Dear Ms. Anderson,
I’m thrilled to inform you that you are one of our five finalists who have qualified for an interview. Please be at my office at 3pm on Wednesday afternoon. Please prepare any questions you might have about the internship.
I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Hastings,
Assistant to Aaron Wilmot
I reread the email at least ten times, and each time my heart beats a little faster with excitement. Holy crap, that was fast. I only emailed off the application this morning and he’s already narrowed down the field. Thank God Professor Jameson found me yesterday or I might have missed out.
A one-in-five chance at this. I still have no idea what I’ll be doing—if I’m successful—but I don’t care. He could have me mop the floors and I’d be happy just to be able to pick off at his knowledge.
Ariel wanders into the kitchen and examines my face, a hand perched on her hip. Her pretty eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a straight line as she studies me closely.
“What’s got your panties in a twist?” she asks, her lips curling into a smirk. “Backstreet Boys announce another tour?” She sniggers at her own joke and helps herself to my toast.
“Funny,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her. “I got shortlisted for that internship I told you about. I actually might have a chance at getting this.”
“That’s great, I’m happy for you,” she says, almost sounding genuine. She reaches for a banana, peeling the skin away from the flesh.
“Yesterday you thought it was a terrible idea,” I say, arching an eyebrow as she breaks a piece of her fruit off and shoves it in her mouth.
“I just couldn’t understand why you’d want to work through your time off.” She shrugs, her hand covering her mouth as she chews. “But I know you really want this, so of course I’m happy for you. When do you find out?”
“I have an interview on Wednesday.” My stomach shifts as the nerves begin to set in. I’m not prepared for an interview. What is he going to ask me? What if it’s a panel of people? I clutch my stomach, feeling sick.
“What are you wearing?” Ariel asks. She raises an eyebrow as she lowers her gaze over my faded, ripped jeans and tee shirt. “I sincerely hope it’s not that.”
“I haven’t even thought about it,” I admit, ignoring her jab at my fashion sense.
Panic begins to rise in me. Normally my clothing is the last thing on my mind, since all I do lately is school and study, but I know first impressions are important. I have nothing suitable for this kind of interview, and no money to buy anything. I glance hopefully in her direction. She rolls her eyes then waves her hand dismissively.
“Raid my closet, it’s fine,” she says. “The black skirt I got last week would look great on you with that charcoal top you have. You know, the one decent article of clothing you own?”
I nod, suddenly thankful for my friend’s online shopping addiction. Last month alone she spent more than our rent on clothes. Even though she’s twenty-two, her parents still fork over a huge weekly allowance and pay all of her bills. It’s a stark contrast to my situation. The second I turned eighteen, any assistance I’d been receiving from my parents stopped so I could learn the importance of independence and the value of money. Of course, it had nothing to do with the fact that I’d decided against the career path that was expected of me. Besides, I’m the most frugal person I’ve ever met. I struggle spending even a few dollars on myself if there is something else I could be spending it on.
That’s the other reason I need this internship. The money, while not great, will go a long way in helping me be able to work less during my final year next year. I made the mistake of working too many shifts at the local pizza place during my first year and my grades suffered. I can’t afford to have them drop again.
After sorting out what I’m going to wear, I do a load of washing and reluctantly tidy my room. If there is one thing I hate, it’s housekeeping. My cleaning regime consists of once a week doing as little as I can to keep the rodents out of my room. Thank God for Ariel’s parents, who insisted on hiring us a housekeeper and refuse to accept any contribution from me for it. Once my clothes are hanging on the line, I go back inside and make myself a sandwich.
I’m halfway through my peanut butter sandwich made with stale multigrain bread when the doorbell rings.
“It’s open,” I yell, knowing it’s Lucas. He walks in, shaking his head.
“Do you just invite everyone in?” he chastises me. He slaps me on the bum and I glower at him, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “What if I was a serial killer?”
“Then I guess I’d be dead.” I shrug. “Besides, I knew it was you because I heard your shitheap of a car pull up.”
“Hey, you know how I feel about Macy,” he says, his expression wounded.
“And you know how I feel about you naming your car after my grandmother,” I say, rolling my eyes. I can only imagine my prim and proper grandmother learning Lucas had named a car after her. She’d be turning in her grave. I flop down on the sofa and turn on the television. “Want some?” I ask, offering him half my sandwich.
“Not a fan of nuts.” He smirks, falling into the seat.
“Not what I heard,” I giggle, ducking as he reaches out to swat at me. He still manages to grab hold of me, pulling me into his arms. Laughing, I struggle as his fingers graze over my breasts. My nipples harden and I break free, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Cold in here, huh?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Eat a dick.”
He laughs as I glare at him. I get up and move to the armchair over the other side of him, ignoring his stupid smirk.
I spend the rest of the afternoon lazing on the sofa watching Twilight with Lucas—much to his disgust. Exam time means our classes have ended, even though holidays don’t officially begin until next week. I’m supposed to be going home to Melbourne to spend Christmas with my parents, but if I get this job, my plans will change and I’ll probably be spending most of the holidays here in Sydney. The thought of being away from them for Christmas doesn’t spark up the emotions it probably should. Holidays in my house are always the same: forced conversation with relatives I don’t like and passive-aggressive small talk being exchanged between me and my parents. I’m not even sure they’ll notice me not being there, considering they’re constantly distracted with their first-world problems, like what colour to paint the sunroom.
“Shouldn’t you be studying for your chemistry exam?” I say, nudging Lucas. He’s already failed once. If he fails his make-up exam too, then he’ll be repeating the entire year. Not that you’d think that, considering his relaxed attitude.
“No, all sorted,” he says, his eyes glued to the screen.
“How?” I ask. I have no idea how he can be so laid back all the time. I get anything lower than a high distinction and I’m in panic mode. Maybe that’s the difference in our upbringings. My parents would sooner die than admit to their friends I scored anything lower than the best. A pang of guilt hits me. At least I have them. As much as I dislike the pressure they put on me to succeed, I do love them and I’m thankful that I still have them.
“The TA in that class fucking loves me,” he replies, his eyes twinkling. “I asked her to help me prepare for the exam and she practically gave me the answers.”
“But when I suggest all the girls are in love with you, I’m kidding myself?” I laugh, thinking back to yesterday morning.
“Only when you’re wrong. I can’t help it if that’s all the time,” he teases. “Besides, you said Sara Bonner, not all the girls.”
I reach for the nearby remote and launch it at him.
He grabs it and changes the station. “Thanks. I couldn’t take another second of this shit.”
“Oh shut up,” I groan, sick of his constant harassment of my taste in entertainment. The downside of not having a boyfriend means I have to do some hard negotiating with Lucas to get him
to take me to the movies, or anywhere else I don’t want to go alone. “Have you seen some of the crap you watch?”
“What?” he protests. “The last thing I made you go and see was Die Hard, which, if I recall, you loved.”
“One movie out of twenty isn’t a great track record,” I snicker. “You forced me to watch Star Wars last week—which I hated.”
“You only hated it because you refused to watch the other movies. Of course you’re gonna hate it if you don’t get it.”
“What’s to get?” I laugh, tickling him with my foot. “A bunch of men dressed as robots hitting each other with sticks?”
“I’m so embarrassed to call you my friend right now,” he groans, covering his face with his hands. He reaches over and slaps his hand down hard on my thigh, making me jump. “Change the subject before I leave.”
“Fine,” I giggle, kicking him. “I’ll bore you with talk about this internship.”
“On second thought, go back to dissing Star Wars,” Lucas retorts. He sits up. “So, this internship is going to take up most of your spare time if you get it, isn’t it?”
“Why, are you going to miss me?” I tease.
His face drops, surprising me. I was only joking, but I can tell from his expression that I guessed right.
“I’ll always find time for you. Besides,” I add, “have you forgotten last summer? Every night you were out with a different girl. Do you have any idea how bored I was?”
“You could’ve joined me.” He shrugs, a glint in his eyes. “You know I’m always up for a threesome.” I know that he’s only joking but I glare at him anyway, making him chuckle even more. “I’m sorry, I’m just going to miss hanging out with you, that’s all.”
I can tell from his tone that there’s something else bothering him, but I don’t push it. I’ve known Lucas long enough to realise that if he doesn’t want to talk about something, pushing him will only make the walls go up around him faster. It’s taken me a long time to get even this close to him.
“Me too, but it’ll be no different to me studying. It’s not like I’m going to be working twenty-four hours a day,” I point out.
“Uh huh,” he replies, not convinced. His arms crossed, he stares at the television with a glum expression.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I’m not used to you being this quiet,” I say, studying his face closely.
“I’m just tired, exams and all that,” he says. “Hey, we should go check out this new bar tomorrow over on the coast. They’ve got this all-day music festival thing on for their opening.”
“I don’t know,” I reply, making a face. “It sounds more like your kind of thing than mine. Besides, I have to study for my—”
“All you ever do is study,” he points out, laughing. “If it were a jazz festival you’d would be all over it. And I’m sure you’re more than prepared for whatever test you have coming up. One day out won’t kill you, Lace. Come on. You can even ask Ariel if you like.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. He’s right: I would be all over it if it were jazz. “Okay, fine. I guess it will help me take my mind off this Aaron Wilmot thing.”
Just like that, his mood changes. His eyes darken as he glares at the floor, lost in thought.
“Great. I might head off,” he finally says. “I’m buggered.”
“You can stay here if you like,” I offer, nudging him with my foot.
“I promised Harry that I’d pick him up from work,” he says.
I screw my nose up at the mention of his cousin’s name.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. And after your interview on Wednesday, we’ll celebrate, okay?”
“Let me get it first,” I plead. “There’s a good chance I won’t.”
He gets to his feet and leans over me, kissing me on the forehead. “As I said, they’re idiots if they don’t pick you.” He swaggers towards the front door, not turning back around as he waves back to me over his shoulder. “Later.”
As much as I want to be confident that I’ve got this, I’m not. Confidence in my ability is something I’ve struggled with my entire life. Confidence is what my parents strip from me at every opportunity.
I should call them and tell them about my interview, but I won’t. They’ll find some way to ruin it for me—probably by suggesting that I’m wasting my time. As hard as my course was to get into, forensic psychology was not what they had in mind for me. Five generations of law in the family and apparently I decided to ruin that.
A pang of guilt stabs through me. At least I have a family to complain about. They might not be perfect, but at least they’re alive.
Chapter Five
Lucas
I eye the blonde tittering on the stool beneath her at the bar, her skirt hitched halfway up her thigh. She laughs to her friend and glances in my direction. Her blue eyes lock on mine, and even from here I can tell she’s about a drink away from passing out. I shake my head and down the glass of scotch sitting in front of me, and then push the empty glass across the table to join the rest.
I glance at my watch. I’ve been here for hours. Since I left Lacey’s. Going home was the last thing I felt like doing, especially since Harry would probably be in mid-threesome on the kitchen counter. You laugh, but it’s happened before. Too many times.
Harry is my mother’s ex-boyfriend’s sister’s stepkid. So, not really a cousin, but the closest thing I’ve got to one. I don’t speak to Alec, mum’s ex-boyfriend, anymore. Haven’t since she died, even though he was probably more of a father to me than my own father was. He could be a really nice guy when he wanted to be. But he could also be an arsehole. I examine the scars on my forearms from the repeated cigarette burns I obtained at the hands of Alec. Yeah, he’s not exactly the kind of guy I’d want to keep in touch with. I don’t remember seeing him at Mum’s funeral, but there’s a good chance he was in jail. Or dead. Though I’m sure I’d have heard if that were the case.
Harry, though hard work sometimes, is cool. He set me up with a job and a place to live after my Nan died. He’s probably the reason my degree is in reach, so I owe him big time.
A passing waitress gathers up all six empty glasses onto her tray. She raises an eyebrow at me, but I don’t respond. I’m sick of people thinking they know better than I do what’s good for me. Especially some random waitress in a bar.
“Can I get you a coffee, Lucas?” she asks in a heavy European accent.
I snort. She knows my name. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering I’ve been in here nearly every night this week. Ever since Lace told me about that damn internship, I can’t get him out of my head.
“You can get me another scotch,” I retort, a smirk on my lips.
She hesitates, but thinks better of arguing with me. I glance down as she walks off, just as my phone lights up with a message. My heart beats faster when I see Lace’s name. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, she still makes my heart race.
Lacey: You sure you’re okay? You were a little off tonight.
Shit. I thought I’d covered my feelings well. I’m used to putting on a front, making everything look okay from the outside. I did it for years to protect my mother, and now I do it to protect myself. I reply, not wanting to drag the conversation out, because I’m not in the mood for this tonight.
Me: I’m fine. Just tired. I’m about to go to bed, l’ll speak to you tomorrow, okay?
She replies before the phone hits the table. I ignore that familiar pang of guilt I feel whenever I push her away, which is all the fucking time.
Lace: Okay. Night.
“Want to talk about it?”
I glance up from the screen. The waitress places my drink on the table in front of me and slides onto the seat opposite. I study her for a second. She’s probably my age—maybe a little older—and cute, in a sophisticated, “I don’t follow the rules” kind of way. Her short blond hair is cut into a bob, a bright pink streak peeking out on the side. Her eyes are hidden behind way too much makeup, but they’r
e a beautiful ice blue.
“Not really. If I wanted to talk I’d see a therapist,” I reply curtly. “Do you always harass your customers?” I cringe, not sure why I’m being so rude.
“Harass?” She laughs. The Rs roll off her tongue in a throaty, breathy drawl. She places her arms on the table and I study her tattoos. She has a snake wrapped around her left forearm and a rose vine happening on the other. “I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing.” Resting her hand beneath her chin, she thinks for a moment before adding: “I only harass the ones who I’m worried might leave here and drive themselves off a cliff.”
“Your concern is touching,” I mock. I act like I don’t care, but it’s kind of nice that someone cares enough to worry about me. Even if it is some random waitress I don’t even know.
“It’s more a case of not wanting your blood on my hands,” she jokes. “Isn’t assisted suicide a crime in your country?”
“Probably, but not intervening and assisting are different things. Either way, I can assure you I’m not suicidal,” I reply. I reach forward and curl my fingers around the centre of the glass, my eyes locked on hers. I grin and she rolls her eyes. I wonder where she’s from. At a guess, I’d say she’s Scandinavian.
“I’m glad to hear that. Still, it sometimes helps to talk it out.” She’s forward and not at all sorry about it. I’m not sure if that’s endearing or annoying. Or maybe both. “And don’t lie to me that there’s nothing wrong. I’ve never seen you in here before, then suddenly you’re in here every day for a week, moping into your glass.”
“Maybe I’m on vacation,” I fire back.
“Or maybe you’re angry or upset about something and crying over it alone. Which I doubt is helping.”
I laugh and run my hand through my hair, both annoyed and impressed at how much this chick is getting to me. Maybe she has a point. I’m probably not doing myself any favours keeping all this inside, but at the moment it’s better than talking about it. Talking it out makes it all the more real.
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