by C. J. Duggan
“Say, you haven’t seen Bluey around, have you?” I asked, exchanging money for my beer.
“You won’t catch him in here tonight; he and his daughter are heading to Wahroo in the morning for the cattle auction.”
Okay, a no would have sufficed.
I masked my smirk by sipping my beer; it was so like a small-town barman to relay a life story.
Steve must have gotten it wrong, unless Bluey was having some kind of romantic rendezvous in town, something I’m sure the barman would know in great detail if I had been emotionally invested in caring.
I all but choked mid-sip when a hefty wallop hit my back.
“Here, son, take my seat: I’m heading.”
I turned to see a sun-beaten Farmer John tip his pot glass over on the bar, nod his head at the barman, then at me, as he slid from his stool.
Score!
With much appreciation, I accepted what appeared to be the best seat in the house: my back leaning against the corner wall, my beer within reach from the bar. This was me for the night, perfect vantage point to take in the local entertainment. A rowdy pool showdown with some young boozed-up locals, the typical cluster of primped chicks walking awkwardly in their blistered heels, stollies in hand, and bags under their arms. A group weaved their way towards the ladies’ toilets together. Why do they do that? I wondered. Oh, to be a fly on the wall.
After surveying the scene, I soon discovered it wasn’t unlike that of any other pub; the smell of desperation was rampant in the local meat market of singledom. Boys with their mates, caked on aftershave, dressed in their Sunday-best denim. Girls with thickly layered mascara, straightened hair and fake tan, all wanting to be noticed. Whispers and glances from the girls, rough housing and hollering amongst the boys. I lazily nursed my beer, motioning for another as I finished off the dregs. With each fresh delivery, I soon discovered that this would be the highlight of my night, and the hairy-arsed barman was going to be my new best friend. Boredom wasn’t something I was going to escape easily until I noticed a whispered gathering, and glances my way.
Hello?
A group of four friends all nursing their raspberry Vodka Cruisers with straws were all sniggering comparatively and elbowing their blonde friend. I lifted my eyes from my beer and they all turned in a fit of giggles.
I smiled; would they ever know how incredibly easy it is? You simply get up, walk over and talk to a guy. It was never really more complicated than that and just as I silently mused, two of the pack got up from their seats and walked over to the bar, squeezing in next to me, yet pretending I wasn’t there.
“Two more Cruisers, thanks, Merve,” called out the blonde, before casually turning to me and acting as if she had only just discovered my presence.
“Hi,” she said, accompanied by a high-wattage smile.
“Hi.” I nodded my head.
Her shorter, dark-haired friend craned her neck around to see me.
“You’re not from here, hey?” she yelled out.
I set my beer back on the bar top with an air of amusement. “Is it that obvious?”
“Um, yeah, just a bit.” Short and dark snorted.
“And here I was trying to blend in.” I smiled. “Guess it’s not working.”
The doe-eyed blonde chewed on her straw, and shook her head. “Don’t try and fit in, you’re much better off if you don’t,” she said coyly.
“Dude! What the fark!” a voice shouted.
One of the pool players stumbled into the girls in an effort to get near the bar with his mate.
“Shorry, Ladiesh.” He tipped his non-existent hat to them.
His mate laughed and said, “Man you are totally fucked!”
“I am a pool CHAMPION!” He lifted his hands to the sky as if speaking to the gods.
“Yeah, all right, Rory, keep it down,” said Merve the barman, as he filled up their empty pots.
Rory dramatically cupped his hand over his mouth. “Shorry, Merve,” he whispered … well, as quietly as a drunk could whisper, that is.
The two extra bodies wedged in at the bar only forced to bring the blonde closer, my brows lifting as her hand rested on my jeaned thigh so she could balance.
I offered her my hand. “Ringer.”
A crease pinched between her brow as if wondering if I was serious before taking my hand. “Jenny.”
She smiled. I smiled. Suddenly my whole evening was looking up, until I overheard the not-so-hushed whispers of Rory the pool champion that snapped my attention.
“Hey, Jools, see that Henry girl’s back in town.”
“Oh yeah, fuck, what’s her name?”
“Miranda.” I spoke lowly into my beer as I sipped.
Fuckwits!
“Sorry?” said Jenny.
“Oh no, nothing.” I smiled in good humour, my eyes ticked over her shoulder at Dumb and Dumber.
“Miranda!” Rory clicked his finger. “Max’s hot sister.”
“Ugh! She’s not that hot,” said Jenny’s friend.
“Do you know her?” I asked, causing all eyes to land on me.
“Um, yeah. She’s a total fucking bitch.”
Jenny winced as if embarrassed by her friend’s outburst. “Yeah, we went to school with her.”
Rory’s mate leant heavily on the bar. “I heard she got some modelling contract in Paris and that’s why she left,” he said conspiratorially.
“Oh please, everyone knows it’s because she was pregnant; everyone knows she was whoring around, that’s why she got sent away.”
My brows lowered as something stirred within me. Miranda Henry wasn’t exactly my favourite person in the world, but hearing her be called a whore got my back up. I went to say something and felt Jenny’s hand back on my thigh.
“The real reason she got sent away,” she said lowly, “is because of the accident.”
I leant closer, intrigued by what Jenny was saying. “What accident?”
But before she could answer, a shrill burst of laughter sounded from across the room that caused us all to take notice; my eyes shifted towards the sound, the sound that instinctively made my blood run cold.
“Oh, my God. Speak of the fucking devil,” said Jenny’s friend.
And as there was a shift in the crowded room, there she was, drink in hand, sitting on a sofa. Miranda Henry.
Chapter Eighteen
Miranda
“Hey, who’s Jenny Madden talking to?”
I broke off mid-discussion with Tom Hilton to glance over to where Jenny stood at the bar with Ruby Dalton. Whoever she was talking to, the poor soul was probably dying of boredom, I mused to myself, until the one thing that was blocking my vision—a drunk Rory McKenzie and his pool cue—stumbled to the side, and only then did I see exactly who Jenny was talking to.
My heart stopped.
“I don’t know, but he looks like a smooth bastard.” Tom Hilton slid closer to me on the couch, snaking his arm around me as if claiming his property. “Hey babe, what’s wrong? Your beer gone flat?” He laughed.
I watched as Jenny bent her head towards Ringer so she could listen to what he was saying, even though she was as good as sitting on his face, she was so close. My eyes dipped to where her hand touched his leg. She smiled, all coy and sweet, as she tucked a blonde lock of hair behind her ear.
Vomit!
Watching the scene play out before me was enough to make anyone’s beer flat. I had been having as good a time as I could possibly manage at the Commercial. I had looked forward to making a grand entrance, being ‘that’ girl who had returned home from Paris. I had quite enjoyed the spectacle of old and new faces elbowing one another, more so with the likes of Tom Hilton and his mates, whose mouths sat agape when I had sauntered up to them with confidence that no local girl would ever be able to manage.
“So are you going to stand there and stare or buy me a drink?” I smiled. It had been rather comical watching Tom almost fall over himself to get to the bar and whip his wallet out to buy me
a drink; in fact, I hadn’t paid for a drink all night and nothing tasted so sweet. I took in the horde that surrounded me, mainly all the boys that were a year above me, the ones I usually crushed on but they didn’t even know I had existed until I started coming out to the Commercial on the sly and drinking with them. They were also, incidentally, the ones that had never left town. They were born here and would die here and even though all those years ago when I would have given anything for a young, charismatic Tom Hilton to pay me an ounce of attention, now looking him over in his creased dress shirt, blundstone boots … and was he thinning slightly on top? … seeing him pore over me in such a way definitely had me thinking I had dodged a bullet there.
Pfft, of course, Ringer was cocked up there schmoozing with her, I thought darkly, as I took a deep swig of my beer; he would have experienced the same thrill of walking in here and being ‘fresh meat’ to all the local desperate and dateless girls. All the ones that had worked their way through the Tom Hiltons and Rory McKenzies, now they lived in hope that some gorgeous blow-in would come to town and sweep them off their feet.
And here he was, the answer to their prayers. I scoffed, glaring into the bottom of my beer glass.
What a joke.
They would be dead wrong if they thought they could tie him down and marry him; at best they would get one night of hot sex in a back alley somewhere, but nothing more than that. I suddenly had visions of Ringer leaving with the insipidly dull Jenny Madden, and something twisted in my gut.
“Do you want another drink, baby?” Tom rubbed my lower back, causing a shiver to run down my neck and not in a good way. I cringed away from his touch, moving to stand and look down on him.
“Don’t call me baby.” I cut him an acidic look before turning to make my way towards the bar to get my own beer.
I could have been served from up my end, but instead I made my way to where they stood, sliding my way behind Ruby’s back and Rory’s side.
“One more thanks, Merve,” I said confidently.
I knew his eyes were on me, I could feel them burning into my profile.
I glanced over and, sure enough, there he was, a serious gaze fixed on me, a small smile tilting the corner of his mouth as our eyes locked.
“Of all the bars in all the world,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Of all the clichés in the world.”
His smile widened as he brought his beer up to his lips. “Who let you out?” he asked, before taking a sip.
I curved my brow. “Who let me out? Who let you out?” I scoffed.
“I’m my own man.” He winked.
My eyes fell to the hand that rested on his leg. “So I see.”
Ringer shifted uncomfortably, but I dare say no one was more uncomfortable than Jenny, who seemed to go a deeper shade of red.
Ruby interjected as any best friend would. “So I am guessing you two know each other,” she said snarkily; it was more of an accusation than a question.
I glanced around, seeing that I had a rather captive audience. Rory and his mate behind me, even the barman seemed to be lending an ear.
“I know Ringer,” I said casually, picking up my beer. “My dad posted his money for bail.”
Ringer spat his drink out that led into a coughing fit and a murderous glare.
I wasn’t sure what was more comical, his choking fit or the speed in which Jenny ripped her hand away from his leg.
I grinned broadly. “Don’t forget to check in with your parole officer in the morning, remember what happened last time,” I said gravely.
Ringer cleared his throat, blinking away his watery eyes. “Yeah, I really appreciate your dad posting that money, I know your folks were a bit strapped for cash after the nose job you got for Christmas.” He saluted me with his beer.
I laughed, really laughed, because I could hear the inward hitch of breath from Ruby next to me; if she had have had a pearl necklace I am sure she would have clutched it in horror. I could just imagine the spiral of gossip that would ensue from our banter; I could already sense the girls wanting to run to their friends and spill the hot goss’.
I just shook my head seeing the devilish twinkle in Ringer’s eyes.
Ruby linked her arm through Jenny’s. “Yeah, well, we’ll leave you two to catch up then, shall we?” she said, dragging away a disheartened-looking Jenny.
Thankfully, with their dramatic exit, it afforded me a bit more space at the bar.
“You shouldn’t break local girls’ hearts; all their daddies have shot guns, you know.”
Ringer moved to answer but was cut off by a hurried question over my shoulder.
“So, what did you do time for?” Rory McKenzie looked on with a mixture of horror and awe.
Ringer cast me a dirty look before shifting in his seat with a sigh. He looked Rory right in the eye. “I beat someone up with a pool cue,” he said in all seriousness.
Rory’s eyes shifted comically to the very pool cue he held and he swallowed, nodding in understanding before excusing himself from our presence, his mate dually following without a backwards glance.
I shook my head incredulously. “Wow, Ballan is going to be set alight with rumours tonight.”
“Yeah, well, apparently you’re a total bitch,” he said.
“Oh really? That’s funny, because I heard you’re a smooth bastard.”
“I see.” Ringer raised his brows. “By any chance this wouldn’t be coming from a group of local lads that are casting me daggers from across the room?”
I followed his eye line to see the murderous stare of Tom Hilton and his minions.
I turned around, rolling my eyes. “Oh please, I went to school with them a billion years ago; they’re just having a pissing contest.”
“Yeah? Well, I hope they don’t cause any trouble; I’m on parole, you know?” Ringer cast me a sly grin as he motioned for two more beers.
“Yeah, well, if a barroom brawl breaks out I can’t afford a wayward stool to the face; I mean … hello,” I said, pointing to my nose.
“That’s true,” he said, thumbing out a twenty from his wallet.
‘Wait on, I’ll get mine.” I went to reach for my purse that wasn’t there. “Shit. Hang on a sec.”
“Too late.” Ringer handed over his money.
Crap-crap-crap.
Dread swept over me remembering exactly where I had left my purse. I sighed.
“Back in a sec,” I said, before sliding back over to the couch. Excusing myself through Tom and his mates, I reached for my bag that I had sat down next to the couch, but before I could turn, a hand snaked out and caught me by the wrist.
“What, leaving so soon?” Tom frowned.
My eyes fell to his vice-like grip. “Ah, let me go.” I half laughed.
“So what, is this how they do it in Paris, eh? Leach drinks off one sucker and then on to another?” He lifted his chin towards the bar.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m grabbing my purse, to scum drinks.” I tried to twist out of his grasp.
He yanked me closer, causing me to stumble into him, the smell of beer wafting off his breath. “Well, how about a kiss goodbye, baby? It’s the least you could do, seeing as I bought all those leg openers for you.”
I cringed away. “Piss off!”
Laughter from his mates turned into catcalls, and the more I struggled, the tighter his hold became.
“Let go!” I cried against the pain, which seemed to only encourage him more.
“Aww, when I feel like it.” He laughed.
“You heard her, let her go.”
The laughter that surrounded us melted away, as did the smart-arse smile on Tom’s face. I followed his glare to where Ringer stood right behind me. All glimmer of any humour he had before had dissolved into coiled anger.
“And who the fuck do you think you are?” spat Tom.
Spud Nelson moved to Tom’s shoulder. “Careful, Tommy, I heard this guy served some time for stabbing some bloke.”
What?
Christ, how gossip travelled.
Tom’s demeanour didn’t change, but I could feel his grip lighten as if he was actually taking in Spud’s words. I took the moment of pause and ripped my arm free of his hold, moving to stand beside Ringer, glowering and massaging my wrist.
The air was so thickly filled with tension and it didn’t escape me that Ringer was seriously outnumbered. I grabbed his arm.
“Come on, let’s go. They’re not worth it.” It was like pulling at a boulder, his attention dark and threatening as he refused to tear his eyes away from Tom. Slowly, with a few shunts to the chest, I edged him back.
“Come on, let’s go,” I warned. Finally Ringer snapped out of his Alpha mode and looked down at me. “You okay?”
I smiled incredulously. “Yeah, of course.”
His mood lifted at my words and he stepped aside to let me move past him. We were on the home stretch until Tom scoffed.
“Fucking pussy.”
Oh shit!
If I had managed to persuade Ringer to leave well enough alone before, I had absolutely no chance now. I just closed my eyes in dread, and before any of us could stop it, Ringer turned and closed the distance towards Tom in a deadly, determined stride that had Tom visibly shit himself as he put up his hands in peace.
“Hey, mate, I was only kidding, I was just kidding.” Tom’s last words broke off in a pained cry as Ringer kicked the coffee table in front of the couch with such force it rammed hard into Tom’s legs, and with barely enough time to gauge the pain, Ringer dragged him by the scruff of the neck and slammed him down on top of the coffee table, sending drinks and glasses smashing onto the floor. A girl screamed out in the distance and the juke box music died as Ringer refused to let him up, pinned by his fists and his murderous stare.
I knelt beside him. “RINGER, LET HIM GO!”
This I didn’t expect. Ringer, who had been laid-back, mischievous, and reserved thus far. Angry and aggressive? Who was this Ringer?