Ringer

by C. J. Duggan

  “Whoa, look out!” He laughed, stepping back.

  I didn’t have much time to show my annoyance as my eyes flicked down to his hands.

  Oh dear God!

  Ringer followed my eye line. “Oh yeah, you must have left these …”

  “Thank you!” I cut him off, snatching them from his grasp.

  I laughed nervously. “I must have left them on the verandah.” I tried not to meet the judgmental stares of my parents, because I had known from the moment the words left my mouth, they wouldn’t buy it for a second. Miranda Henry would never leave her shoes outside … Period!

  Chapter Eleven

  Ringer

  I admit it.

  When it came to Miranda Henry, I had this sick pleasure in pushing her buttons. Watching the cogs turn in her pretty little head, seeing the rage that burned in her eyes, the incredulous gapes of her mouth, and the thunderous steps she took as anger swirled inside of her.

  Yeah, it was kinda hot.

  I turned to meet the glacial stares of Miranda’s parents in the kitchen; shit. It appeared I was also a dead man, and inwardly cursed myself for watching Miranda storm across the driveway towards the shearers’ huts with an air of amusement; I also realised that I had probably watched her for far too long than was acceptable, especially with her parents watching on. I may have got the last laugh, but she had left me in the lion’s den, so to speak. Lucky I was a charming bastard when I wanted to be.

  I smiled. “Something smells good in here,” I said, as I casually approached the kitchen bench, taking a seat.

  I could feel Steve Henry’s eyes boring into my profile as he spoke to me. “Make sure you eat up, son, because you and I are going to go for a little drive.”

  Fuck! Ringer meet lion’s den.

  ***

  I had thought that I may have been driven out to a remote part of his property where Steve Henry had a shallow grave waiting for me, the sentence had bore enough weight behind it for it to feel like I was about to be murdered by an over-protective father. But in typical Steve Henry style, he was upbeat and animated while we really did go for a drive. And it wasn’t to an abandoned field; it was to his best mate, Bluey Sheehan’s house, on the neighbouring property.

  “If you need anything while we’re gone, Bluey is your man,” Steve said.

  We spent the afternoon in Bluey’s man cave, a refrigerated, air-conditioned shed with mismatched seventies-style lounges, a pool table, a dart board and a fridge full of cold beer.

  He chucked a VB can towards me that I caught close to my chest.

  “It’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere in the world, right?” he said with a devious wink.

  Steve sighed. “Penny will kill me,” he said, looking longingly down at the cold beer.

  “Penny can’t expect you to have a business meeting without a beer,” Bluey exclaimed, as he sat back down on the couch turning the volume of the cricket down a bit.

  “Every meeting I have with you, Blue, is a business meeting.” Steve smiled wryly.

  Bluey shrugged. “I am a business man.”

  There were no two ways about it. I liked Bluey and when I grew up, I wanted to be exactly like him. My own man, doing my own thing, answering to no man. Or in Steve’s case, woman.

  Steve walked over to the fridge and placed it back inside. “Nah, better not, it’s not worth the hassle.”

  Bluey shook his head. “Mate, you’re under the thumb,” he said as took a sip from his beer.

  “Oh, piss off,” said Steve.

  “You have a big enough thumbprint on the back of your head it would be like driving over a corrugated road.”

  “Get stuffed, I’m going to use your loo,” Steve said, walking out of the shed. The loo being the lemon tree out back.

  “So, you reckon you can handle taking care of the place for a bit?” Blue asked me in all sincerity, his steel-blue eyes unwavering from me as he took a long draw from his can.

  “Yeah, no worries, I did some jackaroo work on my uncle’s property in Druin.”

  Bluey shook his head in recognition. “But did your uncle’s property have a Miranda Henry to deal with?”

  My eyes snapped up to meet his. What did she have to do with this? With anything?

  “No,” I said, wearily.

  Bluey shifted, leaning his elbows on his knees, staring me down with such an intent look it could probably strip paint.

  “Just let it be known that if you touch her or hurt her in any way, I will staple gun your genitals to the wall, do you understand me?”

  Holy shit!

  Striking the memory from the kitchen, now I really was IN the lion’s den.

  I swallowed thickly, not tearing my eyes away for a moment. I nodded firmly, causing him to mirror my image as he sat back. “Good,” he said, melting back into the couch.

  “Is this where Steve takes all the young men around town? To have a none-too-subtle word from you?”

  A smile creased the corner of Bluey's mouth. “Not entirely, just looking out for a mate. Miranda doesn’t exactly come without … issues.”

  My look would have said it all, a look of intrigue, because Bluey merely laughed. “And no, I won’t tell you.”

  Steve Henry walked back into Bluey’s shed and surveyed the scene before him. “What’s going on? It’s colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss in here.”

  “I was, ah, just given some advice about how to best take care of things at Moira,” I said quickly.

  “I just told him to keep his eyes on the job at hand.” Bluey winked at Steve.

  It took a moment for Steve to catch on before reading the sullen look on my face. Before bursting into laughter.

  “You mean Miranda?” he asked.

  I squirmed in my seat, looking down into my beer before taking a sip. “It was not the most subtle advice,” I said.

  Steve continued to laugh. “Oh leave him alone, Bluey, this one’s all right. I can’t see him being any threat to Miranda’s affections.”

  I did a double take, not entirely knowing if I should be honoured by his faith in me or offended with the fact Miranda would not give me a second thought. I had desperately wanted to call him out on it, but luckily Bluey did it for me.

  “What makes you so sure, Steve-O?” Bluey asked sceptically.

  “Because there is no way in hell Miranda would have any interest in a country boy.”

  A country boy? I was hardly a Ballan breed; I was an Onslowian through and through. And although it was hardly the cobblestone streets of Paris, we did have some substance. More alarmingly, though, why should I give a shit? So Miranda had a taste for European, Vespa-driving blokes that looked like they belonged in a Gucci catalogue. It seemed totally fitting to the stick-up-her-arse attitude. Good! Fine, who cares? I sure didn’t.

  I crushed my empty can in my hand and turfed it into the wool bale that was being used as a recycling bin.

  “Don’t think you need to worry, lads, as soon as that car is fixed I am pretty certain Miranda will be leaving Moira station in a trail of dust and burning rubber,” I said matter-of-factly.

  My words fell upon a silence, a silence I had created with my words.

  Fuck! What have I done now?

  Thinking I had majorly put my foot in it, I thought I might be met with some pissed-off expressions. Instead, to my surprise, Steve glanced sheepishly towards Bluey and then back to me.

  “What?” I frowned.

  Steve sighed, running his hands through his hair.

  Bluey got up, wiping the barely contained smile from his face, chucking his crushed can in the wool bale. “Want a drink, Steve-O?” He ambled towards the fridge to get his long-time friend a well-needed beer.

  Steve just nodded, his face a mixture of troubled emotions that wrestled under the surface. He rubbed the back of his neck in deep thought, before meeting my eyes. “Can you keep a secret?”

  ***

  Some things you just didn’t want to know.

  I didn
’t necessarily need to hear all about Miranda’s troubled past in Ballan, and about the low-life French boyfriend that had broken her heart a year ago. I didn’t need to know that she had a temper and was generally untrusting and difficult to deal with. That her mum and dad constantly worried about her and feared she was destined to be a lost soul. And I certainly didn’t need to hear that her dad had deliberately tampered with her car so it wouldn’t start.

  I’m sure, based on my reaction, that Steve regretted telling me the things that he had, but as the knowledge had slowly seeped in, and I swore that his secret was safe with me, he seemed to visibly relax, which must have been nice for him, because as it stood after his confession, I felt like I had a massive fucking weight on my chest.

  Still, it did make one thing clear. Miranda had demons, raw ones, and I thought it best to leave well enough alone. No more smart-arse innuendoes, no more chasing in the dark. Aside from not wanting to get my testicles staple gunned to Bluey's wall, I had, after all, come here to escape everything complicated, and she was mega complicated.

  They say it’s the quiet ones you have to worry about, and she was quiet, very quiet—when she wasn’t busy despising me with a burning passion.

  Chapter Twelve

  Miranda

  I had debated whether to move back into the house or not.

  The thought of dragging my belongings back inside, past my mum, past my sister, would be one thing I didn’t want to have to explain. Besides the idiot next door, I had to admit I liked the seclusion, for as long as it lasted. My sister lay on my bed in the shearers’ huts thumbing through a copy of French Vogue, going “Ooh La-La” at every beautiful dress that she set her eyes on. After fifty Ooh La- Las, it was enough to drive a person to drink, which gave me a bit of an idea of how I wanted to spend my evening.

  “What’s that look for?” my sister asked, peering up at me.

  “What look?” I said, turning to hang one of my tops on a hanger.

  “The look that says you’re pretty pleased with yourself.”

  “Well, I am! I have finally unpacked my stuff.”

  “Tell me again, why are you staying in here?”

  “I told you, I need my space. Besides, do you really want me and Mum fighting all day, every day?” I reasoned.

  “No, that does kind of suck.”

  “Exactly! At least here I don’t have to argue with anyone.”

  Well, aside from my arsehole of a neighbour.

  “Why can’t you two just get along?” Moira sighed, returning her attention back to the magazine.

  “Because he’s an absolute dickhead,” I said, my glare still fixated on the wall.

  “Huh? Who’s a dickhead?”

  Shit, we had been talking about Mum.

  “Hmm? Oh no one, don’t worry about it.” I waved it off.

  But it was too late; Moira missed nothing and she followed my angry stare to the wall I had held only a moment before.

  She pushed herself into a cross-legged position on the bed, her eyes lit with excitement. “Oh. My. God. You saw him!”

  “Oh, of course I saw him,” I snapped. Annoyed that I was about to have this conversation.

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Moira all but squealed.

  I deadpanned at her, refusing to answer the question. I guess he was all right looking, tall and toned in all the right places—his shoulders had felt like it anyway. When his white T-shirt had been soaked last night, I will admit that my eye did wander over the see-through fabric that clung to his chiselled stomach, but it wasn’t exactly like I had gawked any more than he had at my boobs. I saw him; I wasn’t stupid.

  “He has wicked hair, and dreamy eyes; what are they, like a greeny-brown?”

  “Hazel,” I said, instantly regretting my answer.

  My little sister grinned from ear to ear, blinding me with her braces. “Oh yeah, you have seen him all right.”

  I had seen him, more than I cared to want to or was going to. As soon as my car was fixed, and Mum, Dad and Moira were set to head for the Wahroo Cattle Station next weekend, I was out of there. When I returned to the kitchen that morning, I was annoyed to discover Dad had left for the day. Mum had said he was going to take Ringer to Bluey’s and talk ‘business’. Of course we both knew what that meant; they were going to have a beer and watch the cricket.

  Typical.

  So leaving no one else to talk to about the possibility of getting my car looked at, it had left me no choice but to hang out with Moira for the day. Where I went she went, chatting animatedly about boys mostly, and by the sound of it, she was Ringer’s number one fan. It did make it less than ideal as I had planned to sneak into his room and get my cardigan back, but the last thing I needed was to get Moira to keep a secret about what my cardi was doing in Ringer’s room. Because when it came to keeping secrets, well, Moira just couldn’t. Fact!

  I shoved my empty bag under the bed, slapping my hands together with a sense of achievement.

  “How about we go for a swim?” It was part ploy to change the subject from Ringer, and partly to get Moira away from the huts long enough so I could sneak into Ringer’s room and grab my cardi. The day was heating up and it was the only source of entertainment, aside from my plans tonight when I would make my way into town for a quiet drink, just like the old days. I didn’t know how I would get there but I would find a way.

  Moira’s eyes lit up as I knew they would.

  “You’re on,” she said, rolling off the bed and sprinting out the door. “Wait for me, I’m just gonna get changed,” she yelled, all the while running backwards, almost falling over when she spun around to gun it across the dirt drive. She was so unco. I smiled, shaking my head as I watched Moira almost fling the wire door off its hinges as she ripped it open.

  My smile soon fell away into a sneer as I turned towards Ringer’s door. I would have to hurry; Moira on a mission meant I had only minutes to go in, find the cardigan and get out. The last thing I needed was to be busted by Moira or, worse, Ringer. I bit my lip, as I reached for the handle.

  No, it would be okay. I could hear a car approaching from a mile away; hell I would hear Moira approaching from a mile away she was so bloody loud. I twisted the knob expecting the door to no doubt be locked, but as I slowly twisted, and pushed the door inward my breath hitched.

  Eureka!

  That’s as stealthy as I got, as I quickly opened the door and dived inside, closing the door but leaving it slightly ajar.

  Right. Should be simple enough. There wasn’t much to the shearing huts: a bed, a wash basin, a rack mounted on the wall with some scraggly coat hangers, most of them housed some of Ringer’s belongings, the rest of his things were slung over his unmade bed.

  Pfft, such a boy.

  I started rummaging through the pile; he had so much crap everywhere, it was like he had packed like a girl and yet they all seemed to be the same sort of clothing. Jeans, white T, Jeans, black T, Jeans, navy T. Well, at least he was always guaranteed to be clean. I bit my lip at the pile of clothes I had tossed onto the floor, oops. I quickly gathered them up and put them back onto the bed, organising them in such a way that seemed as if he had chucked them there himself.

  Damn, no cardi.

  I was running out of time. I stood with my hands on my hips. I blew a wayward strand of hair out of my line of vision as I turned in the room, examining every square inch.

  Where the hell had he put it?

  I pulled back the bedspread and dragged the pillows away, thinking he might have creepily stashed it behind his pillow.

  Nothing.

  I sat on the bed, a crease pinching my brow in frustration before I bent over and checked under the bed, spying only bare floorboards and a thick layer of dust.

  I slapped my thighs in frustration as I moved towards the hanging clothes, checking behind them, seeing if he had it hidden it there. I was momentarily distracted when I came to a navy dress shirt. My fingers lazily ran down the sleeve. Soft to the touch, this w
ould look nice on him, I thought, as my thumb grazed the pearl-coloured buttons. I brought the material of the sleeve up to my nose to smell the crisp scent of laundry detergent.

  “What are you doing?”

  I screamed, leaping away from the clothes at the unexpectedness of the voice from the door. My heart thumped fiercely against the wall of my chest, my eyes wild and wide as I spotted my sister, standing in the doorway with a confused scowl across her face, as if what she was seeing before her was truly disturbing … me in Ringer’s room, smelling his shirt; well, that even disturbed me.

  “Nothing,” I said a bit too loud. “I was just, putting on the ceiling fan, it’s going to be a scorcher today.” Luckily the wall control for the overhead fan was next to the clothes rack, it made my casual move to turn it on seem more believable, even if I could tell by the sceptical curve of Moria’s brow that she wasn’t buying it. Not for one second.

  How could I have not heard her? Not sensed her pushing the door open? Guess I had been lost in a trance of picturing Ringer in the blue dress shirt. I had to get out of there; being surrounded by all of Ringer’s clothes was doing strange things to my mind. I quickly shook it off as I lifted my chin and walked a long, determined line towards the door, not meeting my sister’s eyes as I brushed past her.

  “Come on, let’s go,” I said, without a backwards glance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ringer

  Well, well, well …

  It appeared a rat had been in my room: a giant, blonde-haired rat with a smart mouth and a bad attitude.

  To her credit, she had tried to make it seem like nothing had been touched, but I had guessed it the minute I had stepped into my room. An incredulous smile curved my lips as the shadows of the blades from the overhead fan flickered across my bed.