by JD Nixon
He rolled his eyes and turned to push down on Foxy’s head so she didn’t bang it as he forced her into the back seat of the patrol car, still sobbing.
Before he drove off, I leaned in the driver’s window. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier, Sarge. I didn’t mean it. I was just . . . I guess I was just thoughtless. I do appreciate how you look out for me.”
He didn’t respond for a moment, staring ahead through the windscreen. “That’s the difference between you and –”
I didn’t hear what he said next as someone pinched my butt. I spun around, pulling out my knife. It was Davey. I held my arm across his throat, bulldozing him backwards until we’d reached the solid brick of the pub. I pinned him to the wall and pressed my knife to his throat.
“You ever touch a woman without her permission again, and I guarantee it’s not going to end like it will this time, with her being the one in trouble.”
And right on cue, the Sarge yelled, “Tessie!” He jumped out of the car at the same time that Abe rushed over to hook his arm around my waist, yanking me backwards. I grasped my knife fiercely in my hand shaking off Abe’s restraining arm and staring at the loathsome creep cowering against the wall.
“Get her away from me. She was going to knife me. She’s a psycho!”
“Tessie, what the hell do you think –”
“This dropkick pinched my butt, Sarge.”
His face hardening, the Sarge stalked over to Davey and stood intimidatingly close, towering over him. “You want to spend the rest of the night in an extremely primitive lockup? With her?” He nodded over his shoulder to where Foxy sat sobbing quietly in the back seat. Davey wasn’t to know that we usually went to great lengths to avoid locking people up overnight.
Davey shook his head, all his macho bluster rapidly dissipating in close proximity to such a well-built, tall figure of authority as the Sarge. He pulled out his police ID and shoved it in Davey’s face.
“My name’s Sergeant Maguire from the local police, and here’s a hint for free, mate. Keep your hands to yourself around women, because they don’t appreciate your unwanted creepy attentions. And one day, you’re going to run into a woman who can take care of herself – which means she’ll mostly likely take care of you. Think yourself lucky that I’m here tonight, because you just met that woman. Now go back inside, and if I hear one more complaint about you while you’re here, I’ll clap you in that lockup faster than you can blink. Understand?”
Davey nodded repeatedly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The Sarge stepped away and Davey scarpered inside. I was dismayed to see Gretel scurrying after him, shooting me a half-ashamed, almost apologetic glance as she did.
The Sarge’s eyes swivelled in my direction. With those relentless, serious eyes on me, I begrudgingly sheathed my knife, still unbelievably angry about some stranger groping me like that. I couldn’t stand strangers touching me in any way and he knew that.
He slipped back into the driver’s seat and leaned towards his window so I could hear what he had to say. “I have no intention of spending all night at the station. The minute Foxy’s a little more sober and ready to apologise, I’m taking her home.”
“Okay. That’s all I’m asking.”
“And all I’m asking is that you stay away from that man for the rest of the night.”
“But he –”
“Tess! I mean it.”
“It wasn’t your butt he pinched. How would you feel if someone did that to you?”
“I’ve had my butt pinched before. Ever worked a New Year’s Eve beat in the city? You’re lucky if you escape your shift without having your butt pinched. What I didn’t do though, is threaten those women with a concealed weapon.”
“I’m not going to apologise to him,” I said stubbornly.
“Fine. Then maybe I should put you in the lockup with Foxy until you do?”
“A woman needs to know how to handle arseholes like him.”
“Yes, but you’re a sworn police officer. You can’t go around threatening citizens.”
I tilted my chin at him. “I’m not apologising because I’m not sorry. I’d do the same thing to him again without even thinking twice.”
“That’s what worries me most – the lack of thinking. Not an uncommon state of affairs for you.”
“Why are you being so horrible tonight?”
“I’m not being horrible. I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble. Now promise me you’ll stay away from that man.”
“All right! Geez!” I whirled in temper, almost stumbling over my own feet as I did. It was only Abe’s quick reaction that saved me from an undignified tumble to the ground.
The two men exchanged a glance. “I’ll be back as soon as I can to take her home.”
“Good idea,” said Abe, propping me up. “And you better bring a bus with you. I have the feeling there will soon be a lot of women needing an escorted lift home.”
“I curse the hen’s party.”
“Double curse from me. I’d rather deal with pissed men anytime,” agreed Abe, gently leading me back into the pub while the Sarge drove off with Foxy.
“I’m not drunk,” I protested, prising his helping hand from my arm and immediately pitching to the right. He grabbed me again, just in time.
“Of course you’re not, Tessie. Come on, let’s get you back inside.”
“Stop talking to me like I’m drunk, because I’m not.”
“Course you’re not,” he soothed, all the while skillfully guiding me back to the public bar and helping me up on to a bar stool. I sat there for a while, sipping on a glass of bubbly water and trying to force the fuzzies out of my brain. It didn’t work.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Gretel cosying up with the married jerk again. It would only end in tears, I tutted to myself piously, then unwisely ordered a gin and tonic from Deepak. He slid the drink and my change over to me. His face betrayed his mortification at watching his mother, Gwen, sinking more champagne and searing everybody’s eardrums with her awful karaoke version of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’.
“I wish Mum would just stop right now,” he muttered to me as he wiped down the bar. “I’m literally dying of embarrassment here.”
I smiled at him and spun in my stool to watch Gwen staggering around the small raised stage, in danger every second of falling off it. She belted out the song, accompanied by inappropriate body gyrations that entertained the crowd even as her awful voice tortured them.
I sat at the bar happily for a while listening to the parade of singers at the karaoke machine, sipping on my drink slowly. I’d probably had more than enough to drink already, but the Sarge wasn’t due back for ages. It would probably take a couple of hours for Foxy to sober up enough to realise that all she had to do to be released from the lockup was give Gretel an insincere apology.
“Can I buy you a drink?” asked a male voice from my side. I recognised it as the person who’d caught me when I nearly fell with Foxy.
I twisted around to my right to find that the man who’d stared at me in the foyer much earlier in the night had slipped on to the neighbouring bar stool. From his accent I gathered he was part of the New Zealand hiking group, and that meant he was some kind of acquaintance, if not a friend or relative, of the creepy married man. That unfortunate relationship didn’t elevate him in my opinion.
“No, thanks,” I replied politely, but coolly. “I never accept drinks from strangers.”
He smiled, a surprisingly charming lop-sided affair, and ran his fingers through a thatch of thick mid-brown hair. “Wise woman. If there were more like you in the world, then I’d be out of a job. And I wouldn’t even mind.”
I studied him as he ordered a drink for himself from Deepak. He had a notable profile, with a strong chin, bumpy nose and heavy eyebrows jutting over his eyes. Quite formidable, but face-on he appeared softer and more friendly, with nice greenish-brown eyes and beautifully shaped lips. When he was served, I ordered myself another as we
ll and paid for it, before turning back to him, my interest piqued despite myself.
“And what do you do?” I asked him.
He cupped his glass and watched the bubbles in his drink subside before answering. “I’m a psychologist. I specialise in counselling victims of sex crimes.”
That caught my attention. “I’m no expert, and I hope that I don’t offend you, but wouldn’t most women in that situation prefer a female counsellor?”
“Most do, but some prefer a man and some are beyond caring. And of course the male victims usually prefer to talk to a man. Especially teenagers.” I nodded and took a sip of my drink, thinking that his job was probably even worse than mine.
He continued, “I work with a female partner, so we pretty much have a monopoly in my city. We work closely with the police and the social services. No shortage of clients, unfortunately.”
I didn’t know what to say, so took another sip, and twisted around on my bar stool again to watch the current karaoke singer. It was Lavinia, the entire large mass of her quivering in time as she sang The Weather Girls’ ‘It’s Raining Men’ directly at one of the tourists. He had every right to look nervous. I wanted to warn him to run while he had the chance. It was kind of hard to concentrate on anything else while she sang, her voice loud and powerful enough to hear in Big Town. We sat quietly at the bar until she finished.
“Wow! What a . . . um . . . er . . . remarkable performance,” the man next to me said diplomatically, making me giggle. He smiled as well. “You’ve told me you don’t accept drinks from strangers, but we’ll always be strangers if we don’t introduce ourselves. I’m Mike Amour.”
“Amour? As in . . . ?”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I’m Mr Love in person. It must be your lucky night.” I giggled again and took another sip. So did he. “And you are . . .?”
“Tess.”
He shook his head. “Just Tess?”
“Just Tess.”
“You’re a cagey one, aren’t you, Just Tess? Are you afraid of stalkers?”
“Well, there is a bad guy after me at the moment,” I told him honestly, smiling so that he wouldn’t believe me.
But he did. “Is that why you carry a knife? Even on a night out with the girls?”
I looked at him, impressed. “You’re very observant, Mr Love.”
He shrugged casually, but held my eyes steadily. “That’s what I’m trained to do, Just Tess. What are you trained to do?”
I ignored the question. “What’s with your friend? The married jerk who’s cracked on to my love-starved friend over there?”
He swung his head around to observe the pair and shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry, he’s kind of the group dickhead – the guy we had to bring with us, but none of us can stand. There’s always one in each group, isn’t there? He’s brother to one of my best mates, that great guy over there, who I believe is bearing the brunt of that woman’s tirade.”
I glanced over. “Oh. My turn to say sorry. That’s Frannie. Knowing her, she’s probably arguing that black is white and up is down. I hope your mate isn’t opinionated and stubborn too.”
“Uh-oh, Just Tess, we have a problem then. Put him in a room with a mule and you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. He’ll be arguing that chalk is cheese and wrong is right.”
I smiled and turned back to my drink. “Let them sort it out themselves. They’re adults and I’m off-duty tonight.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar and spun around so that his body faced me. “So you’re a police officer?”
I lifted my eyes to him, then returned them to my drink. “You’re very observant, Sherlock.”
“You don’t look like one.”
I laughed at my drink. “What’s a cop supposed to look like?”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully, probably a psychologist’s trick to show he was attentive. I hid my smile. “Not so . . .” He paused, searching for the right word.
“Tall? Interesting? Intelligent?” I prompted helpfully.
He laughed. “You’re all of those things obviously, but I was thinking not so beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes. “Nice pickup line, Mr Love.”
He smiled with appealing self-deprecation. “Guess you’ve heard that before.”
I didn’t answer but changed the subject. “What else can you tell about me?”
I faced him and let him study me carefully. “You’re not married because you’re not wearing a wedding ring. But you’re not with the crowd of hopefuls either, so I assume you have a partner or you’ve given up completely and have fifteen cats waiting for you at home instead.”
I giggled. “I have five chickens. Is that the same?”
“Not at all,” he said sternly. He studied me again and I realised that I was enjoying myself, not minding his scrutiny at all. “You’re slender but with good muscle tone, which tells me that you like to work out regularly. You don’t wear high heels very often because you’re not very confident walking in them. Likewise with your dress. You’ve been tugging at it and adjusting it all night, worried it’s too revealing. I’m guessing that you’re a jeans and t-shirt sort of woman most of the time, but you’ve dressed up for the occasion. You’ve been looking forward to this night out, but here you are at the bar, worn out already, while your friends keep partying. That tells me that you’ve been working hard lately and you’re not usually a party girl.”
I sat forward in amazement, my eyes as big as saucers. “You’re really good. Go on.”
He smiled modestly and continued. “You’re a cautious person, and you carrying a knife and refusing a drink from me tells me that you’re used to looking after yourself. That said, you seem to have a solid relationship with your boss, the man who was here before. But you don’t mind giving him a bit of lip, knowing that he’ll take it because you’re such a tight team. He’s very protective of you.”
I nodded in agreement. It was all true.
“And . . .” He paused as a magician does before producing the ta-da moment. “You’re quite a good singer.”
Chapter 19
My mouth dropped open in surprise. “How on earth could you possibly know that?”
He flashed his nice lop-sided smile again. “Because unless there’s another person called Tessie in the room, everyone is calling out for you to go to the karaoke machine. I haven’t heard them do that for anyone else tonight.”
I’d been so engrossed in talking to him that I hadn’t heard the clamour from the locals, particularly Jake’s colleagues, begging me to sing for a while. I declined, not really in the mood, but they kept chanting my name over and over until I unwillingly caved in, just to shut them up.
I stepped up onto the little stage and picked a personal anthem, Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’. It didn’t really matter who was singing because all the locals sang along so loudly that you couldn’t even hear me anyway. I attempted to step down after that, but the crowd insisted on another favourite, ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’. It was an ironic choice as I was probably the worst dancer, not just in town, but in the whole state – maybe even the whole country. I sang that too, everyone in the bar joining in with the chorus, karaoke being a real community affair at The Flying Pigs. Afterwards I handed over the microphone to Mr Love’s friend, freshly escaped from Frannie, who immediately started overworking Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’.
Back at the bar, Mr Love complimented me on my voice, so I told him about Nana Fuller’s insistence on rigorous singing training when I was young. I was just about to tell him how it was a talent well balanced by my lack of dancing and guitar-playing skills, when the Sarge walked in, an uninviting expression on his face. He held up a sleepy Foxy by her arm.
He eyeballed Mr Love suspiciously, before pushing Foxy in front of him. “She’s ready to apologise.”
“I’m sorry for spitting on you, Tessie,” Foxy said, very subdued and much more sober.
“Okay. Just don’t do it again please, Foxy,” I said as a
stray tear trickled from her makeup-smeared eye. “It’s disgusting and very unhygienic. You wouldn’t like it if someone spat on you, would you?”
She shook her head in dejection and the Sarge escorted her over to a dark corner where Gretel hastily scrambled off the married man’s lap, tugging at the hem of her dress, but not able to mask her smudged lipstick and mussed hair. With no eye contact, Foxy muttered a patently insincere apology which Gretel accepted with equally ungracious reluctance.
That done, the Sarge pushed her towards the door again, pointing his index finger at me before he left. “Don’t move a muscle. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“Gotcha, Sarge,” I said, wondering if I was in trouble for something.
Instead of worrying about that, because I usually was in trouble with him for one reason or another, I asked Mike about his group’s walking plans. He entertained me by telling me about their day spent circumnavigating Lake Big, an easy walk for experienced hikers. I learned that they’d also planned a few other comfortable walks before tackling the challenging hike up Mount Big. Never really able to give the job a rest, I lectured him about the various dangers of Mount Big, which he listened to patiently, the hint of an amused smile on his face.
“I hope you’re taking me seriously,” I demanded, slightly slurring my words.
“Of course I am,” he affirmed with haste, but I noticed his lips twitching slightly.
“Because the last thing the Sarge and I want to be doing is hauling your sorry arses down off the mountain because you’ve gone and got yourselves lost up there.”
“I promise we won’t, Officer Tess,” he said, holding his palm up. “Scout’s honour.”
“Were you a Scout?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what good –”
A tap on my shoulder made me spin around, hand reaching for my knife. It was just the Sarge.
“I need to speak to you for a second,” he said, grim-faced, eyeing off Mike again.
I slid off the bar stool, unfortunately not as graceful as I’d have preferred, one high heel hitting the ground at an awkward angle twisting my ankle and making me stumble headlong into the Sarge. Both men came to my assistance, helping me upright, the Sarge gripping my elbows with his hands.