by Morey, Trish
Other than leave Bella’s a few hundred bucks poorer and a whole heap less satisfied.
So much for no complications.
The wooden bench outside the York Hotel had been soaking up the summer sun and was way too hot to sit on for long, but Scarlett had only realized that once she’d sat down and felt the sun’s bite through her jeans. But right now a too-hot slab of wood beneath her butt and the sting of the sun on her shoulders were the least of her worries. Because she had walked the length and breadth of the main street looking for work and all she had to show for it were pairs of aching feet and shoulders. And the soul-destroying realization that Scarlett Buck had failed in spectacular style yet again.
It really shouldn’t come as a surprise, she figured, given her life history, and yet this failure stung more than most. Maybe because there was no getting out of this one: no older-by-five-minutes sister close by to help her out of a sticky situation, no Aunt Margot to run to when her sister had despaired of her and there was no one else to turn to.
So she was stuck here, half a world away and at least fifteen hundred dollars from home and it was nobody’s stupid fault but her own that she was even here. Nobody else to blame for spending her entire bank balance on a one-way ticket to Australia when everyone had warned her against it and she’d gone ahead and done it regardless. And nobody to blame but herself that she’d taken a second to email Tara, all excited when she’d got the gig at Bella’s to tell her she’d be home in no more than a week or two.
So premature.
So typical.
So stupid!
And now Tara was wanting to know her flight details and when she’d be home and when Scarlett could be the one chasing her mother’s appointments rather than her sister having to fit them all in to her shifts.
Which would all be perfectly fine and reasonable given Tara had shouldered the load and ferried their mom back and forth for her medical tests and shopped and cleaned for her while Scarlett had been traipsing half way around the world in the—okay, what had turned out to be futile—pursuit of true love. Except she wasn’t going to be coming home any time soon after all.
What was she going to tell her sister now? That she’d been so turned on by her first client in her new job, that she’d freaked like some tensed-out virgin and been told to pack her things and go? What would her police officer twin sister make of that?
She could hear her entirely calm and sympathetic response right now.
“You took a job in a brothel?”
“It’s not that bad, it’s legal here, just like in Reno.”
“It’s still a brothel!”
“But it’s okay, because I left before anything actually happened—”
“But you took a job—in a brothel!!!”
By that stage, her strait-laced police officer sister would be practically foaming at the mouth, and things would most likely go downhill from there.
No, it was better Tara didn’t know.
Ever.
Because then there was no chance she might tell their mom. God knew, their Mom had way too much to deal with right now as it was.
Early Onset Parkinson’s.
When her sister had told her the news, she hadn’t believed it. Only old people got Parkinson’s, didn’t they? And Mom was what? Forty-five? Surely she was way too young. But no, the doctors were certain that the sometime falls she’d been having, the shakes and unsteadiness that she and Tara had put down to a couple of bourbons at night, had a far more sinister cause.
Who could blame their mom for getting depressed about it? Who wouldn’t be depressed when there was no cure and when you knew that bit by bit, you would lose control of your movement and functionality and everything in life you took for granted. And now her mom needed her and she needed to be with her mom and instead here she was, stuck in some tiny podunk Australian town with no quick way of getting home. God, she was all kindsof fool. But she would make it up to her mom and her long-suffering sister one day. Come hell or high water, she’d make it up to them.
Tears squeezed unbidden from her eyes and she cursed and pressed the heels of her hands into her face. Dammit, she would not cry! She might be bone tired and in a tight spot, but she was twenty-six years old for heaven’s sake. She would not damned well sit here and feel sorry for herself! She’d never get home to help her mom that way. No, she’d pick herself up and dust herself off and find a job and somewhere to bunk down for as long as it took to save up enough money for the fare and then she’d go home. End of story.
She swiped the tears from her cheeks and blinked to clear her vision as she stood, swinging the pack over her shoulder in the process.
She didn’t see the man coming.
She didn’t see anyone coming for that matter.
But she sure as hell felt him.
It took a few moments for Mitch’s eyes to adjust to the sunlight when he left the relative darkness of the pub, and by the time he saw her, sitting on the bench at the edge of the veranda, he was already half way to her. His footsteps slowed. God, what were the odds?
Then again, who needed odds? It was small town coincidence, he decided, and pure dumb luck.
He almost turned around and walked the other way but why should he? She was the one with the problem, after all. Besides, just like she hadn’t noticed him in the bar when she’d turned up half an hour ago, she hadn’t noticed him now, hadn’t so much as turned her head towards him—or anyone else walking by for that matter. Just kept staring blindly out across the wide Kalgoorlie street, seemingly oblivious to the moving streetscape and everything and everyone around her. She looked younger than she had at Bella’s, looked lost and lonely and at the end of her tether, and for a moment he was reminded of another girl, lost and lonely and desperate.
No!
Not your problem, he told himself. She’s not Callie. It’s just the guilt talking. Move along, nothing to see here.
Someone lurched into him from behind and belted out a curse, before staggering off along the veranda, more than a couple too many beers under his belt.
She noticed none of it. Just muttered something before dropping her face into her hands.
Perfect. She was so focused on whatever was on her mind, she wouldn’t even notice when Mitch walked right on by. Which he was seconds from doing when the drunk in front of him lurched suddenly to the right at the same moment that the girl sprang up and around, the pack on her back connecting with the guy and sending him sprawling. The drunk stumbled, wrong-footed, across the veranda, before crashing into the pub wall with a loud, ‘Oof!’ and all hell broke loose.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, reaching for his arm to steady him, her eyes big and too late noticing the world around her, once again. “Are you okay?”
“You bloody bitch!” the drunk bit out, peeling himself off the wall slowly before wheeling around with a speed that should have been impossible given his intoxicated state.
“Ah hell,” Mitch muttered, knowing dumb luck wasn’t done with him yet.
The drunk flung out his arm as he spun, the back of his elbow heading straight for the girl’s jaw.
Mitch wrenched her clear with one hand, blocking the man’s arm with the other. “Calm down, sunshine. We don’t hit women here.”
The man either didn’t hear or didn’t care, just kept on coming, his face twisted and malevolent as he swung his other fist wildly around. Mitch caught that one too. “Little bitch knocked me over,” the drunk snarled, as he tried to twist his limbs free. There was spit coming from the side of his mouth and he stank of stale beer and sour body.
“I didn’t see him,” she pleaded, all big green eyes in a face bleached of color, and if she was relieved to see it was Mitch coming to her rescue, it didn’t show.
“You weren’t bloody looking, bitch!”
“Calm down!” Mitch gave the drunk a shove, not letting go of his arms just yet. “You’re drunk and you can’t walk straight. Go home and sleep it off.”
“I do
n’t have to take orders from you.” He pushed hard against Mitch, a lumbering mass of drunk whose blood alcohol level was higher than his IQ, and Mitch had no trouble slamming him up hard against the wall. “Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she was sorry. How about you accept her apology and go home? Before the police want a bit more than just an apology from you.” The drunk blinked bloodshot eyes at that, the logic of Mitch’s words filtering through the fog of alcohol clouding his brain. “I’m goin’,” he said Not that it stopped him letting let fly a few more curses after Mitch set him free with a shove, and he staggered off down the street.
The few pedestrians who’d stopped to watch a free show filtered off until just the two of them and an uncomfortable silence remained. He should go too, he thought, before things got even more awkward between them. It wasn’t like he needed to be reminded of what they might have been doing earlier today if she hadn’t decided it hadn’t been working for her. It wasn’t like he needed another lesson in humiliation.
“I didn’t choose you.”
The words had stuck in his craw ever since she’d uttered them. Well, fine. He’d done his good deed for the day. He could choose not to hang around here any longer.
Move along.
And he was moving along. Heading back to his blessedly uncomplicated life even if that did come with its own frustrations.
“Wait.”
He stopped and glanced at the veranda. “Now you and I both know you don’t really want me to.”
“At least let me thank you.”
He didn’t bother glancing, this time. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I do. Let me at least buy you a coffee or something.”
He turned, all set to say no again, but he saw her looking up at him, her face still pale, and he felt the shadow of his little sister in the hurt and despair in her eyes and his gut twisted so tight he couldn’t breathe.
What if someone had been able to help Callie but they’d chosen to walk away instead?
What if this girl needed help and he walked away now? Before at least making sure she was okay? Would it kill him if he stopped long enough to find out?
The girl made like she was going to say something, her lips poised half way to a word, but then she closed her mouth and gave her head a shake, as if she’d decided against it. Instead she hauled her backpack over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she simply said, before she turned to go. “I’m the last person you’d want to have coffee with.”
She was right and she was wrong. He’d been happy to leave her at Bella’s. Would have quite happily lived his entire life without their paths ever crossing again. But they had crossed, and she’d needed help, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she still did.
And maybe she didn’t particularly want his, but hell, it seemed to him like she could hardly afford to pick and choose.
“Coffee would be fine,” he said. And just in case she needed to have it spelled out, in case she might imagine he was still trying to collect on the money he’d dropped at Bella’s, he added, “Just coffee.”
Her lids shuttered down, long lashes lingering a while on her cheeks. Not a blink, but a measured pause for a measured response, before she opened her eyes on a nod, “Just coffee then,” she said, “I owe you.”
He didn’t argue the point. Just nodded and felt himself smile.
Her face relaxed enough to smile back, just tentatively, but it was a start. She looked summer fresh, dressed as she was in a lacy white cotton vest with faded jeans tucked into tan boots and her scarlet hair braided into a thick rope down her back. Girl-next-door pretty, with clear skin and a wide mouth and eyes almost too big for her face—until she smiled and the curve of her lips somehow balanced it all out.
He looked away before he could dwell too much on how good she looked, because that wasn’t why he was having coffee with her, and pointed out a cafe across the street that had stools along a bench overlooking the street and where he knew they’d both be more comfortable than sitting face to face. She wouldn’t let him carry her pack, even though it had to weigh twice as much as she did. Independent, mistrustful, or just plain stubborn, he didn’t know what she was, but he couldn’t help but find a measure of respect for her, right there.
“What can I get you?” she asked, checking out the drinks menu. The cafe was busy with the afternoon tea crowd, but they found a couple of stools like he’d hoped at the front.
“Long black,” he said.
Americano, she translated in her head approvingly. But then, he hadn’t struck her as a cappuccino or a soy latte sort of guy. Her stomach rumbled and she thought longingly of food—how long had it been since breakfast? But cafe prices were too extravagant for her limited budget. Every dollar would have to count now, more now than ever—and so when the waitress came for their order, two long blacks was the extent of it.
She pulled a few coins from her coin purse and stacked them in a pile, and when that was done, stared out at the passing traffic, grateful that the man beside her seemed content to just sit and watch too. And it was easier looking at the traffic than looking at him sitting beside her and being reminded of how he looked dripping wet and naked but for a fluffy white towel lashed around his hips.
Don’t go there, she told herself, just say what you need to say.
And she was about to, but his leg brushed against hers, denim against denim, and she jumped. Hoo-ee, if the guy wasn’t electric or something. “I really could do with that coffee,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she poked a few strands of hair back behind her ears.
“It’ll come,” he said. “You’re bound to be a bit shook up.”
She smiled. If only he knew what was shaking her up. Well, there were a couple of things shaking her up, and only one of them was him, and if she didn’t say something soon about the other, she’d burst.
“About before,” she started, her eyes still fixed on the moving streetscape. “I’m real sorry about what happened.”
“Not your fault. He was drunk.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Not that before. The other before. At Bella’s.”
A pause.
“You don’t need to explain.”
His voice had a gruff edge to it. He was still sore about it, she could tell, and that was fair, but she still needed to explain. “No, listen.” She dragged in air that tasted of summer dust and small town, and it struck her that it wasn’t that different from how summer air smelt back home in Marietta. Except it was winter at home now and the air blowing down off Copper Mountain and whistling along Main Street would be cold and clear, and her mom would no doubt be doing battle with the central heating and losing again. She shouldn’t have to struggle with that on top of trying to cope with everything else. Scarlett turned away from the traffic and thoughts of home. What was the point? It would be months before she’d get home now. “Bella told you I was new. I was brand new, as it happens. You would have been my first.”
His eyes opened wide. Really wide. “First? What, first time ever, you mean?” He sounded appalled.
“Oh hell no,” she said, laughing. “Not that kind of first. Just first in my new ex-job. But I do feel bad about it and I just wanted you to know, it wasn’t you or anything you did, it was me.”
Their coffees arrived and she was grateful for the interruption before she’d gone and told him how it had been damned near impossible to stop and wouldn’t that have been embarrassing? She breathed in the bewitching aroma of her coffee instead. It smelt strong and rich and exactly what she needed right now.
‘It wasn’t you—it was me.’
Funny, Mitch thought, that was almost the same thing Kristelle had told him, only the other way around. It was kind of refreshing not to be blamed for something for once.
“How about we forget about what happened before and start again.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Mitch. What’s yours?”
She frowned a little as she regarded his hand. “Scarlett,” she said, raising her eyes as she slipp
ed her hand warily into his. “But you already know that.”
It took a moment for the name to register, maybe because her hand was smooth in his and came with a burst of feel good that reminded him just how good she’d felt in his arms. And because his body didn’t need a reminder of what he’d been so close to having and missed out on, he let her hand go and focused on her words instead. “Like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, the very same. Mom’s the original Gone with the Wind Windie. Would you believe, I have a twin sister called Tara.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Mom even has a poster of Rhett Butler hanging above her bed.”
Her voice went quiet at the end and she lost her smile, her eyes a million miles away, her hands fiddling with the ends of the thick red braid dangling heavily over her shoulder.
“You miss them?”
She sighed. “Hell, yeah.” And then she looked up, a forced smile that couldn’t mask the tension around her eyes, and he figured there was something majorly unsaid right there. “But that’s normal when you’re so far from home, right?”
“Sure it is. So where is home, Scarlett?”
“Montana. A little town called Marietta, not far from Bozeman. Ever heard of it?”
“Can’t say that I have. Haven’t spent a lot of time in the States, though I did get to New York once.” He sipped his coffee. He remembered it well. Kristelle had wanted a treat for their two month anniversary. A week ‘somewhere special’, she’d said.
Looking back, he could see it had been a test. ‘How much do you love me?’ she’d been asking even then. ‘How much am I worth to you?’
But back then it had suited him. He’d always wanted to go to New York City and why not indulge her? There were only seven days out of every twenty-one when they could even see each other, which was hardly conducive to getting to know someone.
At that stage, he’d still thought she might be worth getting to know.
The taste of the coffee turned bitter in his mouth.
More fool him.
“Kalgoorlie reminds me a lot of Marietta, actually.” The girl alongside him looked thoughtful as she swirled her coffee cup in her hands, before she took a sip and turned her attention out the window. “All these gorgeous old buildings with balconies and verandas.” She turned to him, “Marietta started as a mining town too, you know, but not with gold like here. They found copper up on Copper Mountain and for a while the town did really well, but then the copper ran out and Marietta almost became a ghost town for a while.”