He muttered, "Fucking hell."
I shouted, "We're coming!"
And we both headed out the door. Cary was already back in the lounge, Derek was sitting arms crossed over chest, cowboy hat on his denim clad thighs and a look of impatience and frustration and disbelief on his face glaring up at my invalid father, who towered over him wielding a butter knife.
"What do mean by leaving my girl here alone for three months, mate! You should be ashamed of yourself! But you're shit outta luck now," he finished on a chuckle and as though supremely amused by my complicated life.
Derek's eyes flashed to mine as I came to rest inside the door. Then I felt Nick's arm wrap around my waist uninvited, causing Derek to stand to his feet in outrage, cowboy hat falling neglected to the ground and my father to begin to topple over backwards trying to get out of the way.
Cary rolled Dad's wheelchair in under him just in time, Derek pointed a finger at Nick and growled, "Outside now!"
Nick immediately shot back, unable to resist the opportunity it would seem, "Bring it, cowgirl!"
And I muttered under my breath, "Ah, darn it all to hell."
Chapter 10
Ratted His Lovesick Arse Out
Cary wrapped an arm around my shoulders while I wheeled an insistent Dad out to the back yard after the two posturing cowboys in my life. Some of the neighbours must have heard the ruckus, because several of them were already hanging over the fence, settling in for the show, hearing aids at full volume, toothless grins on wrinkled faces.
"This is ridiculous," I said for fifth or sixth time.
"This is cowboys, sweetie," Cary pointed out to me with a consoling squeeze of my shoulders.
"I'm not happy," I grumbled.
"I will be if they strip their shirts off," Cary replied breezily.
Nick flashed Cary a grin and proceeded to take his shirt off - followed by his gun and other assorted ASI belt paraphernalia - clearly trying to win my best friend over with his perfect abs and well defined pecs and deliciously broad shoulders.
"Lordy, Lordy," Cary said in appreciation, receiving an elbow in the solar plexus from me.
Derek, not to be outdone, began to take his shirt off too and although he had nothing to be ashamed of, I averted my eyes and frowned down at the ground. I didn't need a reminder of what I'd done to that chest, I was embarrassed enough by the situation as it was. Which only intensified when some of the old aged pensioner women began to clap with delight at all that Tennessee skin.
"This is ridiculous," I repeated. Again.
"Needs to be done, babe," Derek said sagely, while he loosened up his arms getting ready to wreak havoc on Nick.
"What if I asked you not to do this?" I tried, getting a little desperate here.
"Can't stop it now, baby, just get ready to give me a kiss afterwards."
And that's all it took for me to reach boiling point. It wasn't really Derek's fault, Nick had engineered this showdown, like some gun-slinging duel at high noon. So my temper was going to be directed at both men. Neither would miss my rage. I frantically searched the back lawn for a weapon to use to separate them, but I'd done an excellent job of clearing out Dad's fifteen years of hoarding crap. The garden was bare, a few boxes down the side of the house, but they contained useless items, such as twenty-one empty two litre ice cream containers, one-hundred-and-fifteen empty jewel CD cases, eleven pairs of oil stained overalls and twenty-seven empty plastic pot plant pots. None of which would do jack shit to gain these idiots' attention.
"What ya doin', sweetie?" Cary asked as I began to walk over to the other side of the house. "You're gonna miss all the action."
"Oh, I'm sure it'll still be going when I get back," I said snarkily.
The first grunt sounded out as I rounded the corner of the house, which was a relief, because I really didn't want to know who threw the first punch. There was some indistinct swearing, a little taunting from the tone of voices, but again I couldn't make out the words and then only the sound of fist on flesh. Grunts and the odd groan and a hell of a lot of thwacking noises I so did not want to deal with right now.
It would have only taken me a minute, maybe two tops, to return to the scene, but it had been enough for both men to land several decent blows. Nick obviously knew how to fight. Being in the line of work he was in, this didn't surprise me. But Derek's success was no less impressive - if you're impressed by grazed knuckles and bloody noses and bruised cheeks - and didn't that just make me madder. It was as if they both knew they had a limited amount of time to prove who was stronger, who was more man, than the other, before I came back and interfered.
I walked back out and got as close as I dared to get to the now brawling - and maybe even mauling - men and turned the garden hose on full bore. Thankfully, even though this is a council owned property, water pressure in Eden Terrace is pretty darn good, because the spray that came out of the nozzle blasted the two still fighting men apart and within seconds had them soaked from head to toe. I let it keep running for a solid minute then shut it off, threw the hose onto the ground and said in my best ice-princess, cowgirl-in-the-rodeo-ring voice, "If either of you comes within ten feet of me before this evening I will hog-tie your asses and drag you behind a car up and down Queen Street. You got me?"
Both men, dripping wet and bruised and battered, just stared at me.
"Yeah, you got me," I said to myself, then turned to Dad's wheelchair and began pushing him towards the door to his flat. "Come on, Cary," I threw over my shoulder. "I gotta make a trip to the cop shop to rat out my dumbass cousin and you're coming with."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, sweetie."
Miraculously neither Nick nor Derek followed us inside. I felt a measure if satisfaction at that. I formally introduced Dad to Cary, whilst I prepared some suitably nutritious and palatable food for my father and made sure he'd taken his meds that morning. Which he had. Apparently he was more capable than he'd been letting on. Then I organised breakfast for Cary and me and berated him on allowing Derek to fly all this way, not to mention doing it himself without letting on at all.
He ignored the telling off and proceeded to wax lyrical about Nick and how perfect he was for me, and what the darn hell had I been playing around with Derek for if I had a cowboy like Nick back home in NZ? Through all of this my father nodded sagely, as though he'd been thinking exactly the same thing.
"There's nothing wrong with Derek," I pointed out belligerently and as well as a little miffed on Derek's behalf to both of them. He was ruggedly handsome after all, wore a cowboy hat with flare and no one could dispute the man wasn't Country through and through.
"Granted the man is a fine specimen," Cary said whilst sipping another Lipton Tea - he seemed to have taken a shine to the earlier one, much to my father's approval, by the looks he was shooting my friend's way. "But I have never seen you like this with him."
I blinked at Cary across the kitchen table where all three of us were sitting.
"What in the darn hell is that supposed to mean, cowboy?" I demanded.
"Well, it means..." Cary started, but Dad interrupted him, shocking the living daylights out of me.
"You come alive," he said in his old man's voice.
Cary and I both stared at him, mouths open. Then finally I asked unoriginally, "What?"
"When he's about, you come alive," Dad clarified. "Never seen you like that before. Not when you lived here. Not since you been back. Only when he's around."
There were so many things in those words that needed my attention, I really didn't know where to start. My father, the barely-present parent in my youth, noticed I was more alive with Nick around, than back then. And, of course, the whole I come alive with Nick around statement was enough of a minefield to combat on its own, without considering the fact that Dad may have been more aware of me growing up than I realised. More aware of me even now than I realised.
My eyes found Cary's across the table, his brilliant blue ones widened on a smile.
"He's got you there, Eva sweetie," he said softly, bobbing his head up and down to emphasise the point and making his curly blond locks bounce in agreement.
I didn't want to believe either of them. It felt like they were decidedly ganging up on me, but I knew that was just the child in me screaming to get out. Life did feel more real with Nick in it. Than it ever had felt when he was not.
"I need Garth," I announced into the room.
"Bring out the Martin then," Cary suggested, starting to clear the table of our empty plates and mugs.
"The Martin got trashed by my loser cousin," I advised him sombrely.
"It did not!" he responded with suitable shock.
I nodded and shrugged at the same time. The story of my life, Levi Russell causing grief. Nothing new.
"Got a Breedlove on loan though."
"D25?" Cary asked, making me smile. Cary was not a musician, but he was my best friend, flat mate and test audience for all my newly penned songs back home.
"Of course."
"Then what are ya waiting for, girlfriend. Lets have us some Garth Brooks."
I jumped up from the table and headed towards the bedroom. There was always enough time to slip a song or two in. We could swing by the police station before the performance tonight.
By the time I came out of the bedroom, Breedlove in hand, Cary had cleared the table and shifted Dad to the lounge and had obviously been in deep and intimate conversation with him as they were leaning towards each other when I reappeared, and then pulled back abruptly once I came to rest in the room.
"Everything all right?" I asked, puzzled by their behaviour.
"Never better," Cary said on a sunbeam smile.
I shook my head and settled in to sing some Garth.
"What'll it be?" I asked, positioning the guitar appropriately over my knees.
"Learning To Live Again," my Dad said, not missing a beat. I stared at the man I used to think was my father. What had got in to him? I had no idea he knew Garth Brooks at all, let alone such a seldom known so, so sad song in his repertoire.
But I had a better idea, not really in the mood for pouring my heart out in heartbreaking lyrics right now, needing a little uplifting to fill the heavy air.
"How about Standing Outside The Fire?" I said. Dad shrugged, but I swear I saw a curve to his lips as he looked away. I chanced a glance at Cary, receiving a blindingly bright smile in return. Then started strumming.
It was a fitting song, an upbeat tune with genius lyrics by Brooks himself and Jenny Yates. I loved all of Garth's work, but I have to admit, those songs written by the man himself owned my heart. Or at least my Country singing heart that is, the one beating beneath my chest had belonged to another man for the past eight years.
By the time I sang the last chorus, "Standing outside the fire, standing outside the fire. Life is not tried it is merely survived if you're standing outside the fire," Dad had his chin resting down on his chest, his eyes shut, but his fingers in his right hand were tapping away on the armrest of the wheelchair. And it occurred to me that he'd done that whenever I sang a song in the past. That he hadn't actually switched off and fallen asleep out of boredom or disinterest, but that he'd been carried away by the sweet sound of Country and the so perfect story being told for those brief moments I performed.
When the song ended, the room was silent. Another thing that seemed to happen a lot that I hadn't cottoned on to before. As though any noise would destroy the magic that had been created. I'd always felt that way, when I'd sung on my own and poured my heart and soul into whatever it was I was singing. Afterwards I'd just sit there for a moment or two and let the memory of the chords play in my head.
It seemed I wasn't alone.
"You have the most beautiful voice, Eva," Cary said softly. I smiled at him over my guitar.
But it was Dad's words that made it happen. Made the cowgirl in me finally cry.
"Voice of an angel, my Eva. Absolute angel."
I couldn't handle it. It was too much to let them see me cry. So I sprang up from my chair and ran out the front door, Breedlove slung over my shoulder, tears streaming down my face.
I heard Dad saying softly to Cary, "Leave her be, mate," before the door swung shut at my back, and then all I heard was my feet pounding in my cowgirl boots along the cracked pavement of Eden Terrace on a late Saturday morning.
I found myself in the reserve I used to go to after school with my battered and beaten old guitar. I wasn't sure how I got there, but as soon as I recognised the clearing by the spindly old trees in the far corner, I suddenly realised how foolish I'd been. If Levi had any sense he'd keep an eye on this place, to see if old times made me come back. By now he'd know Dad's flat was being watched, but the Reserve? ASI didn't know about that.
So many memories, most of them good. Me, my guitar and any Country song I could think of to sing. But some of them weren't. Levi egging his brothers on to beat the crap out of me. Dirt thrown in my face. My backpack cut off my shoulders and chucked unceremoniously in the creek down the back. Text books sodden, the inevitable fallout at school, having ruined my homework and not been able to finish that night's task.
And their taunting laughter as they stomped away, a few of my broken guitar strings in their chubby hands. They never broke my guitar. I don't know why they didn't cross that line until the other day. But they made sure I suffered. Physically. Emotionally. Psychologically.
I hated those Russell boys and I hated my father for doing nothing to stop his sister's sons from picking on me and making my growing years a living hell.
But it occurred to me, as I stood in the middle of the Reserve looking at those spindly trees, that maybe he did. Why else would they stop short of breaking my guitar? And why else did my mother always seem to have a spare - although used - guitar string lying around the house when I got home? Maybe between the two of them, in their own trailer-trash parenting ways, they did the best for me they could.
I suddenly found myself sitting cross-legged in the grass in the middle of the Reserve, having had all breath escape me and all strength in my limbs disappear. My mind a numb jangled mess of memories that weren't what I had thought they used to be. Had I misjudged my parents? Had my slant on the experiences I'd had, been skewed because of my own twisted view on life? Or was it just that Levi and his brothers had messed with my head to such a degree, I could no longer see what was good in my life and distinguish it from what was not?
Levi Russell had a lot to answer for, I realised.
And maybe, so did I a bit too.
"You shouldn't run off like that, cowgirl," a guy's voice I didn't recognise said from over my shoulder.
I rolled away from him and came to my feet in a jiffy. The responding oh-my-god-gorgeous smile I got from him let me know he thought my reactions were pretty good. But I knew he wasn't impressed that I hadn't heard him walk up behind me, because I wasn't in the slightest bit impressed with myself at all.
I didn't know his name, but he had been at Sweet Seduction and had even been the object of my song that time Adam was not there. His Tiki tribal tattoo on his right arm looked magnificent in the afternoon sun. So did the chocolate colour of his skin.
"Detectives Stone and Pierce would like you at the station for that statement. You want me to give you a lift?"
"Um, OK?" I said on a question, kind of stunned by his presence right then.
"I'm your shadow," he explained, clearly reading my facial expressions correctly.
"Shadow?" I asked, frowning down at the ground.
"Yeah, didn't think Nick would leave you unprotected, did you?"
"Ah," I said raising my eyes to his, "no. Couldn't imagine Mr Armed-To-The-Eyeballs-And-General-Pain-In-My-Cowgirl-Ass would do that."
He burst out laughing. "Eric's gonna love that one. Might have to put it up on the wall."
"The wall?" I asked, falling into step beside him.
"Yeah, got a wall in the control room where nick-names get pinned. Or any
of the hilarious stuff we see on camera gets immortalised. Kinda an honour to have your pic up there. You're on it, of course."
"I'm what?" I asked stunned.
"Yeah, first night you practised, wearin' that cute-as short cowgirl dress. Boys went crazy over that one. Nick's torn it down three times. It's gone back up every single one." He chuckled as though this was all quite funny and totally sane.
I didn't remember anyone taking a photo of me that night, I wondered if I'd had my eyes closed and looked like a dork.
"Um, when was it taken? What song I mean?"
"Thunder Rolls of course." I closed my eyes cringing.
"I don't suppose my eyes were closed when it was taken?" I said softly, dreading the answer.
"Nah, not closed," he said, white toothed smile broadening.
"Um, OK. What's so funny then?"
"Nah, no worries, you looked good. Kinda sweet actually," he tried to reassure me and I felt myself let out a slow breath and start to relax. "It's the fact that we all know you were lookin' at Nick when you sang it, that's so funny."
What?
"Cowgirl," he said placatingly when I groaned out loud. "We're just jealous, that's all."
Yeah, I was so sure that was the case. I applauded Nick's efforts to pull the bloody thing down. Long may he continue to protect my virtue from his over testosteroned men.
"Who took the picture?" I asked in a semi-defeated voice. Might as well know who to glare at next time I'm singing that blasted song.
"Oh, no one took it. It was pulled from the security footage in the store."
I frowned at the cracked pavement we were now walking on.
"Sweet Seduction has security cameras?"
"Hell yes!" he said. "No way Dominic would let Gen not have adequate protection. Fair warnin', cowgirl, the Anscombe brothers take protection of what they consider theirs to heart."
"What does that actually mean, ASI-super-silent-shadow-man?"
"Ben. Name's Ben Tamati," he said, then opened the gate to my father's flat for me to precede him inside. "It means, once they set their sights on somethin', they take it, claim it and possess it completely. And that means they do not let anyone else come close to harmin' their women. At all."
Sweet Seduction Serenade Page 11