He didn’t know anyone was watching him, Sam thought. Beside her, Nicole hid her face in her hands.
“What are you girls doing here?” Greg asked. He was trying to be nice but his smile was hard and shiny as a new coin.
She knew if she told the truth, Scott would get in trouble, but she didn’t want that to happen. “We were asking Scott if he wanted to play with us.”
Greg didn’t seem to believe her. He looked at Nicole. “Is that true?”
After a long moment, Nicole pulled her hands from her face. “Yeah. We wanted him to play water balloon hopscotch.”
Greg’s forehead smoothed out. He looked down at his son. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Yes,” Scott muttered, his cheeks white as chalk.
“Very nice,” Greg repeated. “Well, thanks for asking, girls, but Scotty needs to help me with something inside.”
“That’s ok—”
But before Nicole could finish her sentence, Greg had his son by the collar and was hauling him into the house and slamming the door. Properly this time.
“What a bunch of weirdos,” Sam muttered.
“Weirdos,” Tabby agreed. She’d waddled over to the fence during the confrontation and her shiny eyes said she might cry at any moment. Sam picked her up and carried her away. “Don’t go near their place again, okay, Tabs?”
Tabby’s blue eyes were huge as marbles. “Why not fighting? Why didn’t you fight the boy?”
Sam kissed her nose. “Because his dad wreaked it, but it’s okay. Okay?”
“Okay!”
“That was nice,” Nicole said. “You not telling on him.”
“He knows not to come near us now and if he does it again—”
“Fight him!” Tabby shrieked. “Fight him!”
That night their mum wasn’t home for dinner. When Nicole asked where she was, their dad mumbled something about Nanna Ruth. He looked so tired, they all tried to be extra good, clearing the table and washing the dishes. Later, Sam was sitting at her desk drawing a dragon when she heard a tap on her window. Thinking it was a possum, she ignored it until the taps grew so loud they scared her. Picking up her scissors, she headed for the window. To her shock, Scott Sanderson was perched in the gum tree outside, looking like a big, fancy, boy bird. “Hello. Can you please let me in?”
Sam was so impressed by how high up he was, she opened her window without thinking. Scott Sanderson carefully brushed the leaves and bark from his clothes before climbing inside. He was wearing another collar shirt, a tie and smooth brown pants.
“Why do you wear such weird clothes? You look like you’re going to a wedding.”
Scott Sanderson’s cheeks went pink. “My m-m-mum picks my clothes.”
“Well she should pick cool, normal stuff.” Sam pointed to her Sailor Moon t-shirt and jeans. “See?”
“I-I-I guess, I’ll a-ask her.”
Sam stared at her visitor, his pretty face, mussy hair and fancy clothes. She knew it was rude but she had to ask. “Why can’t you talk properly?”
“Because I have a stutter.”
“But you weren’t stuttering when I first saw you. You started when your dad came out.”
Scott Sanderson didn’t say anything. He looked around her room, taking in the murals she and her dad had painted on the walls. “Is this your bedroom?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s c-c-cool. Is that from The Hobbit?” He pointed to the huge painting of a mine, over which a big red Smaug was rising.
“Yes. That’s one of my favourite books.”
“Me too.” He smiled, then his face grew serious, so that he looked even more like a miniature grown-up. “I climbed the tree because I wanted to say sorry. For spying on you and saying what I said about your f-f-father.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Sam was touched, then she remembered what he’d said and raised the scissors. “What if I don’t forgive you?”
Scott Sanderson’s face crumpled. “I swear I don’t want to fight.”
Sam lowered the scissors. “Good, because you’d lose.”
The moment stretched out between them. It was uncomfortable and Sam didn’t know what she should do. She supposed she could always push him out the window, but she didn’t exactly want to. He was a weird boy but he’d climbed the big tree and he knew about The Hobbit. She decided to try something. “Do you…want to see my ninja turtles?”
His expression brightened. “Yes!”
“Okay, let me shut the door, so my sisters don’t hear. Tabby can’t keep quiet and Nicole might dob.”
She shut the door and shoved her toy box in front of it, to be safe. Then she showed Scott Sanderson her stuff. He was a fun person to show things to, very impressed by everything. When she told him she and her dad painted all the Lord of the Rings stuff on the walls, his eyes almost fell out of his head.
“You must be arty,” he said, as though there was nothing better a person could be.
“Our whole family is, except Nicole. My mum paints and makes earrings and my dad tattoos people. That’s his whole job.”
“I see…” Scott Sanderson seemed to want to say something else.
“What?” Sam demanded.
“Did your d-d-dad really say my dad’s a fat piece of shit?”
Sam sighed. “No, I made that up.”
He looked disappointed. “I thought so.”
“My dad might have said your dad was an agent of patriarchy, though.”
“W-what does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s something he says when boys won’t let girls do what boys do.”
Scott Sanderson looked down so all Sam could see was the top of his sandy head. “I kind of w-wish your dad had said my dad was a piece of shit.”
“Why?”
“It w-would have meant someone stood up to him.”
Sam absorbed the information. “Why don’t you stand up to him?”
Scott Sanderson didn’t reply. He was bent over, staring at his shoelaces as though he wanted to do it up without touching it. He was embarrassed. Sam tried to think of something else to say when he looked up at her. “Do you like King Arthur?”
“I like ‘Hey Arthur.’”
“That’s not the s—”
A loud bang from downstairs made them both jump.
“My mum’s home,” Sam whispered. “You should go before they find out you’re here.”
Scott Fitzwilliam Sanderson didn’t have to be told twice. He headed for the window and had one foot on the tree when he turned to face her. “C-can I hang out with you again?”
Sam considered her new neighbour and decided it could be fun. “Tomorrow night. Come up the tree at seven. I’ll show you my Mulan stuff.”
He smiled, making his face look very pretty, indeed. “See you then.”
He clambered out of the window with such ease she couldn’t help but hate him a little less. She ran to find Nicole and tell her what had happened, but her sister wasn’t in her room. Sam found her sitting outside the office door, crying. Their parents were fighting and it was louder and angrier than Sam had ever heard it. Their dad said their mum needed to be grateful for what she had. Their mum said she was sick of every single day being the same.
Sam was trying to tug Nicole away when their mum burst out of the office, her hair all over the place. She didn’t look at her or Nicole as she raced up the stairs. “I’m leaving,” she said to no one. “I can’t stay here, anymore.”
And she did leave, that night. Their dad wouldn’t say when she was coming back and it took Sam two weeks to figure out she wasn’t.
Chapter 1
Sam’s emergency alarm clock buzzed, the sound sharp as a hornet’s sting. She jolted upright and without even opening her eyes, knew she was late for work. The sun was blaring through her eyelids and she was too warm—though that was probably because of the guy beside her. Sam wasn’t entirely sure who he was but she knew he’d be dark-haired and muscular, his job some combination of cre
ative and practical. A guitarist/barista or a comedian/plumber. He’d have tattoos and call her ‘sexy’ or ‘babe.’ They’d date for a bit after this, have some fun and then they’d get bored or he’d ask her to give him some free ink and it would be over.
The circle of life.
Sam got out of bed without opening her eyes. She staggered to her bathroom, her head swimming with a combination of booze and tiredness. Her friend, Banksia had a gig in Northcote last night and when it was over, she and the band had gone to a cocktail bar, then another gig, then a pub—or had the house party come next? She sat on the toilet trying to recall the place where she’d drank the whiskey sours, the place where she’d met and seduced the man in her bed. Nothing came up.
God, she had to stop doing this. She was twenty-seven and drinking harder now than when she was on the burlesque circuit. Though in fairness, you moderated your alcohol consumption when your pay check depended on you taking your clothes off inside a huge, slippery cocktail glass.
“How you feeling, babe?” the man from her bed called.
“Not bad,” Sam lied. She stood, washing her hands before reaching under the sink for the paracetamol. “How about you?”
“I’m alright. Be better if you got back in here with me.”
Sam looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t too shabby in spite of last night’s activities. Her skin was clear and her dark blue eyes were strangely enhanced by the mascara smudges beneath them, as though she was modelling trashiness rather than the real deal. Still, best not to appear too hungover in front of the clients. People liked their tattoo artists to look rough and ready, but if you looked too fucked up they thought you’d spell their kid’s name wrong. She located her concealer stick and began dabbing under her eyes.
“Babe,” the man in her bed called. “Want to come snuggle?”
Jesus, who was this guy? Winnie the Christing Pooh?
“I’d like to, but I have to get to work,” Sam said, running a makeup wipe over her cheeks. “Maybe later.”
“Sounds good. What do you do again? Wait, I know this, you’re a…myotherapist?”
“Tattoo artist.”
“How’d you get into that?”
About ten years of art classes, borrowing dad’s machine to doodle on bananas, a two-year apprenticeship, logging close to five thousand tattooing hours, competing in state, national and international competitions and ultimately being labelled a hack riding in on her family coattails—but who wanted to hear about all that?
“It’s the family business.”
“That’s cool. If I’d known you were a tattoo chick, I’d have asked you heaps about it last night.”
“It’s all good.” Because I would have remembered exactly none of it.
Sam turned on the tap and moved her mouth over the moving bar of water, sucking in enough to swallow the painkillers. Guilt at oversleeping, again, was gnawing at her insides. She didn’t have any clients booked until the afternoon but her dad had asked her to come in early to do a stock take. Silver Daughters Ink was a small business and he needed all hands on deck.
Tomorrow, I’ll be on time tomorrow.
“Everything okay in there? You’re not sick are you?”
Sam cleared her throat. “I’m fine, thanks. Also, I don’t mean to be a dick, but is there any chance you can get up?”
“Ah…yeah okay. Gimmie a sec.”
Sam heard her bed creak as the guy moved around and breathed a sigh of relief. She checked her laundry basket and found a relatively clean tank top and black skinny jeans. She tugged them on, applied crimson lipstick and pronounced herself ready to face the world…if she could remember where she left her shoes. She re-entered her bedroom, kicking aside dresses and jackets looking for her docs.
“You look fantastic!”
Her newest lover was exactly what Sam had expected—dark-haired with a sweet, handsome face that reminded her of a border collie. Upon seeing him, she was fairly certain his name was Marc, but knew better than to say it out loud. Instead, she smiled. “Cheers, can I get you a cup of tea or something before I get to work?”
“Ah, it’s all good.” He flashed her a cheeky smile. “Can I grab your number?”
Sam looked at his tattooed forearms—a compass on one, an ornate anchor on the other. He’d paid good money for the work, but from someone who skilfully imitated. Not an artist in their own right. You could always tell a man by his ink. Marc’s said he was a nice hipster with decent style and no imagination. From what she could remember, the sex had been the same. Still, vanilla ice cream was better than no ice cream and he had spanked her. Sure, she’d asked him to, but spanking was important to her and it was amazing how many guys sucked at it—slamming both hands on her butt cheeks like they were playing the bongos, or else whacking her on the tailbone.
Sam picked up a pen and a stray sketch pad and wrote down her number. She handed the piece of paper to Marc and smiled. “See you soon.”
“You will.” He looked down at the piece of paper. “Hang on…this is a landline.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah. I don’t have a phone number. Or a phone. This is the only way to reach me.”
The guy gaped at her like she was something out of a horror movie. “What?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“But…who doesn’t have a phone?”
Years of going through this exact experience, ad nauseam, had given Sam a useful response template. “I’m not a conspiracy theorist or a nutter, I don’t think the government is coming for our porn search history, I don’t like being in contact with the world at all times. It keeps the mystery alive.”
“Fuck me.” Marc looked both impressed and mildly horrified. “Guess I’ll be calling your landline then. When are you home?”
Sam smirked. “Hardly ever, but you can always leave a voicemail.”
She found her docs beside the bed, walked Marc and his sea-themed tattoos to her front door and kissed him goodbye. His lips were very hot and damp.
“See you soon,” he said.
“Sure.”
Silver Daughters Ink tattoo studio resided on the other side of their building, its entrance facing the street. The façade was cherry red, the signage a dozen jungle animals positioned so they spelled ‘Silver Daughters Ink.’ Fifteen years ago, she, Tabby and Nicole had designed the logo. Then they had stood on the roof painting the letters onto the façade while their dad supervised. Passers-by had gaped at them, three little girls standing meters off the ground on a storefront roof.
“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to fall?” said a horrified little old lady.
Their dad had just smiled. “A life lived in fear isn’t a life well lived.”
The woman had scurried off, muttering about incompetent parents, but they hadn’t fallen, no more than Joe, Bessie and Fanny had fallen out of the Faraway Tree. No more than Nancy Drew had been murdered by one of the criminals she uncovered. Fostering independence had always been their father’s number one parenting priority. Probably why Tabby and Nicole had moved so far away.
So what’s your excuse?
Sam dismissed the mean voice and stared up at the letters she’d painted with her sisters. They’d faded considerably in the sun and some little shit had climbed the roof and drawn tits on the monkey.
One of these days we’ll fix it, she thought, digging in her bag for gum. Dad and I’ll get up there and repaint the letters. Maybe I’ll call Nicole and Tabby and we’ll buy some champagne and make a thing of it.
Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, a mean voice shot back. Have a Red Bull and wake up, Samantha.
A valid point. She’d have an easier time shoving an angry snake down her pants than getting her whole family in the same building. Too much bullshit. Too much unresolved tension. But wasn’t that the story of every family? Sam shoved the peppermint Extra into her mouth and shouldered her way into the studio. Its interior matched the exterior; blood-red walls and black leather chairs that were only slightly shitty a
fter twenty years of use. Gil, one of the four full-time tattooists, was manning the front desk—or at least standing there while on his phone. He grinned at her. “How’s it going, Sleeping Beauty?”
“Shut up. How are we looking today?”
“Quiet enough that you’ll get away with your hangover. Coconut water in the fridge, if you need it.”
“Why do you think I put it there?”
Gil gave a theatrical sigh. “Hope it was worth it?”
Sam had a sudden flash of Marc spanking her, asking after every second stroke if she was okay, if she wanted him to stop. Fucking hell, maybe she shouldn’t see him again?
“Yes,” she said with absolute reassurance. “It was worth it. Now, please get out of the way so I can get my stuff.”
Gil gave a mock bow, moving aside so she could collect her client book and coffee mug. Sam’s head throbbed with the effort of bending over. Why had she decided to go out last night? She’d seen Banksia’s band multiple times and it had been a Wednesday, for fuck’s sake.
We’re only young once, she told herself, but lately that felt like an excuse. For one thing, as wedding dress pop-up ads kept trying to remind her, twenty-seven wasn’t that young. For another, she’d been meaning to stay in and work on prep sketches, not get wasted and have half-hearted sex with a guy who didn’t really have a personality. Sam wasn’t always the choosiest person when it came to love but a personality was a pretty basic request. Otherwise she might as well strap a sex toy to a man-shaped pillow.
“Regretting choosing pleasure over business?” Gil enquired.
“My pleasure is always open for business.”
As soon as Sam said it, an image came to her. A pinup dame in a 90’s power suit, money bursting from her pockets. She was giving the viewer a cheeky wink, a flash of garters peeking out from under her skirt. “Shit, can I have a…?”
Gil was already holding out a sketchpad, along with a 2B pencil. Sam sat on the customer couch and sketched as fast as her hand would allow. Twenty minutes later she came back into herself. Her picture was exactly as she’d imagined it—the dark-haired villainess winking up at her, cigar in hand, promising a good time and a hell of a hangover.
So Wild Page 2