by Amy Andrews
She burst through the door, wishing she could pop Ten’s head open as easily. The reverb of a drum solo blasted like bullets into her chest, stopping her in her tracks. It was loud and trashy, just like the shirtless drummer beating it out.
Spike stopped abruptly as their gazes meshed and Julia almost dropped to the floor at the sudden cessation of the buoyant bass. He stood and she couldn’t help but notice the top button of his fly was undone.
‘Are you okay?’
Julia ignored the question. She was breathing hard, like she’d walked up a hill to get here instead of ten metres across a car park, and she was annoyed that somewhere in the broiling churn of fury she noticed that damn button. ‘Is Ten here?’ she demanded.
Spike shook his head. ‘He looked at his phone about five minutes ago, said holy fuck I have to go and left.’
Julia’s knees almost gave way for a second time as relief, sharp and hot, flooded through her. Ten would be almost at the hospital by now. But she was still pissed at him. ‘Why didn’t he bloody pick up?’
‘It was on vibrate because he can’t hear it ring over the noise anyway, and then our manager came with some other geezer to chat about some possible support gig so he left it on charge and stepped outside for ten minutes.’
Julia realised the explanation was perfectly reasonable, but she wasn’t very rational right now. She looked around the hall, realising Spike was the only one there. ‘Where’s everybody else?’
‘They left earlier.’
She nodded absently. ‘I’m sorry … I … didn’t mean to interrupt your practice.’
Which was a lie. She didn’t give a damn whether she interrupted him or not. All she really cared about was getting back to Poppy. But another, perverse, part of her wanted to run away to a place where she didn’t have to watch her best friend fade and die.
And for now, that was here.
Plus, she figured Poppy and Ten would probably appreciate some time together.
He gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked again.
‘No.’ Julia wasn’t sure why she’d answered. She didn’t want Spike to know her stuff. She didn’t want his pity or his brashness.
‘What can I do?’
Rage, sharp and molten, rose in her again. Do? As if he could do anything. What, just because he thought he was god’s gift to the universe he thought he could also cure cancer? ’Cause that’s what she needed.
Cocky bastard.
Julia didn’t mean to laugh. And even if she had she certainly wouldn’t have meant for it to sound quite so maniacal. ‘Nothing.’
‘I lost my muvver to breast cancer,’ he said. ‘I was twelve.’
Julia recoiled at the news, a spurt of hot tears scalding the back of her eyes. The thought was horrifying. She couldn’t bear thinking about him at twelve, all gangly and pubescent, losing his anchor. She couldn’t bear the thought of any of it.
She just didn’t want to think.
Her brain ached from the thinking.
‘Can you play?’ she asked, not really conscious of where she was going with it. ‘Loud?’
He shrugged those magnificent shoulders and the dragon danced. ‘How loud?’
‘Really loud. Loud enough that I can’t hear myself think.’
He looked at her for a few beats, then, without saying a word, he sat down on his stool and started to play.
The first notes hit her as she’d hoped they would. They thudded into her chest hard enough that she wished she was wearing Kevlar, and reverberated through her cerebral cortex with enough oomph to disrupt her clashing thoughts. For long minutes she stood there, eyes shut, and absorbed the crash and boom. She let it shake through her thighs, throb through her belly and vibrate through her grey matter.
She looked around the rickety old hall and found a stash of folding chairs. She grabbed one and sat in the middle of the empty space and let the noise consume her, tapping her cherry slingback shoe to the beat.
Tears came and she let them fall like rain. She watched him watch her as they fell and she didn’t care. Her brain was full of rage and bass meshing together into one blinding blast that left no room for anything else. The beat was intense, angry almost, and Julia revelled in it. Revelled in its vigour and its gut-wrenching emotion.
Anger. Her old friend.
She felt good suddenly. Good to have the noise in every cell of her being, to have no room for anything other than the furious beat.
Julia didn’t know how long it went on. All she knew was that at some stage Spike shut his eyes and went to another plain. She wasn’t sure then who he was playing for. Her? Ten? Poppy? His mother maybe? But he sure was working up a sweat.
She could see him perspiring from a good ten metres away. He flicked his head to the beat and the sun slanting through the high window behind him caught the droplets as they sprayed from his hair. There was a dewy sheen to his smooth pecs and she could see moisture gathering in the hollow at the base of his throat.
Her nostrils flared as the salty aroma of fresh sweat wafted towards her. It filled her head and swirled with the earthy masculine beat, pulling at her, potent and real, and she wondered how that hollow would taste.
Suddenly something more than the beat filled her head. Suddenly Spike filled her head.
And that just made her madder.
She stood, angry and repulsed that she could be thinking of sweaty drummers when Poppy, her best friend, was dying. The chair fell back with a clatter and he opened his eyes. His gaze pierced her to the spot. He looked at her like he knew.
Everything.
A small smile passed over his mouth before he tossed his head again and his eyes drifted shut and Julia felt her blood pressure skyrocket.
How freaking dare he? Did his cockiness know no bounds?
She stalked up to the stage, taking the stairs two at a time until she was standing in front of him, breathing erratically. The noise was deafening up here, hitting her in the chest like grenade blasts, the cacophony feeding her fury.
She watched him, utterly mesmerised by the show. His biceps flexing. His forearms straining as he belted the drums like he was possessed, like he was playing for his soul, the tattooed letters on his fingers and the sticks a blur of movement.
He was someplace else. Totally in the moment. And she wanted that. She wanted to be someplace else, too. In his moment.
Far the hell away from hers.
Julia moved closer until she was standing beside him. Close enough to touch him. Close enough to see him breathing hard at what was obviously quite a physical workout. To see the wink of his diamond stud and the sweat on his chest. To see that damn popped button.
And he didn’t smell like beer nuts and hair gel now. He smelled like rock-and-freaking-roll.
He stopped abruptly and his eyes flashed open, capturing hers. For long seconds neither of them did or said anything and only the wild tempo of their breathing broke the deafening silence.
Then she was lifting her skirt. Straddling him. Sliding her hands onto the bare smoothness of his shoulders up into his hair, twisting her fingers brutally into the shaggy locks.
He kissed her then. Not tentative. Not polite.
This was no first-kiss kiss. It was demanding. Dirty. And it went on and on. Deep, open-mouthed, head-twisting, tongue-fucking, rock’n’roll kissing.
His hands were everywhere. On her arse, her back, her breasts. Gliding up her legs, sliding under her skirt, stroking up the insides of her thighs.
Pushing into her underwear.
She gasped against his mouth as his finger swept aside the scrap of lace and found exactly the right spot to completely obliterate the events of the day.
‘Condom,’ she panted as her hands untwined from his hair, groping between them for his fly, making short work of it.
‘Fuuuuck,’ he groaned against her mouth when she reached inside his underwear and freed his cock. It was long and thick in her hand, but that wasn’t where she wan
ted him.
He produced a condom and she snatched it off him, his wallet falling to the ground as she tore at the wrapper with her teeth then rolled it on him in one smooth movement. Normally she would have done a thorough quality-control check.
But this was no normal day.
Then he was dirty-kissing her again – deep and wet – as he lifted her onto him and she kissed him deep and wet right back, grabbing his shoulders for stability as she flexed her hips and sank down on him in one swift move. She threw her head back, a gasp wrenched from her throat at the utter totality of it.
‘Jesus. You feel good,’ he panted into her neck.
Julia sucked in a ragged breath. Good didn’t even begin to describe it.
He fucked as dirty as he kissed. It wasn’t slow and gentle. It wasn’t nice. He didn’t make love. He screwed. Hard and fast. Bucking and thrusting deep, finding the right spot quickly and angling himself to hit it over and over and over.
And it was exactly what Julia needed as her hips rose and fell to meet every demand of his. Stroke after stroke. Annihilating all thought. No room in her head for anything.
No Poppy. No Ten. No anger.
No cancer.
Just the harsh suck of her breath and the drum of her pulse as pleasure spiralled inside, sharp and sweet.
And Spike.
The deep, hard thrust of him and the low, raspy growl of his, ‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ as he came, turning up the intensity of her own release.
That was the way you fucked cancer.
Chapter Seven
Port Lincoln, South Australia
Quentin did not want them to lower the cage.
He looked at Poppy, tiny and bright-eyed, that mischievous face peeking out through the diving mask, and he wanted to yell at the big South African working the pulley to just take a breath. Because the thought of watching her slip under the waves, where sharks were already circling, was wrong. So wrong.
For fuck’s sake, Poppy was already dying. He got it. They’d told him. Over and over and freakin’ over. Like they thought he was too slow to understand. But why the hell was she so determined to tempt the fates by doing all manner of life-threatening things? Like swimming with sharks. Wasn’t cancer enough of a mother-fucking shark for her?
Speaking of sharks, Julia and Scarlett circled behind him, saying the most unbelievably facile things as Poppy gave them all the thumbs up. ‘Go get ’em, baby.’ (Julia.) ‘Remember to breathe.’ (Scarlett.)
Remember to freakin’ breathe? Was that actually something you could forget? Although, now that he thought about it, Quentin was having a hard time recalling the delicate procedure of in/out, in/out himself. The apparatus started to make a metallic whine as the big South African yelled final instructions at Poppy. Her eyes locked on Quentin’s and in them he saw all the things they had avoided talking about over the last months.
Impending death. Fear. And her out-of-this-world determination.
Quentin had known some guys who fancied themselves really hard men. Surfers. Footballers. Guys who worked some truly mean nightclubs for a living. But he had never, ever met anyone as brave, or desperately foolhardy, as Poppy.
Poppy shot Quentin the thumbs up as she gave the South African the signal, and Quentin signalled her back weakly as the water started to lap at her feet.
He tried to be rational. There was a cage, right? It was all triple-checked and made to withstand a nuclear blast, yadda yadda yadda. But there were still going to be big, nasty predators eyeballing Poppy. His Poppy. And she was going to be all alone, exactly as she’d wanted it. He’d told her that he could dive. He’d got the certificates back when he’d been seeing a Swedish backpacker. In the end, he’d liked the reef more than the leggy blonde and there was only so much you could accomplish with a wetsuit on. But when he’d told Poppy he could go with her, she’d just smiled that particular smile that meant she had already made up her mind and nothing he said was going to make a blind bit of difference. It was so frustrating, like being a lion thwarted by a kitten. She was so small, and looked so fragile, especially now, but man, she had a will of steel, and she’d got it into her head that this particular item of bucket-list ticking was happening solo. She was killing him.
The cage was descending slowly, the water at her knees now, and the South African was singing along to the AC/DC tune they were using to attract the sharks. Singing along badly. Quentin wanted to turn around and punch the guy square on his Bear Grylls jaw, but he couldn’t decide if it was because of his bad vocals or the fact that he was cranking Poppy down into the ocean to get headbutted by some great whites.
A little of both, he decided.
But he couldn’t punch him, because that would mean breaking eye contact with Poppy as she descended. And he couldn’t do that.
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t join Julia and Scarlett in their last-minute cheerleading efforts. A terribly unevolved, caveman part of his brain was screaming at him that he might not be able to wield a club to fight off the cancer that was eating Poppy up, but he could sure as hell stop her from playing with predators.
He had never felt so conflicted. His fingers itched to lean over and pull back the lever that was sending her relentlessly downwards, but in his heart he knew that if he did it she might never forgive him. And never would suck, because in Poppy’s case there would be no second chances.
Quentin’s stomach rolled and bitched as he watched the cage fill with water, now up to her waist. All he needed was a sign. One tiny sign from Poppy and he would call a halt to this ridiculous charade.
Fuck number sixteen, and the wild monstrous great white it rode in on.
And then he got his sign. The slightest wrinkle formed between Poppy’s spectacular brown eyes; he could see the slightest hesitation in those intense eyes, even through the mask.
Game on.
‘Stop!’ Quentin yelled, turning to glare at the big South African. ‘Stop the winch!’
The guy hesitated, frowning at Quentin through greasy dreadlocks that partly hid his pretty-boy blue eyes. Quentin had an enormous amount of respect for Rastas, some of whom he’d played with in a reggae band when he was seventeen. This guy’s white-boy wannabe Rasta dreads just gave Quentin another reason to hate him, added to the fact that he was lowering Poppy to the sharks, and regardless of the fact that Poppy had not only signed up, but paid big bucks for this particular experience.
The cage paused, as Dr Dreads stared at Quentin. He must have read something in Quentin’s face that gave him pause, because he glanced over at Poppy. ‘Lady’s choice,’ he said, in a thick Joburg grunt. ‘She’s paying.’
Quentin summoned the courage to look back at Poppy, waist-deep in seawater. Her brown eyes flashed fury at him and her slender hands were balled into fists.
Shit, he was going to have to think quickly to get out of this one.
‘What the hell?’ she said, removing her mouthpiece so she could be heard.
Quentin looked around at Julia and Scarlett, who were facing him, arms folded across their chests like the twin gargoyles of hell. Then he spread his hands and appealed to Poppy. ‘I just forgot,’ he started, making it up as he went along. ‘I’ve always wanted to swim with sharks, too. I want to come with you.’
Poppy pushed her mask back and her face was stone-cold judgement. ‘You never said that,’ she said, her mouth a thin line that tore at his heart. He preferred that mouth all sweet and mobile and pouty and interesting. He preferred it pressed against his, making him crazy with all those little kisses and moans that …
Shit, he was really going mad. He shook his head and tuned back in to what she was saying.
‘In fact,’ she went on. ‘As I recall, when you read number sixteen on my list you said I was,’ she made inverted commas with her hands, ‘“batshit crazy”.’ She raised her eyebrows, which had started to grow back recently. ‘You said,’ she continued, like she was cataloguing his sins, ‘sharks were dangerous and that surfers knew they w
ere not to be fucked with.’
It was true. He didn’t hate sharks, he admired them. He respected their awesome power and their prehistoric beauty. But there was a good reason why those fuckers were one of the very few creatures left on earth that had shared it with the dinosaurs. They were sly, impressive survivors, and Quentin for one was scared shitless of the things they could do to the human body. He’d seen it more than once on surf sites and televisions shows. A great white could take a chunk out of a human that was the size of Poppy’s whole body.
Surfers had a healthy respect for creatures that could kill you out in the ocean. They didn’t go right up to them and attempt to irritate them with raw meat or loud music.
As she stared him down, Poppy’s eyes were huge and luminous, pared back by illness and hair loss. A month of intrathecal chemotherapy had worked, giving her a reprieve of wellness they all knew was going to be short-lived, but she remained somehow a more concentrated version of the self she had been before – tiny, powerful, radiant.
She slayed him.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, trying to give her his best smoky grin but feeling a touch uncertain because she usually spotted any attempt to play her a mile off and it tended to kind of cramp his style. ‘I did say that, but then remember, you reminded me they don’t chuck meat at them here at Neptune Islands. It’s all vibrations. Music.’ He shrugged. ‘Now music I totally get.’
Her mouth turned down unhappily, but she didn’t say anything.
He remembered that moment of hesitation as the water had lapped at her waist and decided that maybe a tiny bit of her was freaked out by doing this, too.
Maybe that tiny bit of her wanted to be rescued, or at least provided with some company as she did this wild thing. He just needed to find the right words to convince her that she should let him come, the words that would allow her to save some face. ‘In fact,’ he said, marshalling his argument. ‘As I stand here listening to the fine tunes of my good friends Malcolm and Angus Young, I’m actually thinking that if you deny me this chance, you might really be compromising my ability to grow as a musician.’