Slow Grind (Men of Mornington Book 1)

by Missy Johnson

  “Max,” I finally say. “Cancer. I can’t get it off my mind, you know?”

  “Wow. Shit, hey.” I can almost see the internal struggle poor Wayne is having trying to react. What kind of response can you have, though? When Max was sick before, I questioned it the same way. Do you say you’re sorry? If so, what do you have to be sorry for? Sorry for the shit circumstance life hurls at you when least expect it? That’s what I think of when people say they’re sorry. Lucky for me, Wayne is a really good guy and keeps it super simple. “If you need anything, I’m here. Days off, whatever. Just ask.”

  “Thanks, Wayne. You’re a stand-up guy. Without you feeling like I’m taking advantage, would you mind if I shot out of here early today? My head’s just not in it, and that’s a recipe for disaster.”

  “Absolutely. I’ve known you boys since you were in grammar school. You and that group of mates you had were always causing some kind of trouble. Just make sure to clock out, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Doing as he asks, I mark my time out for the day and waste no time heading straight for my car. As much as I need the hours to pay off the stupid debt I accumulated in my early twenties, I need to let this settle in for a second. Last time with Max, it was scary, but not as scary as it is now. As a teenager, learning about mortality and how quickly someone can be taken off this Earth for absolutely no reason is terrifying. To have to suffer through it again, knowing it could all end in a blink of an eye … there isn’t even a word to describe the feeling.

  Instead of heading to my apartment, the overwhelming feeling of wanting to be with my family overcomes me. My mother is amazing, as is my dad, though I don’t see him much anymore—our work schedules don’t seem to mesh. I work days, and he works nights—always has and probably always will—and living so far away doesn’t help. My parents divorced when I was pretty young. Though, for the life of me, I can’t understand why they separated. They probably spend just as much time together now as they did then. They told Em and me they weren’t in love anymore. Fair enough. The last thing I’d have wanted would be for them to have stayed together for our sake and been miserable because of it. Everyone deserves a shot at happiness, especially my parents, who are great people, just obviously not meant to live out their wedding vows.

  That’s probably the reason I don’t think love is a real thing. If they couldn’t make it work, it’s doubtful anyone could. Add to the mix the one time I did put my heart out there, and it got smashed into pieces … what’s the point in setting yourself up to be hurt? Give me no-strings fun any day of the week.

  Getting out of the car and walking up the footpath, I look up at the house I grew up in with pride. My childhood might not have been great with everything Max went through. My parents might not have been home much to provide for us kids, but we had everything we ever needed and more. After they had split, it’s like they tried to make up for it by showering us with material things. Maybe if they’d spent a little less time working, and more time on their marriage, they’d still be together. Who knows? Either way, the mud-brick house with the red shutters and matching front door will always be where home truly is, no matter where I find myself in life.

  “Mum?” I holler, letting myself inside after knocking loudly on the glass-paned door. In the faint distance I can hear music, and as I make my way down the hall, I recognise it as Tom Jones. I call out again as I round the corner into the lounge room.

  “Fuck,” I growl, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to get the image of my half-naked parents making out on the couch out of my head. “Jesus, guys, get a fucking room.”

  “Last time I checked, we have a house. One that our last child moved out of last week,” my father grumbles, buttoning his shirt as Mum fumbles to tidy up herself. At least she has the decency to blush.

  “Last time I checked, you guys were divorced,” I mutter. “And last time I checked, this was Mum’s house, not yours.” I direct the last comment at my dad, who just laughs, whacking me over the head as he walks into the kitchen.

  I wish I could say this is the worst I’ve seen, but unfortunately, it’s not. My parents have never been shy in displaying their affections toward each other, and in my younger years I saw some shit that has scarred me for life. Why they couldn’t stay married is beyond me, but this latest episode is going to cost me another year in therapy. I should start sending them the invoice.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew, I didn’t realise I’d be seeing you today,” Mum says, rushing over for a hug. I smirk.

  Obviously. I give them shit, but it’s pretty cool that after all these years they’re still into each other. Obviously being married just wasn’t in the cards for them. I’m pretty sure I take after them in that aspect. As much as I don’t believe in love, I’d never rule out the idea of coming home to the same chick, but getting married? Giving a woman my last name? Having her carry my child and being linked to her for eternity? I’m not sure that’s something I want to sign up for. Something about having to hire a solicitor to break up with someone rubs me the wrong way.

  “Can you stay for dinner?” Mum asks as she walks through and into the kitchen. I follow, the aroma of her famous Coq a vin floating through the air. It’s not family dinner day, but I’d be an idiot to pass up a home cooked meal.

  “You know me, I’d never knock back a free meal, especially from the best cook I know,” I tease. Mum laughs and throws a tea towel at me.

  “Good. Your sister is coming over, too.”

  I grab a beer from the fridge and park myself on a stool on the other side of the counter and watch Mum peel potatoes. Em and I have a great relationship. She’s a fiery little thing with loads of spark, so I love giving her shit, and she gives it back to me just as hard. But at the end of the day, I’d do anything for her, and she knows it.

  I take a sip of my can, swishing it around my mouth before I swallow. Anxiety stabs at my stomach as I remember why I’m here.

  “Max is sick,” I blurt out, cutting to the chase. Something about being in this house brings out the honesty in me. It’s almost as if I check the bullshit at the door when I enter.

  Mum, standing at the sink, stiffens. She looks up at me, her blue eyes—identical to mine—full of concern. I don’t think she has to hear the full story to know it’s bad. I’m sure it’s written all over my face.

  Mum has been there for Max more than his own mother has. During his parents’ divorce, he spent a lot of time staying with us while his parents fought, the same as me spending the majority of my free time at his place while my parents were working out their own separation. It was a fucking mess, and I know being able to escape over to my house is what got him through it. It’s also probably why we’re so close; having experienced our individual struggles together. We’ve always had each other’s backs and this time, with this illness, it’s going to be no different.

  “What is it?” she asks, her voice unusually high pitched. I can see in the way she’s picked up the pace of potato peeling, she already knows but needs to hear it from me.

  “Hodgkin’s Lymphoma … again,” I mutter, the words sticking in my throat. Fuck. How can Max, of all people, be dying? Because that’s what’s happening here. We can pussyfoot around the truth as much as we like, but it doesn’t change the fact my best mate is dying. His body is giving out on him, and we can’t stop it.

  “Oh, poor Max,” Mum whispers, tears filling her eyes. Just then, Dad walks in. Sidling up to Mum, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and kisses her head. “Isn’t that what he had before?” she asks.

  I nod. “How fucking unlucky do you have to be to get the same kind of cancer twice?”

  Typically, she calls me on my foul language the second it leaves my mouth, but this time she lets it slide without even a sideways glance. That’s how I know this is really affecting her.

  “Is he going to be okay? He’ll have chemotherapy, or whatever they’re doing these days, and be fine, right?” She’s thinking the same thing I did when I first fo
und out. He beat it once; he can do it again.

  “It’s pretty advanced,” I say quietly. “There’s not much left they can do. They’ve already done two rounds and are just starting the third, but optimism is gone. The doctors don’t think it’ll work, but they’re giving it a final go.”

  “There’s always something,” Mum argues. She slams her fists down on the counter. “That poor kid. He’s already been through so much.”

  “Mum…” I want to ease her sadness, but there’s not much I can do to help. She loves Max, and she’s going through the same thing the rest of us are.

  “Anyone home?” I perk up at the sound of Em’s voice. She rounds the corner, joining us in the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she sees me.

  “I thought that was your car,” she exclaims, throwing herself into my arms. I chuckle and hug her back, nearly crushing her tiny frame. I’d just upgraded my ute the week before, and Em had only seen it once.

  Looking at the two of us, you’d swear we’re not related. I’m tall and well-built, with a thick mop of dark curls—which I keep cut pretty short, or it gets out of control—and light blue eyes, both which I get from Mum. Em is short, even shorter than Mum, who stands at barely five feet. She also has gorgeous blonde hair that is currently shaved on one side and dyed bright blue. Which I guess matches her icy blue eyes, the only thing that gives a clue we’re related in any way, other than the shit-eating grin we both have perfected over the years.

  “What’s this?” I ask, flicking her newly-pierced lip. She already has more holes in her than a crumpet.

  “It’s a new car. Isn’t it great? The horsepower is unbelievable,” she responds and catches me off guard, as I don’t catch the sarcasm right away.

  “What? Are you high?” I bark, glaring at her.

  “No, you dickwad.” She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s a lip ring, which I thought was pretty obvious, seeing as it’s a ring through my lip. Don’t ask dumb questions.”

  “Stop putting random holes in your body,” I retort, mimicking her tone.

  “Stop acting like you’re somebody’s father, Andrew. I already have one of those.” She quickly jabs me in the stomach, running around the kitchen island bench so I can’t catch her and tosses me a wink.

  “Why are you here, anyway?” she asks.

  “Max is sick,” I mumble.

  “No way,” Em mutters, and the happy mood quickly shifts.

  “Cancer again?” she asks. I nod grimly. She dumps her plate on the table and flops into a chair, dragging her foot up under her. I spot ink on her ankle and reach over, yanking the cuff of her leggings up. “Do you mind?” she asks, laughing.

  “Really, Em? A fucking tat?” I growl. She glances over at Mum to make sure she didn’t hear—because Mum would kill her—and then glares at me.

  “So I got a tiny tattoo,” she hisses. “I’m an adult, in case you don’t remember. I don’t need to ask your permission for anything, Drew.”

  I know she’s right, but she’s still my little sister, and I don’t want her covered in ink. As stupid as it sounds, I don’t want her doing anything she might regret later. A tat isn’t like sticking a needle through your lip. Once you get it, you’re stuck with it.

  “Can we get back on the subject of Max?” Em asks. She sighs, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he’s got to go through all that again. I guess once you’ve had cancer, you never really escape it.”

  “I know,” I moan, joining her at the table. “It sucks, but he’s a strong guy. He’ll get through this.” Em raises her eyebrows at me, and I sigh. I couldn’t sound less confident if I tried.

  “How’s his family coping? Aubrey’s still over in America, right?” she asks with a hint of attitude in her voice, already knowing exactly where Aubrey’s been for the last few years. I don’t blame her, though. She and Aubrey were thick as thieves growing up, and when Aubrey moved to the States with her dad, she stopped talking to everyone on a regular basis, including my sister. They still chatted every once in a while, on Facebook, but from what Em tells me, it’s nothing like how they used to be. I was mad at Aubrey for a while after seeing my sister so upset about losing her best friend, but when Em stopped acting like she was hurt, I let it go.

  “Yep. Well, she was. She’s on her way back, apparently.”

  “Aubrey,” Em repeats, a grin on her lips. I narrow my eyes at her suspiciously. “What?” she says defensively. “So I might have had a little crush on her when we were younger. She wasn’t hot then, but based on the pictures I’ve seen of her recently, I might just act on that schoolgirl crush.”

  “Dude, you were twelve the last time you saw her. How were you crushing on anyone at twelve?” I laugh.

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at? I’m sure you had a thing for a few girls at that age. So did I.”

  “Did you even know you were into girls when you were twelve?” I chuckle.

  When she was fifteen, she let me in on the secret that she liked girls as well as boys. I thought that was too young to know what you want, but I went with it; after all, most of us have our first love by then, what would make her any different? She’s my sister and shit like that doesn’t matter. She finally came out to our parents last year. I think she was scared of what they were going to think, but they were fine with it. As if there was ever any doubt. There are a lot of families in town that would have a fit if their child were anything other than straight, but in this house, we love each other because of all the things that set us apart and make us individuals. They’d be more upset if she hid her true identity.

  “Of course I did,” she growls, her cheeks flaming. “When did you know you were into girls?” I make a face. That would be second grade when Kally Sampson sat next to me, and I got an erection. Most embarrassing memory of my childhood. Em nods triumphantly. “So why should it be any different for me?”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Can we get back on track now? Aubrey is on her way over. I’m not sure what the go is with their dad.”

  “And Mrs. Robinson?” Em says with a laugh. She doesn’t know about the incident that shall not be talked about, but she’s seen how Ms. Rosewood is with me when she thinks nobody else is looking. “I bet Max being sick is very inconvenient on her busy schedule of humping the pool boy and planning useless charity auctions.”

  “I’m sure you’re not far off the mark,” I laugh. “Speaking of which, I just wish there was something we could do to help Max, you know?”

  She shrugs. “Just be there for the guy. More than anything, he probably just wants to be able to forget. That’s something you can do for him.”

  I nod and stab at my chicken and pop it into my mouth. It’s just as delicious as I remember, but I can’t enjoy it thinking about Max. She’s right. All I can do for him is be strong and try to take his mind off what’s happening. It doesn’t feel like enough, but I’m not a doctor or a scientist. I don’t have a magic cure stuffed up my sleeve.

  No matter how much I wish I did.

  *****

  After dinner, I hang around Mum’s place for a few hours and watch TV. Eventually, I drag myself home, knowing I have to get up early for work. Wayne is great, but after slacking off today, I don’t want to push my luck by rocking up late. The last thing I want is for him to feel unappreciated for his unnecessary kindness. It’s hard to find a good job these days, let alone a good boss. I’ve hit the jackpot with both.

  I’ve been working for Wayne since I finished my apprenticeship eight years ago. Holy shit. Eight years in one place feels like a lifetime. My parents never tried to push me into going to Uni once I finished high school. They knew that wasn’t for me. Unlike most of my friends, I actually got a say in where my life was headed. I’d always loved fiddling with shit, so when Wayne offered me a job at his workshop, it was an easy decision. Welding is hard work, but at the same time, it’s rewarding. I love what I do, and I wouldn’t swap it for anything.

  Exce
pt for maybe more time with my best mate. I’d give up anything for that. Hell, without sounding creepy, I’d give up sex for the dude.

  It can’t end like this. After all we’ve been through, there has to be more for Max because I can’t imagine my life without him. In a crazy world full of unknowns, he’s been a great best mate, always making sure the rest of the guys and I are good. I refuse to sit back and watch him waste away. Fuck that shit. There has to be something we can do for him now that he needs us most.

  I won’t rest until I figure out what that is.

  Chapter Four

  Aubrey

  I struggle with my oversized suitcase, cursing to myself as the wheel keeps catching, causing the stupid thing to overbalance. In the end, I just give up and lug it through the airport baggage claim area on its side. I’m getting strange looks from nearly everyone I pass, but whatever. I don’t see anyone rushing over to help me.

  As soon as I step out of the airport, I’m hit with a brisk wind, reminding me winter is just around the corner instead of the impending summer I was looking forward to hitting in New York in a few weeks. I shiver, running my hand over my bare arm. Why didn’t I bring a jacket? After spending half of my life living in Australia, you’d think I would remember the seasons are flip-flopped in the Southern Hemisphere. I glance down at my suitcase, trying to remember how many warm items I packed. Probably not enough. Guess that means I’ll have to go shopping then.

  I scan the five-minute parking zone, where my mother said she would be, feeling apprehensive about being back here. It’s been so long; it hardly feels like the place where I once called home. Don’t get me wrong; I was born an Aussie and I’ll die one, but America is my home now. I’m happy there. The only thing this place has over it is Max.

  Luckily, I easily spot Mum, who, thanks to plastic surgery and magical anti-aging creams, hasn’t changed at all. She cranes her neck to scan the crowd of people searching for their rides, oblivious to the fact I’m walking toward her. Even when I’m literally inches from her, she still hasn’t noticed me. I smirk. Probably because I look nothing like the twelve-year-old who left here nine years ago.