“Brilliant. I won’t faff around ‘cause we’re both busy men. We saw your tape, we want you on the show, and the crew and I’ll be there near the end of October.”
Del’s feet stopped dead as did his heart. He stood blinking up at the blue sky.
He’d done it. He’d gotten through.
“That’s great, fucking great. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“The camera’s going to love you surrounded by all that nature rubbish, even if we do have to travel to the world’s bumhole to get there.” Laughter rolled down the line, a sneering, superior kind of laugh.
Hackles rose on Del’s neck. Ethan had judged Stewart Island before even setting one polished Oxford here.
Prick.
Del caught himself and rolled his eyes. He’d pretty much called Stewart Island the same thing. Pot calling the kettle black.
“It’s not so bad.”
And why was he defending this place? Oban was the bumhole of the world, or close to it. He couldn’t wait to leave. But not for a month now, buddy. Not without giving Ward On Fire his best shot.
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Another disparaging chuckle. “Some underling will be in touch in the next few days to finalize details, sort out paperwork and all that. I’ll be in touch later.”
The line went dead.
Del shoved the phone into his pocket and walked up the hill to West’s, his mind spinning. He’d made it over the first hurdle. Ethan Ward, coming to Due South. With a camera crew.
Holy shit, how would he convince Bill this was a stroke of good luck?
Del opened the door and stepped into the hallway. His eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, and he froze. West, bare-chested and jeans almost falling off his butt, had a wide-eyed Piper pinned against the wall, his hands tangled in her short hair. She appeared to be missing a few items of clothing.
“Fuck!” Del said as West moved to block his view of his fiancée’s chest. “Sorry.”
He took a large reverse step outside and closed the door. Halfway down the driveway, West called out Del’s name.
Del whirled around. “Ever heard of a lock, asshole?”
At least West had buttoned his jeans, though the bastard only looked mildly embarrassed and actually kinda smug.
“Now where’s the fun in that?” West folded his arms across his bare chest. “You don’t usually come up to the house in the afternoons. Need anything?”
Other than some extra-strength brainwashing sessions? “Go back to your woman.”
West’s grin widened, so Del flipped him off and turned away.
Four more weeks here, like hell could he continue to stay in West’s spare room. He needed his own place.
Del walked into town, pausing outside the Komekes’ workshop.
Ford slouched on a bench, coverall-clad legs stretched out, a grease-stained mug in his hands. The same damn bench where he and West and Ben would wait for the twins to finish their afternoon chores. Back when he forgot the crap raining down on him at home by hanging with his mates—fishing, fixing up two crappy old trail-bikes the twins’ dad had scored, and just running wild. Back when Ford Komeke had been his best mate. Not the cool-eyed stranger before him.
Stranger or not, Ford would know if anyone had a place Del could rent for a few weeks.
“Afternoon smoko?” he said by way of greeting and walked over, sat on the opposite end of the bench.
Ford gave him the upward eyebrow twitch of acknowledgment. Took a sip of his mug and crossed his work-booted ankles.
“Same every day.”
Del leaned his head against the workshop wall, the tinny reggae music from the portable stereo inside drilling into his ears. “Your dad still playing his old Bob Marley CDs?”
“Same every day.”
“Yeah. I bet.” His peripheral vision caught the corner of Ford’s mouth curling up.
They sat in silence. Bob Marley continued to wail, sea birds wheeled overhead, and people wandered past them on the way to Russell’s next door.
“Saw you go past.” Ford blew on his coffee. “Saw you come back again pretty damn quick.”
Del massaged his fingers over his temples. “I walked in on Piper and West in their hallway. Jesus.”
Ford snickered. “Thought I heard West’s bike earlier.”
“What’s seen can’t be unseen.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Know of a place I can rent? I don’t want to continue stumbling into my brother’s afternoon quickies.”
Ford rolled his head to the side, dark eyes unreadable. “You staying?”
“For a bit. At least until after the wedding.” His stomach tensed, waiting for the inevitable barrage of questions.
But Ford looked straight out to the harbor, took a sip from his mug. “Wally’s little fishing shack out on Shearwater Bay is empty. He might be open to a cash deal.”
“Wally Nolan?” One of his dad’s mates and the man who’d busted his ass once for vandalizing his garden. “You think he’s forgotten about the roses incident?”
Ford barked out a laugh. “Nobody forgets anything in this damn place. But he’s a nice old dude; he’s probably forgiven you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Yeah, me too.” Ford stood. “Good luck with that.” He sauntered into his workshop and Bob Marley cranked up a notch.
Del stared after him then up through the bush-covered hill in the distance where Mr. Nolan lived. He could avoid the old man and continue to ask around. Except now Ford had mentioned Wally’s place, Del wanted it. The idea of being away from Due South, away from playing third wheel to West and Piper, sounded damn good. With a sigh, Del stood.
Time to man up.
He found Wally in his front garden, tending to—what else—a rose bush.
A bee buzzed past Del’s ear and the scent of roses transported him back in time, to age thirteen again, and he found himself re-living the wash of confused grief and rage he’d felt as he’d snuck into this garden after midnight. He remembered the panicked jolts of his heart when a flashlight beam pinned him to the spot, the heavy footsteps on the wooden deck, and the perfume of roses clogging his nostrils as his breathing rasped through aching lungs.
Earlier that day, Wally had brought his mother a few roses from his garden. Later, Del overheard her berating his father for never bringing her home flowers. They’d fought. Again. So, after midnight Del’d picked up some scissors, snuck out his bedroom window, and hacked off every bloom in Mr. Nolan’s garden.
Wally hadn’t hollered at him, just trained the flashlight on the ruin of petals at Del’s feet. In fact, the only words he’d said were, “Feel better, son?”
Del had mutely shaken his head, and the light switched off. Seconds later came the soft click of the door closing. Far as he knew, the old man never told his parents about the incident.
West had guessed and blabbed it to their mates, earning Del few moments of peer approval, which instead of warming him had made him want to puke.
“Mr. Nolan?” He paused at the fence separating the garden from the road.
The bald head twitched up from the rose bush, steel grey eyes focusing on Del’s face. Instant recognition.
“Ah, the youngest Westlake.” He straightened, a gnarled hand pressed to the hip of khakis ironed with a military-sharp center crease.
So much for Mr. Nolan softening with age.
“Heard you were in town.”
“Seems everybody has now, sir.” Del startled at the knee-jerk term he’d once used when addressing his step-father. “I’ve come to ask about renting your place on Shearwater Bay, but before I do, I apologize for what I did to your roses all those years ago.”
“You were a little hooligan, right enough.” Mr. Nolan plucked his walking stick off the fence next to the rose bush and walked over.
Del kept his expression dialed to neutral. “Yes, sir.”
“A little hooligan who had a lot of anger and resentment inside him.”
“Yeah.” H
e dipped his head in agreement. “Hopefully, I’ve outgrown my teenage ass-holism.”
“Hopefully.” Mr. Nolan fired off a toothy smile. “You going to vandalize my house if I rent it to you?”
He fended off a returning grin. “No, sir.”
“Ah, well. Nothing much you could do to make it look any worse. South wall needs a coat of paint, but I’m too damn old to be climbing around on ladders, and the grandkids—pah.” He thumped the walking stick on the ground. “They all go off fishing when they visit, no time for helping their grandpa.”
“You rent it to me, I’ll paint it.” Where he’d find the time, hell if he knew. But the offer might be enough to sweeten the deal.
Mr. Nolan hacked out a laugh. “You’d better go see what you’re up against ‘fore you agree to that.” He crooked his finger. “Come with me, and I’ll get you the keys.”
“Yes, sir.” Del unlatched the gate and stepped onto the path.
“And stop with that ‘sir’ bollocks—I haven’t been sir since my army days. It’s Walter. Friends call me Wally.” He shuffled toward the house, pausing to throw over his shoulder. “You can call me Walter ‘til you’ve earned the right to Wally.”
“Okay, Walter.” The corner of Del’s mouth tugged up as he followed Walter into his house.
The old man fished a keychain out of a small bowl on the hallway table and handed it over. “Here you go. Assume you know where it is?”
“Last beach house on Shearwater Bay Road.”
“Correct. Better ask your cohort, Ford, for a bike—if we can come to an agreement, it’s a long way to walk after a night’s work.”
“I’ll sort something out.” He’d hire a damn scooter if he had to.
“’Spect you will.” Walter gave him a shrewd glance. “You and your dad working together?”
Grist for the gossip mill, no doubt. Del’s fingers tightened around the keychain. “Bill’s not well enough to be in the kitchen. It’s why I’m here.”
“Bill, eh? Carrying some anger toward your old man, aren’t you?”
“I’m not the same little asshole who diced up your roses, Walter.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But you’ve still got that same look in your eyes, like you’ve more holes inside than wholeness.” He shrugged. “I’ve known your dad a long time—knew him before he and your mum married. We’ve downed a few brews together over the years. You’d be surprised what you learn about a man over a beer or two.”
“I know all I need to about my father.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Walter scratched the side of his neck. “But a man will fill himself up with lots of stupid stuff if he’s got a heart like Swiss cheese. And a good-looking fella like you? You can’t fill yourself up with a woman, ‘cause she’ll slip right through all those holes. Need to plug ‘em up first.”
Hearts, Swiss cheese, and dating advice? Old Wally was a phone call away from the dementia ward.
Del retreated a few steps. “Right, thanks for that.” He jingled the keys in his hand before tucking them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll return these later this afternoon.”
“No hurry. I’ll be pottering in my garden.”
With a wave, Del walked out of the house and toward town.
Holes. What bullshit.
So, he’d moments when thinking about Bill sending him away pissed him off. Moments when he’d pause for a little self-reflection and wonder how come his relationships were puddle shallow and only lasted a couple of months. How the one serious relationship he’d had failed so spectacularly.
Why every time he saw Shaye, he wanted to kiss her senseless, just to…
Del growled another four-letter-word and glared over his shoulder at Walter’s yard.
Just to fill myself up with her.
***
According to Holly, Shaye’s online daily horoscope said: An unexpected journey awaits if you’re brave enough to take the first step.
The only journey Shaye took after a quick coffee with Holly was up to Erin’s counter to score another blackberry Danish. Now she’d need a journey—a walking journey—to work off the extra calories.
She and Holly were nearly at Russell’s when the rev of a motorbike made them jump. From around the side of Komekes’ workshop putted Ford’s trail bike—minus Ford. Instead, Del sat astride, bad-ass in jeans and tee shirt, a black helmet on his head.
How did she know the man was Del, sitting there with the cords in his forearms flexing as he revved the throttle? Because unlike with Ford or any other guy around, she wanted to run her hands all over Del’s body and squeeze his deliciously firm butt.
But she totally wouldn’t.
He flicked up the face shield, and cool blue eyes examined her. “Ladies.”
Holly, who’d already bowled up to Del earlier in the week and introduced herself, hissed out the side of her mouth. “Look at that asssss!”
Then louder, so her voice carried above the bike’s rumble, she said, “Ford’s letting you ride his Honda?”
“I’m borrowing it to check out Mr. Nolan’s place.”
“Privileged,” Holly said. “He won’t lend out his baby to just anyone.”
“What’s out at Wally’s?” Shaye focused on the helmet’s chin guard. Less intense than Del’s eyes, less tempting than the span of his shoulders under the snug fit of his shirt.
The helmet tilted to one side for a couple of beats. “Why don’t you come with me?” He patted the seat behind him. “Plenty of room.”
Her stomach dipped as if she’d miscounted stairs and stepped down two by accident. “I don’t think so.”
“Got a phone call from the States this morning. I’ll tell you about it after we get to Shearwater Bay.”
A phone call? The phone call? Her heart beat a little faster. The blue eyes below the helmet edge gave nothing away. Hell. He’d tell her later—she’d make him—but the thought of being pressed up against that strong, masculine body? She stepped back, colliding with Holly, who stood positioned behind Shaye.
Holly’s palms braced on Shaye’s waist to stop her retreating farther. “Remember your horoscope this morning—an unexpected journey!”
Crinkles appeared around Del’s eyes. “I’m not going to beg, Shaye.” His rough voice issued both a challenge and a caress.
What would it be like to have him beg? She shivered, every cell in her body drawn to the temptation he offered.
Holly gave her another shove forward. “Go, you big Hobbit!”
“All right, all right. A quick ride,” she agreed. “We’re fully booked tonight.”
The crinkles deepened before disappearing as he slapped the face shield down. “Come on, Bilbo. Let’s blow this joint.”
Shaye rolled her eyes and hustled into the garage to get another helmet.
A few minutes later, she swung onto the bike, keeping her touch on Del’s shoulders light and impersonal. Kinda hard to stay impersonal when your thighs and boobs were bound to get snugged up against him. Ford’s smaller Honda would be a different experience to the times she’d gone for a blast with West on his BMW. Something she should’ve considered before impulsively agreeing to this ride.
Del flicked up the kickstand, and the bike wobbled under her added weight.
“Er, when did you ride a bike last?”
“Been a while, I guess.” He eased forward to give her more room.
Shaye felt like an octopus with too many arms—what was she supposed to hold onto? Him? “This is such a bad idea.”
A warm hand snaked up to grab her wrist. Del tugged her closer, placing her hand on his hip. “Can’t change your mind now, so you’d better trust me—and hang on.”
The bike lurched forward, and they were off. Shaye fisted his tee, her knuckles brushing lean muscle. The hell with it—gravel rash wasn’t an attractive option. She plastered herself to his big body as the bike picked up speed. Breasts smooshed against Del’s broad back, thighs hugging his, she made like a limpet.
Due South a
nd the primary school blasted past them in a blur.
“Okay?” he asked at a yell as they rounded the first corner.
Her hands moved from clenching his shirt to wrapping around his stomach.
“My life’s flashing before my eyes, but yes,” she hollered. “It’s all good.”
He laughed. A genuine, from the gut, I’m glad to be alive laugh. The first time she’d heard it. And oh, myyyy…
His laugh was like gooey caramel hidden in the center of a surprise muffin; you didn’t know how good it was until you got a taste of buried sweetness. She clung tighter—one percent of the reason was the bike hurtling around another corner, the other ninety-nine because she loved the feel of his hardness and warmth.
All too soon, they reached Shearwater Bay. A few locals in their yards waved them past, and on a rocky outcrop beneath the low cover of trees, a small group of fishermen took advantage of the changing tide. Two kayakers cut through the dull emerald ocean, their paddles flicking up plumes of sparkling water.
Del eased back on the throttle, and Shaye regretfully untangled her arms from around him. They coasted by a few more properties right on the beach front, until the road abruptly ended—with Wally Nolan’s shoe-box-shaped house.
Nestled against an impenetrable wall of variegated green bush and trees, the single-story house stood well apart from its nearest neighbors. Del rolled to a stop outside and killed the engine. Shaye clambered off the bike and removed her helmet, straightening her now wonky ponytail.
Del stood beside her, removing his helmet and holding his hand out for hers. “Hasn’t changed much and he wasn’t wrong about it needing a new coat of paint.”
Even from the road, the beach house looked neglected, with paint flaking off the clapboard sides, and the dark blue window trim faded and chipped. Shaye crossed the soft sand to the deck. Two sets of glass sliding doors featured at the front of the house, reflecting the pewter clouds gathered over the distant Ulva Island.
She cupped a palm to the first door and peered inside. Circular dining table and chairs, a battered green couch, and a functional but sparse kitchenette. Two doors led off the main room, one to a bathroom, she assumed, the other—she moved sideways along the deck to where Del had arrived at the second doors—yep, a bedroom. Complete with a set of bunk beds.
Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) Page 11