Don’t drool over the new customer, I repeat in my head. Don’t think about his eyes. Don’t think about his lickable abs. He looks up when I reach his table.
Now I’m staring into those mesmerising melted chocolate pools. Sugar.
Sex and chocolate. Sex and chocolate.
I silently curse Gabs for making me think of it, and clear my throat. It’s not so easy to clear the carnal images from my head, though.
“Here’s your coffee,” I state the bleeding obvious as I place it in front of him.
“Cheers,” he says, his voice low and husky. He lowers his eyes and checks out the pattern inside the cup.
“Need sugar?” I blurt out, noticing the absence of it from the table.
“No thanks, gorgeous.” He points to the wall of muscle across his firm chest, which his T-shirt is doing a stellar job of hugging. “Sweet enough.”
I swallow down. I’ll bet he is.
“Um, okay, well. Enjoy,” I say and slowly back away.
He winks, and my heart jolts. I want to hold my hand to my chest to make sure it’s still inside my ribcage, but I don’t, because that would send him a message. One I don’t want to send. He’s fine to look at, but that’s all. It’s all I can handle.
Arms crossed under her ample bust and a hip leant against the sandwich counter, Gabs purses her pinker-than-pink lips. “You know those eyes never left that perky little arse of yours on your way back here. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that man is hungry,” she informs me.
I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah, well if he’s hungry, there’s a menu. Perhaps you can recommend the bruschetta,” I whisper loudly.
“So you didn’t even attempt a chat? Ask him where he’s blown in from? What his name is?”
As if. “You know I didn’t.”
Gabs huffs out a long breath and flicks her long, bright-red ponytail off her shoulder. “Lady, one of these days you’ve gotta take a chance.”
I attempt a smile and resist the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. She moves both hands to her hips and frowns. She’s not buying my grin as genuine. This woman, my daily dose of happy, just sees through me.
“Well, today isn’t one of those days.”
“I’ll keep praying for the day, then. I’m gonna head out back for a smoke, and then I’ve gotta fix my lips. You okay for five?”
“Sure. You know, I might leave a little early today. Get some sunshine again.” I shrug.
“You work too hard, lady. I’ll be fine to close up with young Sarah.” Gabs heads out back. The screen door screeches on its hinges as she exits into the laneway, reminding me yet again to go to the hardware store.
Some days I’m still trying to find my place, to find my home, and she’s right. I work too hard. But this little part of the world is mine. All mine. No one can take this away from me. At least I have the calm of the beach to retreat to when work gets too much.
I add some fresh beans to the bean hopper and wipe up the spilt milk on the counter. A firm knock on the timber surface startles me, bringing my eyes upward.
“Good brew. I’ll be back,” Mr Brown-Eyes promises, leaving me open-mouthed.
He smirks, and then turns. I watch him with interest as he takes long strides out of my café. “Great,” I say to myself, because I couldn’t spit out that measly syllable to his beautiful face.
I wonder if he’ll be at the beach again today.
****
Positioning my sand chair in the same spot as yesterday, I have a feeling that calm will elude me.
Am I being fair to myself? Am I only here again today because of the half-naked god I saw here yesterday, who happens to be one and the same as Mr Brown-Eyes?
It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I really thought with each passing month this stuff would get easier, but I guess I’ve never been lucky. Time better hurry up and change that.
With a huff, I pull the latest edition of Organic Gardener from my beach bag and tilt my sun hat to shade the pages. I read all about what I should be planting, and silently apologise to my neglected garden. It could be so much more, if only I had the time. There are a few standout recipes, and I make a promise to myself to find some time to do some cooking and take it over to Gabs’ place. She’s my harshest critic, but she’s got an eye for business. Our busy little café wouldn’t be where it is without her.
I turn my attention to the waves crashing to shore, and take in a lung-full of salty air. Wriggling my toes in the warm sand, I shift focus to the occasional passer-by and the young schoolboys out on their boards. When I come across a couple with two young girls making sandcastles, I can’t look away from the mother. Maybe one day that could be me. With any luck, my one and only ovary will come to the baby-making party. When I find someone to have said party with, that is.
My trance is quickly broken as his blue and green board-shorts come into view, about fifty metres down the beach. As he jogs towards me, I’m captivated by the strong lines of his chest and torso as they move in harmony with each step. Sweet cupcakes.
Is it possible he looks better than yesterday?
I slouch in my beach chair, tip my hat and draw my magazine closer. Now, I’m all too aware that being in just a bikini, I probably look just like a pair of bare legs sticking out of the sand. That may draw more attention to me than I want.
Through what little gap is left in my line of vision, he dumps his towel, thankfully, about twenty metres away.
Phew. I remind myself to breathe, and exhale until my lungs are empty.
Like yesterday, I watch him. Stalker. I’m magnetised to—as Gabs would put it—the hunkiest piece of man meat on my beach.
As he strides towards the water, two attractive women, scantily-clad in bikinis, approach him. They laugh and smile, as they no doubt introduce themselves. He shakes their hands, but doesn’t entertain them in conversation for long, stepping around them and into the water. The women continue their journey down the beach. I can’t say I’m not pleased.
The Adonis dives under the first set of waves and swims out farther. He stands and twists his body to face the shore. Water laps at his narrow waist as he runs his hands through his unkempt sandy locks. Beads of water cascade from his broad shoulders and down over the toned ripples of his stomach. As I study the muscular curves on his hips, I swallow down. Then he’s gone, all too soon, swimming out deeper, giving me a perfect view of the lines of his back, and that firm rounded behind.
Sigh.
Yes. He’s definitely improved since yesterday.
I fan myself with my magazine, too flustered now to read. I think it’s time to head home for a cold shower. If that doesn’t work, I hope I’ve got some extra batteries stashed somewhere.
CHAPTER THREE
RYAN
“Mick Gallagher. Good to meet you,” the scruffy guy with dark brown hair and a goatie says as we firmly shake hands. He looks to be around forty, probably works out, but he appears to be a bit of a bum; his faded blue T-shirt is frayed on the edges and his black-and-white footy shorts have seen better days. He’s wearing an old worn pair of thongs, and his skin is several shades more tanned than mine. With sunny days like these, it won’t be long before I catch up to him.
“Ryan Palmer. Good to be here, man. Come on through.”
Mick follows me through to the kitchen area, and we sit down at the dining table. Mick slaps a heavy orange envelope down on the timber top and sits a small black backpack on a vacant chair.
He opens the envelope and splays a series of photos across the table. He doesn’t waste any time getting down to business.
“Okay, here are a few recent shots of our POIs. These guys spend a lot of time down at the docks. This one here, Perez,” he says, pointing to a picture of an overweight man with olive skin and slicked back dark hair, “we’re still trying to get more intel on. Just hasn’t been easy, as we think he’s here illegally. We suspect he has ties with a branch of the Gulf Cartel. We don’t want Immigration to
get involved until we find out more, but he could be the connection we’ve been waiting for.”
Jesus H. Christ. This will be no small-time operation. You don’t fuck with the cartel, or their extended family.
Mick tosses another photo on top of the others. This one is of a tall, wiry, bald-headed bloke in a white polo shirt and tan pants, standing beside a boat, which I’d say is a Caribbean Cruiser. It’s probably worth somewhere in the vicinity of half a million dollars. He looks to be about sixty-odd by the wrinkles and age spots on his face, and frail enough that the wind would blow him over. “This one here is known as Carter.”
“Clearly he’s not the muscle,” I chip in.
“Nope, definitely more brains. We think he’s linked to the money. We’ve tagged him as the accountant. He’s been linked to money laundering before, about eight years back in Sydney, but there wasn’t enough evidence for a charge to stick. We’ve been keeping an eye on him and nothing has rung any alarm bells yet. He’s facilitated a few high-dollar boat purchases here and in South Australia. If he’s playing with these boys, then he’ll be sifting through a fair chunk of cash.”
Sounds like my kind of challenge. We’ll have to do a bit more research on this Carter bloke and see what other connections come up.
“These blokes are the fuckin’ germs of society. I can’t wait for us to put them out of business,” Mick says as he jabs his index finger right between Carter’s eyes.
“Can’t wait to get into it.”
“Yeah, good to have someone else on board here. There’s definitely interesting times ahead.”
“So, how long you been here for?” I take a closer look at the faces of the men we’ll be targeting and watching like hawks.
“Going on two months, now. We know the coke has been coming in through the docks, and we’re pretty sure that’s how they’re getting it to South Australia. We could pin them with some small-time shit now, but we’re waiting for them to get greedy. So far they’ve been clever, calculated, but you and I are gonna be spending a lot more time down there. The more they line their pockets, the bigger risks they’ll take. Big money to be made here in Oz.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty. When do you wanna head down there?”
“We’ll get out on the boat before sunrise tomorrow. You got a handle on the mechanical side of things?”
“Yeah, I’ve had some pretty intense training.” I brought a few textbooks with me, in case I need to do a bit more reading. I never come unprepared.
“I was a mechanic and did a marine bridging course before I joined the force, so I’m happy to run through anything you want to.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you brought your sea legs.”
I take in a deep breath. “I won’t lie. It’s been a while since I’ve been out to the shelf, but I’m sure I’ll be right.”
Mick chuckles, and rakes his hands through his straggly brown hair. He reaches across and grips my shoulder briefly.
“Well, you’re about to become a decky on a small charter boat. I’d say you’ll need to find ‘em real quick. Better get some shit from the chemist just in case.”
“Yeah. Will do, man.” I’ll have to grab something when I get some dinner, because I can’t make a fucking fool of myself.
Mick stands and tucks his chair in. “Right, well I’ll leave these copies with you to study. Make sure you store them securely.”
“Got it covered,” I say, jutting my chin upwards.
I’ll chuck them in the safe in the bedroom closet once I’ve finished with them. I just hope he’s not gonna baby me this whole operation. He might be older, but I’m a professional. I wouldn’t have been tasked to something this high profile if I wasn’t, and this guy should know that.
Panic squeezes my chest. Did he hear how my last operation almost went south? I fucking hope not. I don’t need that shit hanging over me when I’m trying to forge a new partnership.
Mick picks up the backpack and tosses some folded white polo shirts on the table. Fremantle Fishing Charters is embroidered in dark blue on the left-side breast pocket. “I got you a couple of shirts, and there’s a Glock 17 and some extra bullets in the bag, too.”
Sweet. I’m definitely covered in the weapons department. Can’t say I’m thrilled about the shirts, though, but it’s all part of the cover.
“Righto, then. I’ll pick you up at five, Palmer. We’ll head out for a few hours and see how you fare.”
“I’ll be ready, man.”
“Time to hook some big fish,” Mick says and nods.
Guess I’ll be waiting a bit longer for my caffeine fix tomorrow.
****
“Fuckin’ rough out here today,” Mick says, lowering his head to avoid the sea-spray coming into the cabin.
I nod, because if I open my mouth to speak I reckon I’ll yack all over him and his fine boat. Those fucking ginger tablets the lady at the chemist talked me into buying have done fuck all. That’s the last time I get sucked into buying hippie remedy shit.
Mick chuckles, and I wanna punch him in the throat. “Not feelin’ so crash-hot, huh?”
I shake my head, and Mick laughs even louder. I’d try and focus on land, but we’re a fucking long way out; about thirty or forty kilometres, and I can’t see anything besides water.
“What tablets did you take?”
“Ginger,” I say, and swallow down the excess saliva building in my mouth.
“Amateur mistake right there. One you won’t make again.”
“Not likely.” I clamber to the edge and hurl my guts up. The acid burns like a bitch.
“Righto, hotshot. Let’s change the lures and trawl back in. At least we have a couple of Dhufish to show for our troubles.”
At least that’s something. I’m a man that loves his protein. Not that I feel like eating anytime soon.
As we putter back into the docks, Mick explains where we have surveillance in place, and points out the areas of the docks our POIs frequent. It’s certainly gonna be a challenge keeping a close watch on the area.
****
I’ve been off the boat for a good half hour and had a long hot shower, but still I’m feeling that rocking motion in my bones. I take a heavy step to the head of the queue.
“Rough night, hey Brown-Eyes?” the redhead says, and smiles bright. Her lips are some kind of rich purple colour today, matching her long dangly earrings.
“More like rough morning,” I offer. And that’s being generous. I’d dry-retched the rest of the way back into the docks. Next time, I’ll be high as a fucking kite on guarana and that custom-made shit that Mick told me about on the journey back in. If I’m gonna be a convincing decky, I’ve got to get my shit together. At least we won’t be going out every day. On the off days when we’re not running charters, I’ll be ‘working’ on the boat, getting shit in order, whilst keeping an eye on the comings and goings.
“Let me see if we can fix that for you, honey. Same as yesterday?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, impressed she remembers what I ordered given how busy this place was.
She punches a few buttons on the register, and then looks up. “Like to try something to eat today? A man like you must be hungry all the time. How ’bout the bruschetta?” she smirks, and then looks in the direction of the tables. I follow her gaze and find Blondie bent over in a pair of short denim shorts, gathering cups and saucers from a vacated table.
Well, damn. Legs. I had a good look at those fine, tanned pins yesterday. She’s a tidy little package, from the top of her head right down to her white lace-up tennis shoes.
“Nah, not that hungry. But thanks,” I say. Truth be told I’m starving, but I’m not sure I can stomach anything yet. I probably shouldn’t be having coffee, but hey, I need to pep up. “Make it a double-shot,” I add, and hand over some cash.
“Sure thing. Take a seat and I’ll bring it over. Complimentary copy of the paper at the end of the counter,” she says, and wav
es in that direction.
“Cheers.”
I give those legs a good eye-fucking as I approach. Tanned. Slender. Delicious.
Blondie turns, and without looking up she face-plants fair into my chest. I swiftly wrap my arms around her small frame, holding her firmly against me so the cups between us don’t fall. I chuckle, and somehow manage to stop myself from laughing my arse off.
“Whoa, where’s the fire, gorgeous?” I ask.
“Sugar,” she breathes against my chest. She slowly tilts back her head and glances up at me through her long lashes. Her stunning baby-blue eyes knock the wind clean out of me. They are breathtaking. A nice shade of pink blooms over her cheeks, and her chest expands as she draws in a deep breath. Wow. This is some beautiful package.
“I’ve got you. Let’s do this slowly, and no mugs will get hurt,” I say, my tone serious. We manage to unfold from each other and grab the cups without any casualties.
“You came back,” she says as I hand her a cup. Her gaze shies away.
“I told you. The brew’s good. Even if today I happen to be wearin’ it.” Only a few dribbles of coffee stain my shirt. No big deal.
She looks between us, and I notice the splash of coffee on her white tank. All I can think about now is her without that top.
“I’m so sorry. The next one is on the house,” she apologises. Why isn’t she wearing a name tag? The blush from her cheeks has now spread down and over her chest. As much as I wanna check out those beauties, I think if I did I’d only embarrass the girl more. Another time.
“You know I’ll be back,” I promise her.
A hint of a smile meets the corner of her glossy pink lips, and she scurries off behind the counter.
I think I’ll have to work on seeing more of that smile.
CHAPTER FOUR
WILLOW
“You seemed very chatty with Mr Brown-Eyes before,” I say once I get Gabs behind the coffee machine.
Sting Page 2