Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  Yeah, guy, it’s hard when someone peeks at your soul, isn’t it?

  Before I can ask a single question, he jaywalks across the street. The traffic lights illuminate his lean body, and then he’s safe on the other side, swallowed by darkness.

  Chapter Four

  Bran

  Tal-i-a.” I tangle my tongue on those three sexy syllables while kicking a half-crushed can along the footpath. Jazza is a tosser, too distracted by her tits to see the truth—his hot American isn’t the type to get down for a casual root.

  That girl’s a watcher—those expressive eyes didn’t miss a trick. One look at their depths and I sank. Basic survival instinct kicked in. Probably took her less than .5 seconds to classify me as a dickhead.

  And she’s not wrong.

  I do think with my dick. Makes things easier. Tonight’s the first night in a year that I chatted to a girl in a pub without trying to get in her pants.

  Big fucking deal. Doesn’t exactly qualify me for a Medal of Honor.

  She fronts a cute-as-hell smile but is wound tighter than a clock. Sadness hangs over her like an invisible cloud. That’s the reason I chased her outside. I poked too hard. No fair hurting someone who’s down.

  She said so herself.

  Even now, the memory of her quivering bottom lip lingers. If I still had a heart, Talia’s the type of girl who’d shoot an arrow straight through its core.

  Lucky for me, I’m a Tin Man. Can’t slay what’s not there.

  I look up—almost home. The Bean Counter’s shuttered for the night. I angle around a parked car toward my place. A light shines out the back window. My housemate, Bella, waits up. Her barista shift’s done. She’s like me, after only one thing. Physical distraction quiets my churning thoughts.

  The evening got overcomplicated. Better to keep things simple. My actions boil to one rule: Don’t get involved. Bella’s an easy choice. She doesn’t push my buttons; I don’t ask her questions. Rule #1 protects my ass, but just in case, here’s Rule #2: Never, ever get curious about girls—especially cute American ones with sad eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Talia

  I can’t believe you’re ditching out on the weekend.” I throw my hair into a loose ponytail and secure it with an elastic band from my wrist. “Are you positive I can’t bribe you with a handful of vitamin C?”

  Marti sniffles in response. “My sinuses are getting stabbed by an ice pick.” Her nose matches her oversized magenta bathrobe.

  Jazza called out of the blue and invited me to bring any and all friends to his “oldies” beach house down the Great Ocean Road for a party. I accepted because my Talia 2.0 reboot has stalled. But I only have one real friend in Melbourne, and she’s busy making love to a bottle of cold and flu medicine. I don’t have Team Sunny and Beth to fall back on, or Pippa with her free and easy people skills.

  If I want to get out in the world, I’m going to have to do this solo style.

  Given I’m without a car and his house lies well beyond the reach of the city bus line, Jazza promised me a ride. My phone buzzes; that must be him. I check the text and my heart crams a few extra beats into the next second. Looks like he left the city early to surf and Bran offered to give me a ride instead. He’ll be here anytime. This sudden change in circumstances calls for a few deep breaths. Looks like I’m enduring a two-hour car trip with the human equivalent of a splinter—a sexy splinter.

  I will have to face down Bran, and those perceptive green eyes, sans backup.

  “You really too sick to come?” I flash Marti my best pout.

  “Sadly.” She gives a seismic sneeze. “No orgasms today.”

  I snicker like a twelve-year-old boy. “That’s not what I meant, horndog.”

  “I know, but it’s still true. A tragedy.”

  “Get some rest, recharge your mojo. Tell that girlfriend of yours to do a soup home delivery.” I plant a kiss on Marti’s forehead, grateful her theatrics lowered my anxiety about the upcoming drive, and grab my duffel.

  “No worries, mate,” she mutters sardonically, waving me off with her bunched-up tissue.

  I slow in the lobby and check my phone. Should I assume Bran has my number? Will he call? What’s the game plan? The questions don’t last long because there he is, right out front, lounging against the lone tree sprouting on the sidewalk. The white Wilderness League T-shirt provides a distracting contrast to his tan biceps. He’s built like a rock climber, lean and muscular. He’s reading but senses my stare and glances up.

  His tight smile reveals that distracting dimple. His fierce features are all outlaw, dangerously charming. He’s the kind of guy who in a sword fight would manage to coax a kiss off a nearby girl without missing a thrust.

  “Hey.” I eye the book he shoves into a beat-up backpack. Walden. “Oh, good choice. ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.’”

  “Yeah. I guess.” A muscle tics in his jaw as he checks his watch.

  So much for an impromptu book club.

  “Traffic’s going to be a nightmare,” he mutters.

  “Not my fault.”

  “Never said it was.” He thrusts his arms through the straps and starts to walk.

  I trot to keep up. “Your tone.” I raise my voice over the tram rattling past. “It says differently.”

  “Bloody hell.” He casts me a side eye. “Are you always this defensive?”

  “No.” Only with you. Bran’s burrowed under my skin in a big way. “Why are you hanging around campus?”

  “You think I shouldn’t be here?” Tap-tap-tap. He beats out a rhythm against his leg.

  “That’s not what I meant…just, why, it seems like…” My tongue snarls in serious knots. “Never mind.”

  “I tutor a few classes, natural resource management and GIS over there.” He jerks his head toward the Environmental Studies building across the street. “I’m not always dressed like a koala, Captain,” he says curtly. “The day we met, I was filling in for a kid with a family emergency. Mostly, I do freelance campaign work at the head office and work on campus.”

  “Oh.” I process Bran the rogue hippy becoming Bran the academic. Both ideas hold a certain appeal.

  “Shouldn’t be so judgmental about how someone earns their way.”

  “You misunderstood me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I might be forced to shove him into oncoming traffic if this conversation continues in the same vein. I slow my pace to trudge two steps behind him all the way to the parking garage. He beelines straight to a vintage cherry-red car with a short board strapped to the roof.

  I do a double take. “You drive this?” Red cars are a trigger. My defective brain considers them unlucky, a dangerous threat. But this one isn’t setting off any irrational murder vehicle warnings.

  “It’s my car, if that’s what you’re asking.” Bran unlocks the passenger side door before heading around to the back. “Here, pop your stuff in the boot.”

  “What boot?”

  I’m practically Rumpelstiltskin by the end of his lengthy sigh.

  “The trunk, Captain. The boot is the trunk.”

  “Oh, right.” I pat the glossy panel.

  Will you keep me safe?

  I take my internal temperature. No signs of panic. Amazing. I drop my shoulders from my ears; for once I can be a regular girl, one who doesn’t make a giant deal over everything. “This car, it’s so…” Cool is the word I want to use, but no need to further inflate Bran’s ego. “What year is it?”

  “She’s a sixty-nine Holden Kingswood. Restored her myself. Hate seeing old beauties go to the junko. Such a waste.”

  I dump my bag on top of his and turn around, bumping into his body. My hands splay against his chest, my fingertips tingling at every point of contact. He’s hard in all the right places. My cheeks must match the paint. He’s close, so close I can spy the spot where he missed shaving this morning. A deep-rooted instinct urges me to rub my lower lip over that scruff. Jesu
s Henry Christ, I’m almost tempted. What is wrong with me?

  “I…” He makes the single word sound dragged through gravel. The Sphinx is a million times more expressive.

  “You never mentioned you surfed.” I turn away and tap the board’s fins to hide my shaky inhalation.

  “Well, here’s me saying it.”

  “Your parents get a refund on your charm school lessons?” Zing. I’m throwing out sass like it’s my job. Easier to provoke than concentrate on the fact that he unsettles me. My reactions to him are magnified, and that’s dangerous. Sure I want adventure, but getting lost in my mind’s jungle isn’t fun times.

  “You ever surf in Santa Cruz?” His gaze drops to my waist.

  Shit. My tank top’s ridden up. I yank the fabric, covering my exposed belly.

  The way he listens, it’s like I could tell him anything. But he’s not exactly Mr. Warm and Fuzzy. Better to proceed with caution. “My dad once had big hopes for me and surfing, but after a stint in the Junior Guards, I kind of lost interest.”

  Add another item to my running tab of disappointing everyone.

  “If you get bored during the weekend, I could take you to a few breaks,” Bran says casually, yet I get the sense he’s not being polite, that he’d like to take me in the water.

  “Sure, maybe.” I shrug like “no big” even as my stomach flip-flops. For all he knows, attractive men offer me private surf lessons every day of the week.

  “Cool.” He slams the trunk—boot—whatever. “Ready to hit the frog and toad?”

  I jerk my head to the side. “Are you hating on amphibians?

  He bursts out laughing and there they are again, my new best buds, the sexy dimples. “I asked if you wanted to get on the road.”

  “I need a How to Speak Australian dictionary.”

  “It’s easy, I’ll give you a quick lesson. Fuck.”

  I lean back. “Huh?”

  “Just add fuck to everything. Fucking hell. Fucking wanker.”

  “Wow. I thought you were going to say something like arvo means ‘afternoon.’”

  “But you’ve got that one all figured out.” He steps toward me.

  “Yes.” I take a step back. He has this pull to him, a pull that I’m not sure is a good idea.

  “Telling you something you already know is about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.” He keeps coming and I keep retreating until we reach the passenger-side door.

  “Well, when you get all poetical about it…”

  He stretches an arm out and for a half second it appears he’s reaching for me. Before my brain cells die off in panicked delight, he opens the door. “In you get, Captain.”

  We’re soon on the highway, trying to exit the city, like a million other people parked alongside us on the Westgate Bridge.

  “Do you have an atlas?” I ask, opening the glove compartment.

  “There’s a Melways under your seat, but no worries—we don’t need it. I’ve been to Jazza’s place a hundred times.”

  “I like to keep track of where we’re going.”

  “Controlling much?” Bran shoves his elbow out the open driver’s side window and rocks his head against the seat.

  “Here we go again.” I curl my toes, flex, and release. The traffic isn’t even at a crawl. The drive has barely begun, and it may never end.

  “Hey. I never said thank you for last week. When you stopped to help me on Lygon Street. That was cool.”

  “Well, I’m a cool kind of girl.” Really? Those actual words came out of my actual mouth? His unexpected friendliness clearly gave me whiplash. I tug down my shades and make a fleeting wish to shame-melt into the vinyl seat.

  Bran motions to flick on the radio and before I can think, my hand flies out, catching his wrist. “No, wait. Don’t.”

  “What?” He stares at my fingers, locked on his skin.

  I release my grip and massage my eyebrow. “Doesn’t the passenger always get to pick the station?”

  “Go ahead, if it means so much.”

  I exhale and casually tap all five buttons before turning on the dial. This is one of my things. A ritual. It’s what I do.

  “What the hell was that?” Bran’s look is incredulous in the extreme.

  My mouth dries. “Where I’m from, the passenger chooses the music. Common courtesy, try it sometime.”

  “Where I come from, girls don’t finger every radio button.”

  “Enough with the conspiracy theories, all right? It’s nothing.” Sweat beads in the small of my back. “Can we turn on some air, please?”

  “The Kingswood predates fancy amenities.”

  I pull a water bottle from my bag and take a deep swallow. “Want some?” I hold the stainless steel canister out like I’m offering a peace pipe.

  “Sure.” His gaze is impenetrable and I have no clue what he’s thinking. Probably wondering why he’s stuck in Friday night traffic with a twitchy freak. He drinks deep and hands back the bottle. I fight the stupid urge to put my mouth right where his lips touched.

  The silence grows excruciating. Anything I think to ask or say seems beyond lame.

  He breaks first. “Know how to play Never Have I Ever?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s simple. Here’s the rules: One of us says ‘Never Have I Ever’ and finishes the sentence. If you’ve done whatever the thing is, you drink. Yeah?”

  “Capisce.” I salute and he laughs. The unfamiliar sound makes my chest untighten.

  “Ladies first. That’s your style, right?” He drums his fingers along to the Led Zeppelin song wailing on the radio.

  “Chivalry’s never out of style. My dad drilled that into me.” I stare out the window for inspiration. In the distance, skyscrapers from the central business district stretch toward the deep blue sky. A police car’s stalled beside us. “Never have I ever worn handcuffs.”

  He cocks his head. “In bed or out?”

  “Har. Har. Har.”

  “I’m serious,” he says after a beat.

  “Oh.” Wait, we’re chatting handcuffs and bedroom play? Jesus, I really am in Oz. “Um, let’s see…bed.”

  Oh God, what you are doing, Talia?

  Bran reaches over, yanks the lid off the bottle, and takes a sip.

  “Really?” My stomach gives a sick lurch at the idea of another girl within five feet of him.

  “Once. Wasn’t for me. I prefer more control in the bedroom, know what I mean?”

  Nope—not really. My sex life is shorter than a haiku.

  I bite my inner cheek, pretending not to notice his curious gaze slant toward me. “All right, Kink Boy, your turn.”

  He considers. “Never have I ever done something I regret.”

  He looks dead serious. Not sure how to handle that statement, so I do my usual—fumble for a stupid joke that will make everything okay. “Wow, that must make you alone in the universe.” I dust off my best wry grin and drink.

  “Your smile, it lights up your whole face, but your eyes always stay sad.”

  Is he being serious or is this yet another bait? “Never have I ever sleepwalked,” I say, darting to a safer subject.

  Bran drinks. “When I was eight, my neighbors woke up and I was in their bedroom. Don’t remember a thing. Lucky they didn’t call the coppers.”

  “That’s nuts. Do you still do it?”

  “Sometimes. Lock your door tonight. Let’s see…never have I ever shot a gun.”

  I don’t drink.

  He makes a sound of disbelief. “Isn’t that anti-American?”

  “I’m a pacifist. Never have I ever had a big romantic kiss in the rain.”

  “That fact is the single most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Hence my sad eyes.” Traffic starts moving. I hang my hand out the window and let the wind blow through my fingers. He’s spinning me every which way, but I think I like it, even though I’m dizzy. “Bran?”

  “Natalia?”

  I
stiffen, immediately on edge. “No one ever calls me that except for my mom. How’d you know my full name?”

  “Read the luggage tag on your bag—Natalia Stolfi.”

  “Oh, right.” I shake my head and regroup. “Is it true you have no regrets, not even one?” Hopefully he has no idea how dead serious I am in his response.

  “There’s no point.” His fingers tighten infinitesimally on the wheel. “The past is the past. That’s it.”

  “Like whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger?”

  “No, that’s a dumb-ass cliché. I mean there’s no meaning to life, despite what people pretend. Once I figured that out, everything got easier.”

  “Has anyone ever said you are intense?”

  “Since the day I was born.” He checks the rearview mirror. “So I got to ask you something. Maybe I’m presuming but—”

  “If that’s your lead-in, then you’re probably correct.”

  “You don’t fool me.”

  He’s right. No matter how hard I try to hide and pretend away my crazy, Bran sees too much.

  “But you try to fool everyone, don’t you?” He turns and catches me staring. “With the act. You, all breezy, cute as hell, always smiling like we’re at some big-deal party. You know what I think—”

  “No, actually.” Wait, I’m cute? He thinks I’m cute?

  “Not sure what your issue is, but—”

  “I’m fine,” I mutter tightly. Reality wanders back, as unwelcome as a drunk uncle at a family picnic. Let’s face it, no one wants to be around a girl with issues. “Really, I’m all good.” Right, I sound like a five-year-old watching worms die in puddles.

  “Whatever you say, Miss OCD.” He glances from the open atlas on my lap to my pursed mouth with a thoughtful look.

  “I…I…” Anxiety locks me in an invisible chokehold while my abdomen spasms. But Bran’s gaze isn’t mocking. There’s an unexpected sweetness there that’s coaxing me from my familiar fortification. “I guess maybe it’s something like that.” My whispered words rise above my head like a toxic balloon.