Just My Luck (Escape to New Zealand #5)

by Rosalind James

  “I couldn’t even afford to go out and drink too much, like a normal person,” she said with a watery laugh after she’d cried herself out, told Kristen the story. She blew her nose again. “I thought about going to New World for some cheap wine, but getting drunk here alone—that would just be too pathetic. Anyway, I need to start saving. I only just got Nate’s birthday weekend paid off, and I’m not going to have anybody buying groceries any more, or taking me out.”

  “And here I’ve been,” Kristen said in distress, “going on and on about how happy I am. I wish I’d known, so I could have been more sensitive. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Ally assured her. “Hearing about you and Liam doesn’t make me sad. Thinking about Nate and me, that makes me sad, but hearing about you? That makes me feel better.”

  Being angry at Nate, and sad about what had happened, Ally found, didn’t make watching the All Blacks lose to the Springboks in South Africa any easier. She hadn’t wanted to get up in the wee hours with Kristen to watch the game, hadn’t wanted to care so much. But, in the end, she had, because she hadn’t been able to sleep. And then had wished she hadn’t.

  “That’s going to make it awfully hard for them to win the Championship, isn’t it?” Kristen asked when the referee finally blew his whistle to end a game in which the huge Springboks forwards had simply out-muscled the All Blacks. The kicking had been a bright spot, though, Nic Wilkinson, the fullback, making all but one of his attempts. And, again, it had been close, although Ally knew what Nate would have said. That close was nice, but a loss was a loss.

  “They can still do it,” Ally said. “But with two losses now . . . it’s sure going to make it harder.”

  Defending Nate

  Ally stood back to check a newbie’s belay technique. Stepped forward with a word, an adjustment of the hand, the rope, then swept the gym with her eyes, making one of the constant checks that were such an important part of her job. Then found her attention arrested by the conversation of the two guys next to her, putting their harnesses on. And talking, she realized, about the game.

  “Don’t know what the selectors were thinking, choosing him,” one of them, a burly guy she recognized all too well from his past visits, was saying loudly. “All right, he’s a pretty good second-five, but he’s rubbish as a skipper. Rubbish on the Canes, rubbish on the ABs.”

  “To be fair on him, though,” the other man answered more mildly, “losing the blokes they have this year hasn’t helped. And a downturn the year after a team wins the World Cup, that’s happened before, eh. Look at the Boks themselves, last time they won it. Lost the Tri-Nations pretty comprehensively the next year.”

  “Didn’t happen to the ABs last time,” Burly Boy insisted. “Won every game but one the next season. It’s all down to the skipper. He pulls the squad up, or he drags them down. Truth is, there’ve been weak spots on the ABs for years now, and we’re finally seeing the results. Having Callahan there has masked it, though he was past his sell-by date the last year or two. Still a bloody good skipper, though, kept them punching above their weight. Now he’s gone, and they’re not. Simple as that.”

  “Really?” Ally couldn’t help herself. Her hands were shaking, and she could feel the hot rage rising inside, impossible to quell. She took a step towards the men as they turned to her in surprise. “You really think that’s the reason, that it’s his fault? It’s his first season as captain! How do you think Drew did his first season? Did he win every game? And who do you imagine would be able to do a better job than Nate? Seeing as they’ve lost their best loose forwards, and the best first five-eighths in the game too? How’s one man supposed to make up for all that?”

  “That’s the skipper’s job, to make up for it,” the big man said impatiently, “and everyone knows it. If you’d read John Farrell’s column today, you’d know it too. The stats don’t lie. Have you looked at the ladder, by any chance? Are you blind, that you haven’t seen how out of form they are? All those handling errors? How shocking the set piece is looking?”

  “I don’t care what some columnist says,” Ally flared back. She’d read it too, and her resentment had been simmering ever since. “Farrell’s always down on the All Blacks. I don’t think he believes half of what he says anyway. He’s just trying to stir up controversy. I’d like to see him, or you for that matter, go out there and do anything close to what those guys do every single day. I’d like to see you put your body on the line for New Zealand, week in and week out, the way Nate does. Then you might have some room to talk.”

  “Gets paid a bloody fortune for it too,” the big man scoffed. “It’s not a charity. You pay me close to a million a year, you’ll see how much I’m willing to do for New Zealand. And what d’you imagine you know about it anyway? Some Yank girl thinking she’s going to set Kiwis right about the All Blacks? Blow that for a joke.”

  “I know a whole lot more about it than you!” Ally was trembling now. She felt her hands fisting at her sides, itched to smash the smirk right off this jerk’s face. His friend was looking a little worried, she saw, as he gave a yank to the other man’s arm.

  “Pull your head in, mate,” he cautioned. “Don’t want to have a stoush with a girl. Let’s climb, eh.”

  Robbo was at Ally’s side now, alerted by the rising voices. “What’s going on?” he asked her.

  “Your little friend here reckons she knows more about rugby than Kiwis do, that’s what,” Ally’s opponent said. “Bloody arrogant Americans.”

  “Stick to gridiron,” he told Ally contemptuously. “Maybe you know something about that, though I doubt it. You probably just like how the boys look in their tight jerseys.”

  “Well, she does know a bit about it, for all that,” Robbo said, putting himself between Ally and the two men. “Seeing as she’s Nate Torrance’s partner.”

  That brought the other man up short, but he wasn’t one to stay down for long. “What I said,” he insisted after a moment. “Tight jerseys. Or tight something else, maybe,” he added with a smirk.

  He would have said more, but his friend was there again, speaking quietly and urgently, herding him off.

  Meanwhile, Robbo had Ally by the arm, was pulling her away, towards the entrance.

  “Ally. Stop,” he hissed as she twisted against him. “Mac’s looking. Go to the toilet. Go. I’ll take care of it.”

  She came back to herself, looked up to see Mac’s hard gaze on her. Cast a quick, horrified glance at Robbo, who gave her a push in the direction of the toilets.

  “Go,” he said again. “Right now.”

  She took a few steps. Looked back to see Robbo approaching the two men, his hands spread wide in a gesture of conciliation. She turned and walked blindly to the toilet, hit the swinging door with a violent burst that wasn’t enough for her, so she smashed the side of her fist into the wall.

  “Ow!” It was a strangled wail. Because that hurt like hell. Why did guys do that? It was just stupid. She stomped a circular path in the tiny space, shaking out her hand and muttering every swear word she knew.

  And was brought up short by the sound of the toilet flushing, the stall door opening.

  “All right?”

  Ally stood holding her hand, staring blankly at the vaguely familiar fortyish woman, an occasional lunchtime climber, who was looking at her with concern, edging toward the sink a bit cautiously, as though Ally might be dangerous.

  “Oh! Uh . . . yeah,” Ally said. “Yeah. Sorry. Just . . . just rehearsing,” she improvised wildly. “Practicing.” She tried a smile. “Sorry.”

  The woman finished washing her hands, reached for a paper towel. “I’d say you’ve got it,” she said with a smile of her own. “I’d say you’re good.”

  Well, no, she wasn’t. But she was better.

  She came out again a few minutes later, after a soak of her sore hand in cold water and a stern internal talking-to. Without swear words. The two guys were climbing in a distant corner, she saw with relief. She saw Robbo
over by the training wall, went to join him.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

  “No worries. He’s a bloody idiot, always has been. But you need to watch yourself. Can’t attack the customers, you know, or you’ll get the sack.”

  “Did Mac say something?” she asked nervously.

  “I took care of it. Gave them a card for a free session, told them you had PMT.”

  “Sorry,” he went on hastily at her outraged glance. “It was the only thing I could think of at the moment. It worked, anyway. And I gave Mac some nonsense about them not wanting to take advice from a girl.”

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  “No dramas. But you can’t fight Nate’s battles, you know. He wouldn’t want you to, I’m sure. Part of the job, getting rubbished in the press. Don’t tell him you did that, is my advice. He’s a pretty proud bloke. He won’t like it.”

  “He won’t know. Or care. We broke up,” she admitted at Robbo’s sharp look.

  “So why are you defending him, exactly?”

  She sighed. “Because I can’t help it.”

  “Ah.” He nodded, and Ally could tell that he knew what that meant. That Nate had broken up with her, and that she still loved him anyway. But all he said was, “Bugger. Breaking up’s the shits.”

  She had to laugh a little in spite of herself. “Yep. It sure is.”

  The Internet Is Forever

  Was she showing something she shouldn’t? Ally wondered a few days later. Or did she look better than she felt? Because it seemed like half the guys who’d walked into the gym this morning had taken an extra look at her, or downright stared. At first she’d been flattered, but now she was just confused.

  She finally murmured a word to Robbo and ducked into the toilet to check. Looked carefully in the mirror. No food on her face, no sudden acne eruption, and she wasn’t wearing anything with a zipper that could have been undone. Sports bra, tank top, climbing pants, check. She bared her teeth. Nothing on them either.

  She didn’t look fabulous, but she didn’t look all that bad, so that couldn’t be it. A little tired, maybe, a little shadowed around the eye area. Which was no wonder, because once again, she hadn’t slept well the night before. She’d thought it had been hard having Nate away on a road trip when they’d been together. That was nothing to how hard it felt now, knowing he wasn’t coming back to her. Her chest tightened at the thought. At least she wasn’t crying anymore, but maybe it still showed. Maybe those guys had never seen a woman suffering from unrequited love before. Nobody in love with them, anyway. Ha. That was probably it.

  She had to smile a little at the idea. Grimaced at herself in the mirror, splashed a little water on her face, dried her hands, and went back out into the gym. And found Robbo standing with a couple of their regulars.

  The men broke off their conversation abruptly at the sight of her, moved apart. The climbers headed over to one of the walls, and Robbo went to the box of returned climbing shoes, began to sort through them.

  “What’s going on?” Ally asked, coming over to join him, picking up a pair of shoes and the can of disinfectant, giving each one a spray.

  “What do you mean?” Robbo continued to sort shoes, not meeting her eyes.

  “Why is everyone looking at me?” Ally pressed. “Because they are, aren’t they?”

  “You haven’t heard, then.” He glanced up at her, then back down again, looking truly uncomfortable now. “What’s been happening online.”

  “Somebody reported that Nate and I broke up,” Ally said with resignation. “Is that it?”

  “No. Don’t think anyone knows that. That was the point of it, wasn’t it?”

  “The point of what?” she asked in exasperation. “What the heck is going on?”

  “Bloody hell,” he said. “I don’t want to be the one to tell you, I really don’t.”

  “Tell me what?” she demanded. “Do it now. Whatever it is.”

  Robbo sighed. “There are some . . . photos of you, and they’ve got your name on. On Facebook, Twitter, like that. Don’t know where they got started.”

  “Photos of me,” she repeated with puzzlement. “With Nate, you mean? Why would that be a big deal?”

  “No. Not with Nate. With some other bloke. And, Ally. You’re naked in them. And . . . having sex.”

  “I’m naked?” She felt the blood drain from her head, found herself wrapping her arms around her suddenly chilled body as her fuzzy brain tried to process the information. “How can that be? Who is it? The guy?”

  “Don’t know.” Robbo was looking more uncomfortable than ever. “Dark hair, they said. That’s why it’s obvious it’s not Nate.”

  “It can’t be me either, then, whatever it says online,” she said with relief. She and Brian had never taken naked pictures, and anyway, his hair was light brown, like Nate’s.

  “Somebody’s put my name on some porno pictures and shared them,” she realized. “Trying to cause trouble for Nate and me, not realizing they didn’t need to bother. Because it’s too late anyway.”

  Although knowing it wasn’t her in the photos wouldn’t help that much with the embarrassment, actually. Not if it was big enough news that every guy at the gym seemed to know about it. But only because they knew her personally, and how many people did? Hardly anyone.

  “They’re pretty sure, Ally,” Robbo said gently.

  “Well, it can’t be,” she repeated firmly. “Because I haven’t posed for any naked pictures. Ever. Unless they photoshopped my face in.” The thought sent a shaft of anxiety through her. “That would be an awful lot of work, though,” she decided, “and they’d still need a picture of me to do it. Who would bother?”

  “Never sexted?” Robbo pressed. “Never sent some bloke a snap?”

  “Of course not,” she said impatiently. “What, do you think I’m stupid? The Internet is forever. Every woman with two functioning brain cells to rub together knows that by now.”

  “Hope you’re right,” he said with relief. “Course, I haven’t looked, and I won’t.”

  “Thanks,” she said with real gratitude. “You’re a good friend, and a good man.”

  He looked a bit embarrassed at that. But they didn’t manage any more conversation, because Mac had walked over to join them.

  “What d’you think this is, bloody happy hour?” he barked. “Not paying you to chat. Ally, didn’t you notice those new blokes, waiting for a training session? Get over there and get to it.”

  “Sure,” she said distractedly, walking across the gym toward the two guys standing near the low wall. Who were both looking at her with interest, then exchanging a glance. Just like the guys she was passing now, the ones who’d inspired her little meltdown on Monday. The big one smirking openly, the other looking a little embarrassed.

  This was either somebody’s idea of a sick joke, or maybe a former girlfriend out to cause trouble. But as soon as people knew she wasn’t dating Nate anymore, she reminded herself, trying her very best not to cringe, there’d be no story, and this would all be over.

  “Naked pictures?” Kristen asked in horror when Ally’s shift had ended and she’d climbed the hill to the flat.

  “Yeah,” Ally said with a sigh, going for her laptop and setting it on the kitchen table. “So I guess we’d better check, see how much they actually do look like me. And figure out what to do. Not that I can imagine there’s much I can do.”

  She waited the several minutes it always took for her computer to boot up, her heart beating harder despite the reassurances she’d been giving herself all day. She needed a new laptop, she thought irrelevantly. Ha. Like that was happening. Her parents had bought her this one when she’d graduated from college six years ago, making it an antique, and with performance to match.

  Finally, though, it was up and she was online. She took a deep breath, typed “Allison Villiers” into the search bar, and hit the return key.

  More seconds, and then the res
ults. At least a page of them, she saw at a glance, and probably a lot more. An exclamation of distress from Kristen, and Ally clicked on the first, a blog post referencing a tweet. She clicked on that, came up with “Allison Villiers Nate Torrance gf #AllyNudiePix.” Well, that was clear enough.

  And then the link came up, and it was clearer than that. Ally scrolled down the group of three pictures. And if she’d been cold before, she was frozen now.

  Because it was her. On her back, taken from overhead, her face clearly visible. In one of the pictures, the man’s head was at her breast, and she couldn’t have said who it was, but she knew all the same, even before she looked at the second one, where his face was in profile. Devon. And there was absolutely no doubt what the two of them were doing.

  “Oh, my God,” Kristen breathed. “Oh, Ally.”

  Ally heard herself making a sound that didn’t even sound human, a whimper like a wounded animal. And then she was running for the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time. Dropping to her knees and dry-heaving. No lunch to come up, she realized as she continued to retch. She hadn’t been able to eat, and she hadn’t even known it was true.

  She stayed where she was for long minutes, her stomach continuing to contract in painful spasms, her eyes filling with tears that dripped into the porcelain bowl. Kristen was there, holding her hair, murmuring something soothing. But Ally barely heard her.

  She had the early shift the next morning. Well, she thought, climbing out of bed on legs that felt like lead, she’d get it over with fast. And today would be the worst day. After that, she’d be used to it. You could get used to anything, she’d heard. Besides, the public attention span was short. In another week or two, this would be old news, some new scandal arising to take its place. She’d just have to suck it up and tough it out. She could do that.

  So much for starting over in New Zealand. Kristen seemed to have done it, but all Ally had managed recently was a whole lot of crying into her pillow, which wasn’t like her at all. She was going to change that, she vowed. Starting today.