Winner

by Belle Brooks

  “They’re dating?”

  He laughs. “No, son. Engaged to be wed next year. Nobody would have turned down the diamond and life he has offered her. Not even a Horton. We’ve much more wealth than them. She’d be stupid not to marry into our money.”

  Everything I thought I liked about Mr Banter when I met him has gone out the window. This man is a true blue, up-himself arsehole. No woman should be a man’s bloody escort. Rose isn’t a hooker. Lucky? Pfft! More like unlucky. Bet his son is a fucking tosser like him. My fists clench at my sides. What is it with these people and wealth? Don’t they know money doesn’t buy any of the important things in life? I hear Tessa’s voice when I think this. She used to tell me this all the time when I was growing up.

  We travel farther into the upper side of Hoffman, far beyond what I’ve scoped out to date. I’ve never ventured into these parts, for obvious reasons. I’m scum and these residents who live here are all diamonds and gold encrusted everything. It’s best to keep your nose in business where it belongs. When we reach the top of a mountain range we turn into a laneway.

  “This is the most prestigious country club there is, Mr Crossley. Men are to always be dressed in formal black tie, and the ladies adorned in the finest dresses and apparel. Thank yourself lucky you’re getting a pass so early on in your residency. Twelve months is normally the timeframe needed to be a resident of the community before being allowed to even apply for a membership. You did well meeting me.” He slaps my chest and chuckles. “No need to thank me, son.”

  I’m not fucking planning to now. Not after what he said about Rose.

  “I thought the meeting would be at the property for sale, not here.”

  “You thought wrong.” He dabs his finger on the tip of his tongue and proceeds to wipe along each eyebrow. “You must always look your best. Next time, Finlay, make sure you don’t have a five o’clock shadow. Either a groomed goatee or clean shaven. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. Sir. Be respectful to your elders, Finlay.”

  “Yes, sir.” I almost vomit in my mouth from this pretentious bullshit.

  We step out of the car and I study the building in front of me. What the fuck is this place? A castle. It sure looks like it to me. Stone exterior. High points. Grand in size.

  Everything is gold, brass or silver on the inside. It screams wealth from whatever angle you shift your eyes. To say I’m uncomfortable is an understatement.

  Led through a room as spacious as a football stadium, I halt. So many people are trekking through the same space as us. Banter seems adamant in stopping to shake the hand of every person who comes our way. He chuckles, the fakest sound one can manage, and his narrowed eyes accompanied by his clenched jaw and hard stance display his dislike of these people, but they are oblivious to these signs. Instead, they stand seemingly in awe of him, hanging off every witty comment passing through his lips. I’m starting to think this country club is a parallel universe, and I’ve been beamed here by aliens. I smile and nod slightly when introduced as the new young blood of Hoffman, even though it makes me feel dirty.

  When we start forwards, Banter leans in and whispers, “That one is a banker. He’s loathed by everyone here. Son, take this knowledge as my first lesson for you––if you need something done under the table, you know, illegal work, Cullum Gallaway is the man you will need to go to. Keep your enemies closer than your friends and you’ll do just fine.” Banter follows this with a cocky half-laugh, and I can’t stand the sound of it as much as I can’t stand him. I feel even dirtier than I did five seconds ago.

  We exit the room through a wide opening, and Banter leans in. “Quite the ballroom, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” I reply, wondering who needs a room so large for the sole purpose of dancing?

  “This way, Finlay.” His palm faces upwards as he gestures to another opening on his right. I read into this as an indication to take the lead and step around him. He clears his throat. “A true new blood would never take the lead over a more established member.” His eyebrows stretch high on his forehead.

  My mouth makes a solid circular shape even though no sound ever passes my lips.

  “At least you’re a good listener.” He smirks as he pushes in front of me.

  A long polished dark oak table sits in the centre of the room. High-backed leather seats surround it, and in three of these seats sit men decked out in dark suits.

  “Maxwell, thank you for meeting with us. Graham, Leroy …” Banter shifts his body in the direction of each of these suited men and offers full eye contact with each address. “Please let me introduce to you to Mr Finlay Crossley. New blood and my new neighbour.”

  “Finlay,” they say in unison, standing.

  “Don’t just stand there, son. Be polite and offer your hand in welcoming.”

  I’m not sure why I didn’t do this in the first place. Maybe it’s the fact I’m in shock. This place is foreign to me. These people and the way they conduct themselves is foreign to me.

  “Yes.”

  He shoots me an angered glare.

  “Yes, sir.” I’m hesitant to correct myself. “Of course. Where are my manners?” I try a sophisticated laugh, but upon hearing myself, I have the urge to cut my own tongue from my mouth.

  Banter grins. What a power-hungry, uppity shit-for-bricks is Banter.

  The suits’ grips are hard—like they are all competing for a strong-man competition and are desperate to win—when they take my hand.

  “You’re a big fellow,” the man Banter referred to as Maxwell says before tapping my upper arm.

  I don’t grace him with a reply, just a grin.

  We talk business, and we talk business fast. None of these men are genuinely polite people. It’s all a well-rehearsed show for each other’s company, and every time they afford me eye contact, I can see green dollar signs tattooed on their eyeballs.

  We come to a settlement swiftly, and I’m not sure why I expect there to be some type of general “getting to know you” conversation following, but I do. It doesn’t happen. Instead, Maxwell shoots upright, as if his pants caught ablaze, and says, “Graham will sort the formalities out. The land and building are yours, Mr Crossley.”

  The four of them laugh. They laugh as people do when they are part of a joke you aren’t privy to.

  “I’d say this is a good deal,” Banter says.

  “Agreed.” Maxwell is a serious type. His face is hard-pressed and well maintained, yet cold. “Anyway. Please refrain from contacting me, Mr Crossley. You will deal with Graham from here on out.” With this, he strides right past where I’m still seated.

  Graham and Leroy follow like lost puppy dogs, and when I turn my attention back towards Banter, he is standing like the King of England is leaving the building, straight to attention and with his hands pressed to his sides. What dimension did I step into, really?

  “Stay well, George.” Maxwell nods.

  “You too, Maxwell,” Banter replies.

  And with this, they disappear like vampires at first light.

  “You have your wish. The property is all yours. Now, are you hungry, son?” Banter’s perfectly straight and whitened teeth are on full display.

  “I’ll probably just leave you be from here. I have—”

  “You will dine and mingle. Follow me.”

  I find myself in unfamiliar territory by being here, and as much as I’d like to walk away from Banter and this place, I also don’t want anything to blow the deal we just did. This company is my dream. “Sure,” I say.

  After retracing our steps back through the ballroom, we turn down two separate long corridors until we stand in front of tall brass doors.

  “This is the main dining area. Food here is bellissimo, Finlay. You’ll be more than satisfied with the gastronomical experience.”

  “Okay.” What does gastronomical even mean?

  Circular tables are covered in stark white table cloths—twenty-seven of them to be exact—
each with eight fancily decorated white seats trimmed in gold. I count them in my head whilst standing in wait of Banter, who is having another of those “I actually hate you, but we’re pretending to be great friends due to our need for each other’s services in the near future” greetings. The sooner I can blow out of this joint, the better it will be. I’m up to about at least fifteen faces I’d like the pleasure of bruising with my fists right now.

  A pretty girl with long wavy black hair, bright red lipstick, and long dark lashes lead us towards a table near the back of the room. I almost freeze on the spot when I see Rose.

  Her head tilts backwards, and she laughs in such an overdramatised way, it doesn’t seem at all like she’s amused—more like she’s maintaining a perfectly trained expression or she’s quite possibly constipated.

  “Roselette, you look beautiful, as always.” Banter is an indulgent creep. He eyes Rose in a way that clearly spells out to me he’d love nothing more than to bend her over this table and give her a good pounding himself. It’s sickening.

  Rose takes the hands of another lady into hers, cupping them. Her lips move, yet I don’t hear what she says as she lets them go again. Striding the remaining distance towards Banter, Rose softly smiles, and I can’t help turning my attention to the split on the side of the tight red dress she’s wearing and watch as it opens and closes with each step.

  Banter holds Rose in a tight embrace and kisses each of her cheeks before he sniffs loudly, smelling her.

  “You smell amazing, as always, Rose.”

  “Why, thank you, George.”

  “Dad. Call me Dad, Rose. You are, after all, about to become my first and only daughter.”

  Rose shifts her weight from foot-to-foot. She appears uncomfortable.

  This is too much. I want out, like now.

  “Dad. Good to see you.” This man is tall and slender, yet broad-shouldered, with blond greased-down hair and light blue eyes. This is Slade, and how I didn’t put the last name and his first name together before has me angry. Slade Banter, the cream of the crop in Hoffman. Every girl wants to bed him and almost every guy wants to be him or at least his friend. A mythical creature brought into discussion on a regular basis in the poorer suburbs is now standing in front of me with his wide smile and slick swagger. I hate him.

  “Son. How is the market today?”

  “Sell out your BMP shares and buy into Capital City, Father. This is my tip of the day.”

  “Done.” Banter eyes his son with the word “pride” bouncing from each of his polished teeth.

  “And you are?” Slade stares me down.

  Movie-star good looks don’t impress me. I’m not into guys, and I don’t befriend arseholes.

  “This is Finlay Crossley. He’s nobody important to our circle or anyone’s circle, darling.” The way in which Rose says this is very unimpressive. She may as well light me up, place me on someone’s porch, and watch them stamp me out—nothing more than a flaming bag of shit. She looks at me as poorly as she spoke of me.

  Why is she being such a bitch? She’s nothing like the Rose I met at my accident, or the one who returned my lotto ticket to me in the hospital. Who is this woman and what has she done with Rose?

  “Rose. Nice to run into you again.” Keep your enemies closer is what Banter said earlier. I can play this game. I’ll be your frenemy.

  “Roselette. My name is pronounced Roselette, thank you. Not Rose.”

  “What kind of name is Roselette?” I’m quick to counter. I know it’s rude to say such a thing, but it flies off my tongue without thought.

  “Mine.” Her lips purse.

  “Sounds strange to me, really.”

  “Now, now. We’re in the presence of a lady, Mr Crossley. Watch your manners.” Slade has a backbone. Bet he couldn’t make it through one round of having that girlish face of his punched, I’m sure. He’s not boxing material.

  “Lady? Really? Tell me, do all the ladies in this part of town walk around with a massive stick permanently fixed up their arses?”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Mr Banter’s face turns the shade of a ripened tomato.

  “Oh, where are my manners? I’m sorry, no, I’m joking.” I take a try at this fake laughter once more. It’s not as hard as you might think to perfect, because I manage to master it twice in a short span of time. “Rose and I met a few months back. Just a little bit of humorous banter. She knows I’m just taking the mickey out of her, hey, Rose?” I know she won’t agree, but I give it a shot. I’ve pushed this too far.

  “Yes.” She speaks softly. And there’s a glimpse of the Rose I thought she was. A kind sparkle in her eye. A softening in her expression. Is she displaying a look of guilt? I can’t be sure.

  “No harm done here, fellows. I’ll refrain from such humour if it makes you uncomfortable.” Speaking with a pinched nose and sounding like an uppity git isn’t hard to master either. I accomplish such an achievement on my first try.

  Banter chuckles a forced sound. They might have money, but they have no real intelligence.

  “Are you okay, Roselette? He’s not hurt your—”

  “Yes, I’m fine, darling.” She tucks her hand around Slade’s waist and places her other hand to his chest. “As Finlay said, it’s merely a little humour on our part. Something you’ll soon learn about Mr Crossley is he has a dry wit. It’s all in fun.”

  “When did you say you two met then?” Slade cocks his head.

  “A few months ago at an event. I can’t remember which one.” Rose half-smiles.

  Why did she lie just now? Why doesn’t she just say she rescued me from a burning wreckage? I’m shocked, and as I look at Rose, her eyes are wide and her gaze appears worrisome … or is it pleading? Does she want me to agree to this lie? I take a moment to breathe and try to figure out what I should do. Her gaze only becomes more intense.

  I clear my throat. “Let me help you out, shall I, Rose? It was a fundraiser for the fire department, if my memory serves me correctly.” Where the fuck did that just come from?

  Rose smiles briefly. If I were to blink I’m sure I would have missed it. Then her eyes narrow, and she glares at me. “Sure. Yes. This was the event.”

  “They were talking about fires and burning wreckages … We hit it off with our mutual discussion on the bravery it takes for a person to go running towards a burning house or wreckage, instead of away from it.”

  She forces a fake laugh. “It was a great event, if my memory serves me correctly. Finlay, please tell me if I’m wrong, but I also believe we learnt on this day about how one would have to be a Neanderthal to go running toward a burning wreckage”—she pauses—“or building”—she tenses her jaw—“if he isn’t trained to do such a thing. Citizens with little know-how or sensibility.”

  She is a piece of work.

  I exaggerate the clearing of my throat. “I said to dear Rose here—”

  “Roselette.”

  “I was explaining to Rose”—I make sure to place great emphasis on my chosen name for her—“I believe a person would only do this if there was a very good reason for doing so. Their child or their loving wife still trapped inside, for instance. Or, in some cases, very important documents that could change their entire life.”

  “We agreed to disagree.” She’s trying to shut the conversation down. She wants the lie to be over. But why? And why is she bringing this up in such a manner? Is she mad at me about that day? I’d like to find out.

  “Really? I thought we were both on the affirmative.”

  Slade bounces his head between the two of us as we take frosty digs at one another.

  “I must freshen up. Please excuse me.” Rose pinches her lips tight together. She’s mad at me. The question is, why?

  “Of course.” My head is spinning. What just happened?

  “You have my permission to freshen up, Roselette,” Slade says.

  “Thank you, darling.” Rose shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other before turni
ng and making her way from the table with small, quick steps. I keep my eyes fixed on the back of her head, and I’m not disappointed when she glances over her shoulder in my direction. I offer her a smile and a gingerly wave.

  Rose just turns away.

  This afternoon may not be as hellish as I imagined it to be. I don’t know what it is, but disagreeing with Rose like that fucking confused the shit out of me, but it also satisfied me. She has a temper, and I’m attracted to a woman with some spunk and some fire in her belly.

  Looks like my burning utility won’t be the only time Rose and I play with fire.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rose

  Who the hell does Finlay Crossley think he is? And why has he been granted access to the country club after such a short residency in the community? Is he going to be everywhere I turn now? Good Lord, I hope not. Flushing the toilet, I take one deep breath and turn the latch from occupied to vacant. The sound of my heels meeting the tiled flooring bounces from the walls, and the nameless face of the restroom attendant who greeted me with a smile on entry sweeps the gold handle of the tap at the vanity in front of me to the side, allowing the flow of water to drizzle from the spout.

  “Having a good day, ma’am?”

  I purse my lips and shake my head. What is it with today? Now the hired help is addressing me in the bathroom. How rude. “You’re not supposed to speak to the guests.” I cup my hands to allow the attendant to squirt a dab of liquid in the centre.

  She does. I guess she’s not completely untrained. “Are you new?” I best be ensuring she understands the rules.

  She nods, pressing her lips tightly together. Her reflection in the mirror fills with a worried tension.

  “Don’t speak to the guests or you’ll be unemployed. Understood?”

  She nods once more.