand in the line of fire on my behalf.

  “Jesus. Are you okay?” I ask again as I take a better look at the considerable damage to his face. My eyes then slide down to where I can see his hands and I gasp again. One hand has swollen to almost twice its normal size and the other is peppered with cuts and bruises.

  Holy crap.

  “I’m fine,” he responds indifferently.

  Wow this guy is cold

  “Do you have a weapon?” He asks again starting to sound annoyed.

  “Umm. No. I lost my gun the other night when…” I stop midsentence as I realize what he just asked and what I am telling him.

  Should I have told him that?

  Shit.

  Realizing that I may have just made yet another stupid mistake in my long line of stupid mistakes, I snap my head back in the window. It’s as my mind sends the message to my feet to dip the clutch and hit the accelerator that Anton’s hand flies through the window to grab the keys from the ignition. The engine of the truck sputters to a stop.

  Fuck.

  “Your lost,” Anton speaks again as he straightens next to the truck. Shocked at the speed at which he disabled my truck and shocked that that’s all he did, I nod.

  “Driving straight past Jake’s driveway about seven kilometers ago was my first clue that might be the case,” Anton continues with what I sense is a hint of amusement in his voice. “Then spending the next six of those seven kilometers creeping along at thirty kilometers an hour behind you somewhat painfully confirmed my suspicion.”

  “Oh,” I mumble softly as I turn my head to look at Pierre who is still curled up fast asleep on the bench seat next to me. He is, as is often the case, oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. “Very perceptive of you.”

  “Are you being sarcastic Ms. Lovett?” Anton cuts in, his own voice now sarcastic.

  I chew thoughtfully at my lip as I wonder what sort of pickle I’ve landed myself in this time. Is Anton a bad guy and is something bad about to happen to me?

  Again.

  Deciding I can’t wait a second longer to find out, I turn and stare direct at his face. “What do you want?”

  “I want,” he responds pinning me with an intense look, “you to be more careful. Pulling over in the dark in the middle of nowhere was dangerous Ms. Lovett and I’m supposed to be watching out for you. From what I’ve read, witnessed and… experienced over the past two days, trouble follows you around Ms. Lovett. As Stephen Bradford’s daughter and as someone who appears to be a magnet for trouble, you need to be smarter.”

  Huh?

  I watch as he reaches behind him and pulls something from the back of his pants. Quickly bringing it into the light I see it’s a small handgun. Before I have time to register whether he plans to use it for good or evil, he hands it to me through the window. I take it, confused.

  “Always carry a weapon Arianna. And never take it on yourself to just go for a random drive in the middle of the night without first letting someone know you are leaving. You should also let someone know of your planned destination.”

  “But I didn’t have a planned destination. I just wanted to go for a drive and in my own defense, I don’t have a spare gun laying around. In case you haven’t received a brief or whatever it is you security type folk do, someone pocketed my gun a couple of nights ago. Which is something you could talk to your boss about. I’d like it back. I assume he kept it as memorabilia after I you know, shot him with it. It’s probably one of those items he’s got in his box of memories titled ‘Close Calls’. From what I’ve heard it would be quite a full box with all the other little bits
and pieces that have nearly killed him over the years.”

  A look of confusion and something akin to amusement fleets across Anton’s face. Looking at the gun in my hand a bit more closely I frown. “And what’s the point of this gun? It’s smaller than the last one. I want a bigger gun this time. The last one proved inadequate.”

  I hear Anton sigh. “You don’t need a bigger gun Arianna, you need to learn to shoot straighter. And my boss as you so loosely reference Mr. Bradford, is your father. Perhaps you should ask him for your gun back yourself.”

  Probably a good point.

  “Alleged father,” I mumble as I swing my eyes back to Anton to see him shaking his head slowly at me.

  “Father,” he announces dispassionately with a strange look on his face. “You’ll be getting a call in the morning to confirm that.”

  “Really?” I ask as the distinct feeling that Anton is telling the truth washes over me. It makes me feel a little odd. Hot and cold at the same time. Goose bumpy.

  Damn.

  He nods as he leans forward again to hold out the truck keys for me. “You do need to be more careful Arianna. You may have thought your associates in Melbourne were dangerous. They were amateurs compared with what you could be up against if Elizabeth Bradford discovers you have resurfaced.”

  You’ve got to be shitting me. It’s never ending.

  “Nice,” I mutter under my breath as I take the keys from his hand. “Anton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you take my keys?”

  “So you couldn’t take off without waiting for me to tell you I’ll take you back to Jake’s driveway and as long as you promise to drive up to the house, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Really? Is that all?

  “Thank you,” I murmur as I hear the familiar sound of a text message arriving on a mobile phone ring out from the car behind me. I watch him looking back at his car thoughtfully before he turns back to me and nods.

  “Anton?”