by Piper Stone
Jodi came over with two mugs of delicious-smelling coffee. She’d applied lipstick since she’d met him and Kane outside, and blushed when she passed him the steaming drink. Ten minutes ago a hot drink was the last thing Nick had wanted, but the office air conditioning had turned the room chilly.
Jodi placed a plate of sliced Christmas cake on an empty desk, and Nick, Kane and the rangers gathered round it. Between mouthfuls of rich fruitcake, Nick made small talk and fielded questions, aware of Jodi’s constant presence at his side.
“So where do you work usually?” Gerry asked.
“Tarren.” The country town Nick lived and worked in was a two hour drive away from Tarwin Point. Nick had moved to Tarren just three months ago. Before that he had been based in a struggling Melbourne suburb, with high unemployment and major problems with drugs, gangs and home invasions. When the police had discovered that gangs were stealing guns from isolated farms to use in home invasions in the city, they’d decided to appoint what they called ‘agricultural liaison officers’. Cops taking on these roles worked in rural communities, warning farmers against gun theft and ensuring their guns were safely secured. Nick had immediately applied for the role. He enjoyed visiting the farms around Tarren, happy that helping farmers secure their guns was making Melbourne’s citizens safer. He planned to visit a handful of farms near Tarwin Point over the next few weeks, alongside his work in the national park.
“I haven’t been in Tarren long, though,” he told the rangers. “I was in Melbourne before.”
“You’ll find it quiet out here then,” said one of the young male rangers.
“Oh, there’s more crime than you’d think in the country,” Kane said quickly. Nick smothered a smile. He’d learned fast that all country cops insisted their beat was as hectic and tough as that of any city cop.
“Have you been to Tarwin Point before, Nick?” Gerry asked.
“Once as a kid,” Nick said.
“One of the rangers can show you around the touristy areas tomorrow,” Gerry said. “Most tourists camp here in Tarwin Bay, but there are a couple of other popular camping spots as well. Sometimes when they’ve had too much to drink and too much sun, things get out of hand.” He gazed at the last, lonely slice of cake, as if debating whether to take it. “Well,” he said, moving away from the desk with obvious reluctance, “I’d better get on with some work.”
Kane grabbed the final piece of cake. Nick downed the remainder of his coffee, wondering whether Fizzy – or Fel, as he’d better get used to calling her – had recognised him. He thought so. She’d seemed nervous when he shook hands with her, and avoided eye contact. As soon as he’d accepted the offer of coffee and cake, she had left the office abruptly. He figured that not only had she recognised him, she remembered their childhood games as well.
“More coffee?” Jodi asked.
“Thanks, but I’d better get moving,” said Nick. He wanted to unpack his bags, make himself comfortable in the hut he and Kane were sharing over summer. He needed to decide what to have for tea tonight as well.
Back outside in the oven-like bush, Nick crossed the road and spotted Fel. She had her back to him, her phone glued to her ear. Her bum looked cute and very spankable in her khaki uniform chinos. Before he turned onto the track towards the hut, Nick glanced back and saw that Fel had finished the call and was striding towards the office.
Nick had long given up on finding a soul mate. Relationships were tricky when your fantasy about any woman you fancied involved turning her over your knee and spanking her bottom scarlet. He’d tried it once, jokily, with a girlfriend at university, but she’d told him forcefully that she didn’t like it and he was never to do that again.
He’d respected that, but their relationship had fizzled out anyway.
Back then, he’d been a student fooling around. If he tried it now, as a serving police officer, and the woman objected, it could signal the end of his career.
Often he’d cursed Fizzy for introducing him to the thrill of spanking when he was ten.
But right now he wondered whether she still liked having her bottom smacked.
Chapter 2
It was almost six-thirty when Fel finished typing up her report. She cursed Nick for turning up and forcing her to pretend she had an important call. She’d have been home by now, eating tea, relaxing with a nice glass of white wine and her book or a bit of telly. She wrote a brief email to Gerry, attached the report and hit send with a sigh of relief. Now she could forget the tedious plan of management for a while – well, till some anal government official decided it needed updating again. Fel shut down her computer, stood up and stretched, trying to ease her aching back. She didn’t feel like going home and cooking. She’d have tea at the Darby Creek Hotel instead.
It was going to be a long summer, Fel mused as she drove carefully along the twisting road out of the park. She wouldn’t be able to avoid Nick completely for five weeks. It wouldn’t be so bad if she could be certain he didn’t remember the spankings. What if he told somebody about them? Fel loved working at Tarwin Point, but she would have to resign if her colleagues discovered she was kinky. She couldn’t bear the humiliation.
Fel had almost reached the park gates when she spotted a white van parked off road near one of the fire tracks. Fel frowned. It was unusual for anyone to go walking along tracks this close to the park entrance. Tourists usually hung out near the main beach; the more adventurous took overnight hikes to secluded coves. Fel pulled over and parked behind the van. She took a photo of the number plate before setting off along the track to investigate. For the first five minutes both sides of the track were lined with tea trees, then, as it skirted the edge of the park, it broadened out so she had dense tea trees and coastal banksia to her right and the green expanse of farmland to her left. A barbed wire fence separated the farmland from the national park. After about ten minutes of walking, she came upon four teenagers ambling in the opposite direction.
Four young men aged about eighteen. All wearing black hoodies and track pants in this heat.
They looked like trouble.
One of them took off his sunglasses and death-stared her. Fel concealed a prickle of fear with a smile and a cheery, “Hello, enjoying your walk?”
“Yeah,” Death-Starer muttered. The others ignored her. Fel heard them laughing when they were further along the track. She wondered what they’d been doing. They weren’t carrying backpacks or water bottles, so hadn’t been bushwalking. There was no water source along the track so they weren’t tending a marijuana crop. Was she being judgemental because they wore hoodies and were hostile? They may have simply set out on a walk and turned back realising they were ill prepared. Anyway, the biggest fear over summer was that some idiot would start a fire, and there was no smell or sight of smoke.
Fel lingered, giving the youths time to return to the van. She gazed at the cows grazing on the other side of the fence. The farmer, Doug Weaver, was in his early seventies and had farmed that land since the 1960s. Before that, it had been farmed by Weaver’s dad, and before him, his grandad. Weaver, like all farmers, had suffered financially during the drought that had plagued southern Australia from the mid-1990s until early 2010, but had hung in there – well, he’d had no choice really, no one had wanted to buy farms back then, and his kids hadn’t been interested in taking over. His son lived in England, and his daughter was on the Gold Coast; no one had seen either of them for years.
Fel glanced at her Fitbit. Time she wasn’t here. She retraced her steps along the track.
The white van was still parked. The side door was open and the youths were sitting inside. One of them gave her the finger as she got into her car. No, she wasn’t being judgemental; there was something off about these kids. Once she was outside the park gates she messaged the other rangers with a photo of the number plate. They’d be able to check on the van later, move the kids to the main campground if they intended staying in the park overnight. Gerry would no doubt pass the van det
ails on to the cops as well.
Fel shoved her phone back in her pocket. She’d done all she could. What she wanted now was a good feed and a cold beer.
Twenty minutes later she sauntered into the Darby Creek Hotel.
The hut Nick and Kane were sharing over summer was depressing, to say the least. It looked cosy from the outside – a wooden cabin-like building surrounded by tea trees and ferns. But inside it was basic and dull. The combined kitchen and living area had little natural light, an uncomfortable sofa and a small television. A bedroom lay at each end of the hut. Nick’s room contained a double bed, a built-in wardrobe with shelving, and a cramped en suite. He unpacked his bags and resolved to spend as little time there as possible.
Kane arrived and put the telly on. The news announcer was talking about the upcoming Boxing Day cricket match at the Melbourne Cricket Ground; Australia’s top batsman had torn a hamstring so was out of the team. Kane sprawled on the sofa, beer in hand, watching. “We’re stuffed in the cricket now,” he said.
“Yeah, looks like it.” Nick didn’t care – he didn’t like cricket. Aussie Rules football was his game, the only spectator sport he followed. “I was thinking of having tea at that pub in Darby Creek,” he said. “Want to join me?”
“Nah, not tonight. I’ll stay here. I’ve got a couple of beers and I picked up a ready-meal from the store that I can microwave. But thanks anyway.”
Nick left Kane to his beer and the news, and drove out of the park. Even though he was hungry, it was a bit early for tea, even in a sleepy township like Darby Creek. He decided to visit one of the farms on his list first, and head for the pub around seven-thirty. The closest farm was on the edge of the park, owned by a man in his seventies called Doug Weaver. Weaver’s wife had died several years ago and he worked the farm alone. He’d be a soft target for criminals stealing guns.
Nick’s GPS led him to Weaver’s farm, but he found the gates padlocked. He was about to get back in his car when he spotted a stooping figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat coming out of a building next to the farmhouse. Nick waved and called out, “Hello.”
The man spotted him and made his way towards the gate with obvious reluctance.
“Sorry to bother you,” Nick said as the man drew closer. “I’m Senior Sergeant Loxton from—”
“How can I help you, Officer?” the man asked abruptly. Nick decided he must be Doug Weaver. He wore a check shirt and black shorts, liver spots were visible on his forehead below his hat, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He leaned on the gatepost and made no attempt to unlock the gate.
“I’m covering the summer beat at Tarwin Point,” Nick told him, “but I’m also one of the agricultural liaison officers working with farmers to improve their gun security. You may not be aware of this, but—”
“My guns are safe enough.”
“There have been several incidents in Melbourne where criminals have carried out home invasions using guns stolen from farms in the country,” Nick persisted. “Would it be okay for me to take a look at where and how your guns are stored? I’m sure they’re secure, like you say, but I may have tips to help you.”
“Now’s not convenient.”
“Well, perhaps I could come back tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I’m going away for Christmas.”
“I’m here for five weeks,” Nick told him. “I can come back after New Year’s.”
“I’m going to my sister’s. I’m not sure how long I’ll be away.” Weaver wouldn’t look him in the eye and Nick noticed his hand was trembling slightly. “Anyway, my guns are secure like I told you.”
Well, he couldn’t force Weaver to cooperate; the farmer had done nothing wrong, after all. Nick reached into his shirt pocket for his card. “I’ll drop by again after New Year’s and perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to catch you at a convenient time. In the meantime, if there’s any way I can help you, any advice—”
“I don’t need any advice. I’ve been storing my guns since before you were born, young fella.”
Nick kept his patience. “I know that. But the world’s changed since then. You didn’t have gangs coming up from Melbourne to steal guns back then. You farmers and professional shooters are the only people in Australia allowed to own semi-automatic shotguns. That’s what the gangs are after, so it makes you guys a target.”
Weaver was silent for a few seconds. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Well, I can’t talk now. Like I said, I’m going away for Christmas tomorrow, and I still need to buy some presents and get everything wrapped. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” Nick smiled at him, trying to win him over by being friendly. “I do. It’s a busy time of year. Well, you have a happy Christmas and hopefully we can catch up early next year to take a look at your guns.”
“Yeah, maybe. Merry Christmas.”
Nick got back in his car and drove off, aware of Weaver’s eyes on him until he was down the lane and out of the old man’s sight. There was nothing unusual about Weaver’s hostility to letting Nick check where he was storing his guns. Farmers were proud people and resented some city cop telling them what they should be doing. But that pride generally meant they showed Nick where their guns were stored, as if to say, “See, I told you it wasn’t worth you checking. I know what I’m doing.”
But Weaver hadn’t wanted him to check. Not today. Not ever.
He hadn’t wanted him on the padlocked property at all.
What had he got to hide?
Chapter 3
Darby Creek consisted of two main, intersecting shop-lined streets, encircled by houses and farms. The fine old colonial Darby Creek Hotel stood proudly on the intersection, a two-storey brick building with a large veranda on the second floor. Like all the local businesses, it was heavily dependent on the tourist trade, and made most of its money over summer.
Downstairs was the main bar; upstairs was for meals. Fel pushed her way through the evening drinking crowd and headed upstairs where she was greeted by a welcome blast of air-con and the smell of food cooking. In the far corner, fairy lights shimmered on the Christmas tree and cheesy old Christmas songs blasted from the speakers. The tables were crowded. She would have to put up with the heat and dine on the veranda.
Fel ordered fish and chips and salad from the meals counter before heading over to the bar. Her friend and neighbour Laura finished handing change to a customer before turning to her with a grin. “Cold beer, Fel? You look like you need it.”
“Yep. It’s stinking hot out there. How are you going? Ready for Christmas? I bet the kids are excited.”
Laura was a couple of years older than Fel. She and her husband had two kids, a six-year-old boy and four-year-old girl, who had inherited their mum’s flaming red hair and freckled skin. Laura was at home with the kids during the day and worked at the pub most evenings.
“Oh, yes.” Laura poured a glass of beer for Fel. “We took them into Melbourne for the day on Saturday – showed them the Myers windows and the Christmas display in the casino, then took them to see Santa. They loved it.”
Fel took a long slug of refreshing beer and listened to Laura talking about their trip to the city. Fel had long given up on meeting the right man and settling down and having kids. A few years ago, she’d thought she might meet Mr Right through one of the online spanking forums she hung out on. But the one and only forum spanko she’d dated had ended up being Mr Completely Wrong. Sure, he’d been happy to turn Fel over his knee, pull down her panties, and spank her thoroughly and hard. But he had called her names like ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ while smacking her, and that had been a total turn-off.
“I’m not a slut or whore, don’t call me that,” Fel had yelled as he spanked her.
He had stopped spanking, and hauled her to her feet. “Take all your clothes off and stand in the corner with your hands on your head,” he had ordered. “You do not disrespect me.”
Fel had no intention of taking off her clothes or standing in the corner. She started to yank up
her panties.
He grabbed her wrist. “If you disobey me, it won’t be my hand you’ll feel when you’ve stood in the corner for an hour. It’ll be my belt.”
Fel responded with a well-aimed and agonising karate kick to the balls. That had been the end of their relationship. It had been the end of searching for a soul mate on the spanking forums too. Fel sensed that she wasn’t submissive enough for a spanko. She didn’t want to submit, didn’t want to call someone ‘sir’ or ‘Master’, didn’t want to stand in the corner naked or write lines. So she had gone back to dating vanilla guys and it had all been so bloody unsatisfactory. She enjoyed the actual dates and she liked the guys’ company. But she grew increasingly frustrated with the lack of spanking in her life. Her dates would give her the occasional slap on the backside during sex, but that was as frustrating as a friendly peck on the cheek from a guy you wanted to snog. Every relationship had fizzled out fast and since moving to Darby Creek and working at Tarwin Point, she hadn’t dated anybody.
“Fel?”
Fel jumped and blushed, aware she’d been sprung not listening. “Sorry,” she said to Laura. “Long day. I’m a bit tired.”
Laura pointed to a dark-haired waitress carrying a plate of fish, chips and salad out to the veranda. “Yours, I think?”
Fel made her way outside. She reached in her bag for her Kindle so she could read as she ate. Her current read was a spanking romance by one of her favourite authors. The ‘Colour Me Red’ books were rom coms about a talented, but scatterbrained artist and her London gallery-owning boyfriend. The book titles were named after Derwent pencil colours, double meanings hinting at their spanking content: Flesh Pink, Poppy Red, Madder Carmine, and the latest, Deep Vermilion. Fel loved the books: the antics the heroine got up to were laugh out loud and the hero was a swoon-worthy combination of firmness and fun. But they made her too horny to read in public, so she opened a cosy Christmas murder-mystery instead. Fel propped the Kindle up against the sturdy salt and pepper pots, sliced the fish with her knife and fork and began to eat.