Cringe.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes. You’re right. How about we meet for lunch?”
“I can meet at twelve, twelve-thirty?”
“Give me half an hour to organise somewhere and I’ll text you the booking details.”
“Sure.”
****
He’s waiting for me outside the door to Buon Ricordo in Paddington, as agreed. The fucker wears a different suit to the one he wore the last time I saw him. This time, it’s a dark navy blue number, with a crisp white collar and striped powder-blue tie positioned firmly around his neck. Would make for a nice noose.
The pompous smirk that crosses his lips as I approach has my heart racing and my nerves on edge. Perhaps I should have told Rocco about this meet. This whole skinning-alive business is supposed to be a team effort, and I failed to bring my partner in crime.
“Greg,” I say, with a nod.
“Love this look on you, sweet pea. Much more fitting.” He kisses my cheek. I clench my jaw to stop myself from outwardly cringing.
Fuck you.
“Shall we?” I say, motioning towards the door and raising my eyebrows.
“Of course.” He opens the door for me and I walk through, doing my best to avoid his gaze. I needn’t have worried, because he seems to forget about me when two middle-aged business men start talking to him. He shakes hands with the suits, kissing their arse with compliments on a building project. I smile to myself in his shadow, thrilled that there are people here that know him.
Moments later, we are taken through the busy restaurant by a tall man dressed in black with clipped sandy-brown hair. He seats us at a table for two, and with great flair he tucks in my chair and ceremoniously drapes a white linen napkin across my lap. I fiddle with the corner of it and concentrate on my breathing rather than what Fuckface just said to the waiter. Why am I nervous?
The waiter hands a slim black menu to the pretentious arsehole seated across from me. “Can I get you something to drink?” the tall man asks Fuckface.
“Yes, the 2010 Jermann Were Dreams chardonnay,” he replies after perusing the list.
“Excellent choice, sir. And for you, madam?”
“Some ice water, please,” I say. The waiter nods and retreats.
“You’ve dressed for the occasion,” Fuckface says, and flaunts the dimple that used to do things to me. Now? I’m imagining taking a steak knife to it.
“I came from work,” I inform him, matter-of-fact.
“Really? Where are you working?”
Do I need him to know where I spend my days? Fuck it. I’m proud of my job. I don’t give a shit what he thinks. “Walker & Wilde Recruitment.”
“Great company. Heard nothing but good things. You’d make a lovely impression in reception.”
“Actually, I’m a consultant.” I leave off the junior part of my title, because I know it’s only for the short-term, and Julie has confirmed as such.
The waiter fills our water glasses and places a silver jug on the table, ice cubes tinkling inside. He returns a moment later and pours Fuckface a wine, and then hovers the bottle over my glass. I wave my hand over the rim of it, stopping him.
“None for me.”
Fuckface leans across the table, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “I just got the waiter to crack a two hundred dollar bottle of wine. Surely you’re not just drinking water.”
You can’t woo me, fucker.
“There’s no need to be extravagant, and besides, I’m not drinking at the moment.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to.” I put my head down and take a good look at the menu. I’d like to think that I have a refined palette, but I can’t even understand what half the shit on the menu is. I’d be more impressed right now if someone placed a fucking medium rare T-bone with pepper sauce and a mountain of vegetables in front of me. Now Rocco is on my mind.
“Bit too much eye makeup, don’t you think?”
What the fuck did he just say? Does he want one of these four pretty forks laid out in front of me wedged into his thigh or the meaty part of his shoulder?
“No. I don’t think so, actually. I like it like this.”
“Huh,” he says, and diverts his scrutinizing gaze to the menu instead. Arsehole.
The waiter returns with his plastic pen poised on his electronic notepad.
“What can I get for you, madam?”
“I’ll just have the stuffed calamari.”
“An excellent choice, madam.”
“That’s all you want?” Fuckface barks.
No. I want you out of my life for good. That’s all I want.
I grant him a fake-as-fuck smile and then direct the waiter with my hand to take Fuckface’s order. “Yes. I had a late breakfast.”
I pay no attention to what he mumbles to the waiter, instead, taking in the ambience of the restaurant. I’ll have to come back here another time … in better company. The waiter moves on to the next table.
Fuckface takes a large swill of wine and makes an ‘ah’ noise, I presume in appreciation. “Primo drop, sweet pea. One of Italy’s finest. I think you should try it.”
How about no, you controlling piece of shit? Was he always like this, or can I only see it now that I’m out from under his spell and have spent time in the real world?
“Again, no thank you.”
He shrugs and pulls a face, as if to say ‘your loss’.
“I guess you’re wondering where everything is at,” he says, after another mouthful of wine. “The bank is happy. All paid.”
I nod once, gritting my teeth. It’s the only thing I can think of doing to stop me from pulling my hair out, or his, in this classy establishment.
“I’m all moved into the family home, and have organised a painter to give it a freshen up. I have a designer tentatively booked in to come by next week, so I think it’d be good if you came along and made some choices from my selection—carpets, curtains, furnishings and all that. After all, I want you to be comfortable.”
“Right,” I whisper in astonishment. I can add deluded to the list of Fuckface’s characteristics.
“I’m setting up a home office so I’ll be around more for you and our family.”
I clear my throat and swallow down hard. Now he’s gone one step further than bat-shit crazy.
“Sound good, sweet pea?”
Each second in his presence is getting my hackles up, but I can’t lose it now. I’m here to make a scene.
With his right hand, he reaches inside his left-breast suit pocket and pulls out a pen and one of his business cards. My hands clam up in a ball in my lap as he puts the ridiculously expensive-looking fountain ink pen to the back of the card. In the same cursive scrawl that cursed me all those years ago, he writes down a name. Clara who?
The pen goes back in his pocket, and he slides a business card towards me with a hopeful smile. “Clara Banks is the best interior decorator in Sydney. Why don’t you give her a call, and you can work out what time suits you both next week?”
Adrenaline zaps its way through my bloodstream as I place my hand over the card and push it to the side of the table.
In perfect timing, the waiter places a dish in front of each of us. My meal looks simply too delicious to not even taste. With care, I slice through the soft tube, exposing the rich tomato filling. I savour the intense flavour with the zing of chilli as I chew.
“He was right. An excellent choice,” I mutter around a mouthful of the seafood. Of course I can’t resist another bite, because it’s too good. With the stark white napkin, I dab at my lips and then place it on top of my bread plate. I stand up from the table, and loop my satchel across my body.
Now I get to have some fun.
“I’m moving on,” I inform him, with a great sense of satisfaction.
“You’re moving on?” he growls. “What on earth do you mean? We are meant to be together.”
“There is no we, Fuckface.”
I take great pleasure in pouring the ice-cold water from the jug over his head and into his lap.
He gasps and shakes his head from side to side, the water flinging from him in all directions. His grunts draw eyes from every corner of the restaurant, including the familiar suits who greeted him earlier. Watch this, boys.
With my fork I stab what’s left of the calamari and fling it at his suit. The tube bounces onto his chest. Red sauce splatters in the centre of his crisp white shirt. It kind of looks like a gunshot wound.
As I walk away, I flip him the bird. As much as I want to continue to admire that look of disgust on his face, I don’t turn back.
This fucked-up chapter in my life is over.
There’s only one thing left I have to do, and it’s gonna be tough as shit.
It’s time to call the agency and say yes.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Friday
“Give the girl a brazilian,” I say forcefully, guiding Vicky to the beautician. I spill a few drops of my champagne on my floral kimono robe as she turns and bumps into me, trying to escape the claws of Anna, one of our dedicated therapists for the afternoon.
“Um, I’m not sure,” Vicky says. Her crystal blue eyes flit around to the women in the room. It’s as if she’s sending out an SOS with the batting of her lashes.
“You want a pretty pussy, don’t you?” I say, challenging her with raised eyebrows.
“I guess,” she says with a shrug, and lets Anna guide her to the waxing room.
About two champagnes later, April and I look up as Vicky walks up the hallway. Her face and chest are flushed a rosy shade of pink. The girl looks as if she’s been put through the ringer, and she’s walking funny too, wincing with each small step.
“How’d you go, babe?” I ask her, trying my best not to laugh.
“I want to die,” she growls.
“Hey, Vicky,” April shouts as she comes closer. “How are your bits?”
“My bits officially hate you. They’re drafting a formal letter of complaint as we speak.”
“Oh, come on now. It can’t have been that bad? We’ve all done it.”
“I swear the girl was trying to rip my flaps off. It’s the most unnatural thing I’ve ever experienced. She made me cry, April. I nearly told her halfway to stop, but I thought it would look funny. Then she asked me to check it, make sure I was happy with it. It looks like a plucked turkey! It doesn’t look pretty at all.”
Laughing hard, April pulls her into a hug. “Aw, my sweet, little Vicky. Don’t worry; all that pain will be forgotten when a guy’s got his head buried between your legs.”
Vicky blushes a deep beetroot red. “Promise?” she whispers, only loud enough for April and I to hear. “Because no guy has ever done that before.”
“Holy hell, Vicky. We need to get you a man. Closest thing to heaven you’ll ever get,” April says, and slaps her arse.
April’s words might as well have been out of Rocco’s mouth.
His mouth. The first thing that comes to mind is Rocco’s stud. The second thing is me coming apart under the command of that skilful tongue.
****
ROCCO
Jones, Stone and I sit and watch the sun set over the city from our hotel room balcony. It’s just been the three of us hanging out today. I whipped both their arses this morning at go-karts, which pissed them both off, but they both caned me this afternoon in one-on-one basketball. Neither of them believed me when I blamed my poor form on my dud knee. I told them I didn’t give a shit if they didn’t, and then sat back and watched them battle for the title. I’ve never seen such a serious game of ball in all my life. The sweat was pouring off them, neither backing down.
Today has been exactly what I’ve needed, but didn’t know it until now. Spending quality time with the boys. Time with my brothers. My family.
What surprised me the most about today, and makes me love these guys even more, is that alcohol didn’t even come into play. I can handle being around it, and I’m sure they’d both love a beer in their hands right now, but they’ve decided against it, and avoided it completely on Jones’s last day as a single man.
I turn to my mates and clear my throat, drawing their attention. “I fuckin’ love you guys,” I tell them.
Stone stands up in his chair beside me and ruffles his left hand through my hair, messing it up. I stand up, preparing to wrestle him to the ground, but I stop short when he holds out his hand. I don’t hesitate to put my own in his.
“Love ya, mate,” Stone says, and shakes firmly.
Jones slaps me on the back. “Yeah, what he said,” Jones says and winks.
I’m fucking lucky to have these men as solid mates. My emotions get the better of me, and my chest tightens. Don’t tear up.
“I don’t know about you boys, but I’m about to eat the crutch out of a low-flying duck,” Stone announces, moving towards the balcony door.
I clear my throat, swallowing my words, before I look like a tool and tell them how I feel again. I want them to know what an important part of my life they are. They know, already. Shut your trap. “Yeah, I’m starved,” I say.
“Grab the room service menu, Stone,” Jones says. Stone moves out of sight, leaving us to watch the last glimmer of sunlight disappearing between the buildings.
“You excited about seeing Soph?” Jones asks.
I flick my head towards him. I can’t stop the dumb-arse smile spreading across my face.
“I miss her,” I admit to him.
Last night was the first night we haven’t slept in the same bed since V died. It was different not having her by my side, but I managed. I felt her absence, but she’s such a fucking bed hog. I actually had a decent night’s sleep.
“I can tell.” Jones moves his chair to face me, the timber legs grating against the tiled floor. “Bro, when are you gonna tell her how you feel?”
My heart constricts in my chest as I stare at his face. Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. It’s the question I ask myself every day, and never come up with an answer. Since V died, I haven’t been able to express my feelings to her. On that day, a part of my heart withered away and died like an injured animal.
I shrug.
“Do you reckon you two are ever gonna sort your shit out and be together, already?”
I’m banking on it.
“I got a room here for tomorrow night, Jones. I don’t plan on being in it alone.”
****
Saturday
We arrive at the church in style in a stretch black Hummer. As we get out one by one, we watch on as a sea of guests filter up the pathway towards the grand old timber doors at the front of the building.
Jones’s parents and Mac greet people as they arrive, and usher them inside.
As we approach the doors, I hold my hand over my inside jacket pocket, hyper aware of the rings tucked inside. I’ve got a pretty fucking important job to do today, and I’m beyond pumped about it. I’ll also be doing it thirty-six days sober, which is a fucking miracle. I’m cool with being at a wedding sober, which is a change, compared to how anxious I was at the bucks. I know I can resist it because I have the support of my friends, but in particular, one very hot, not-so lesbian flatmate who has become such a big part of my life. If I told her how important she’s become to me, I don’t think she’d believe it.
As we round up the last of the cobblestone steps, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and when I see that it’s the detective, I know I can’t reject the call.
“Jones, I gotta take this. Just give me a sec.”
“Sure. April is gonna be late for sure, anyway.”
“Yeah,” I answer and move around the side of the church.
“Mr De Luca, it’s Detective Senior Constable Coubrough here.” The tone in her voice is exactly as it was that day when she came to my door. Hesitant and laden with empathy. It sends an unwelcome chill right up my spine.
“I c
an’t talk long,” I say, as I wander down the path through the manicured gardens, kicking rogue stones in my way with my Italian leather shoes.
“I won’t take too much of your time.” She huffs and then pauses. It forces my heart to pump harder in my chest.
“I’m ringing to inform you that we have formally charged an inmate with your brother’s murder. He’s from a rival gang.”
“Fuckin’ hell,” I choke out.
Murder.
Of course I knew that was what had happened, but hearing it from her mouth is a different story altogether. The word means so many things.
That low-life stole my brother. He destroyed what was left of my family. He didn’t care about the consequences of his actions or what it would do to those left behind. He killed my brother in cold blood, whether it be of his own will or bowing to the orders of those above him.
“Is he from the other MC we talked about? The Rebel Raisers?”
“Yes, he is. He’ll appear before the court to answer to the charges on Monday. As far as we’re concerned, we have a watertight case. I never make guarantees when it comes to this type of thing, but I promise you he’ll pay for what he’s done to your family.”
“Can I come to the court and look this fucker in the eye?”
“Do you think you’re ready for that?”
The church bells chime, ringing in my head with thoughts of murder. With quick steps, I walk deeper into the gardens. I can’t fucking think with that racket.
Can I face the cretin that killed my brother? Will it add to the weight of this whole situation, or will it give me some kind of closure?
“You there?” the female voice trills, reminding me she’s still on the line.
“On second thought, I don’t know if I can. This shit is hard enough.”
“I understand. Just to let you know, the coroner’s inquest is now adjourned pending the Criminal Court hearing.”
“Thanks for ringing.”
“If you need anything, please call me.”
“Thanks.”
I turn my phone off and slip it back in my jacket pocket.
I couldn’t protect him out in the real world, and there was no way I could’ve protected him in there. That’s what the custodians are supposed to do. They’re supposed to make sure that people are safe … that they’re not stabbed to death.
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