“Are you okay? Do you want me to let go?”
Her tears had stopped, but Sam shook her head. She wasn’t ready to give this up. She snuggled even closer and felt Scott swallow. “That’s fine. Take as long as you need.”
God, it was too easy to imagine him saying that as she sat on top of him, riding his posh, inexplicably hard body to orgasm after orgasm—it’s fine. Take what you need.
A shiver went through her, raising goosebumps across her scalp. She was rapidly forgetting what she’d been upset about, her consciousness honing in on how Scott felt, the firm ridges of his back, the dip of his spine, the warmth of his skin through his shirt. She shifted against him for reasons that had nothing to do with comfort. There was a low ache in her belly and her skin was prickling. No, not prickling. Tingling.
“Samantha.” Scott’s voice was low. Strained. “Samantha, I…”
She waited for more, but there was no more. Instead, Scott’s hands tightened around her shoulders. She could hear him breathing, she could feel her own chest rising and falling. It was daylight and they were hugging on the street, but it felt more sexual than sex. It didn’t make any sense. Hugs weren’t sexual. Hugs, when you were crying into your former enemy’s shoulder like a nutcase, were especially not sexual. The fact they were standing in front of her failing tattoo studio should have made this particular hug the least sexual thing on earth. But it was. It was, it was, it was.
“Grab her arse!”
Sam pulled herself away from Scott to see a gang of school boys swaggering toward them. They looked in their mid-teens and were wearing the Brunswick Secondary School uniform, her old uniform. Sam put a hand on her hip and gave them a death stare. “Can I help you?”
“What’s up?” The question came from the tallest, best-looking boy in the gang. He was holding a vape pen in one hand, a can of Jim Beam in the other and he was grinning as though he was the coolest thing he or anyone else had ever encountered.
Sam folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry, what are you? Fucking twelve?”
“Nah,” the kid said, looking offended. “Sixteen.”
“Sixteen inches,” another boy kicked in and they all cracked up. Sam rolled her eyes at Scott. “We weren’t this immature, right?”
The corner of Scott’s mouth lifted. “To be fair, none of these boys have sent me a fake letter telling me I’d won a trip to Euro Disney—all I had to do was mail them a picture of myself kissing a frog.”
“Oh yeah.” Sam tried and failed to contain a grin. “Man, if childhood me put as much effort into school as pranks, I’d probably be a neurosurgeon, eh?”
The big boy snapped his fingers. “Oi, so are you gonna give us a show or what?”
Scott glared at him. “Shouldn’t you be at school?”
The boys fell over themselves laughing.
“Shouldn’t you be at school,” one of them imitated, making Scott sound like Basil Fawlty. “Get back inside the monopoly board, man.”
That made no sense, but it only made the boys laugh harder. No doubt the contents of their vape pens were assisting their merriment. Sam looked at Scott and saw his face had just…paused. Gone blank. She remembered the afternoon they’d spent at the police station and a pang of remorse had her clapping her hands. “Okay boys, you’ve had a laugh, now piss off, thanks.”
“Nah, not until you show us the rest of your tattoos,” the tallest boy countered. He’d stuck his vape in his mouth and was talking out the other side like a ridiculous parody of a gangster. “Bet you’ve got some good ones in your pants.”
Sam opened her mouth to tell him to eat shit, but Scott was already walking up to the gang. He stood in front of the leader, a pleasant smile creasing his mouth. “Okay, boys, you’ve had your fun. It’s time to leave.”
His voice was cut glass and he towered over each and every one of the boys. Sam saw some of the kids at the back of the group recoil, but others puffed their chests and looked to their leader who was chewing the end of his vape pen. “Fuck off, pommy.”
Scott’s smile remained pleasant, almost paternal. “Original. Now, I’ll ask you once again. Leave, or this situation is going to become considerably worse for you.”
“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do? Fight me?” The boy looked behind him, as though hoping for a laugh. He got a few weak smiles.
“Why not?” Scott asked. “You’ve already decided you can smoke and drink and harass women in the street, surely you’re not opposed to fighting a grown man?”
Sam laughed and the boy seemed to shrink a little. The leader and Scott stared at one another for a long moment and the kid mustn’t have liked what he saw because he muttered something, stepping around Scott and gesturing for his group to follow. They did, passing Sam without looking at her. Scott watched them go, his dark eyes hard as coal.
“Um, thanks for that,” Sam said, feeling a little punch-drunk from the accumulation of the morning events. “You didn’t need to, um, defend my honor. They’re just idiot kids.”
Scott didn’t reply. He looked down straightening his jacket lapels. Sam could see two dark half-moons where she’d cried her mascara onto his chest. Christ, how embarrassing. “If you have to go, just go. I know you’re busy.”
Scott glanced at Silver Daughters Ink. “I’m not. Look, I don’t know what your plans are for the afternoon, but let’s go for a coffee. Talk about what’s happening.”
Sam pictured the two of them sitting snug in the corner of her favourite café and was horrified by how much she wanted to make it a reality. “No!”
Scott’s face went blank. “I see.”
“No, I mean…I’ve been drinking so much coffee my blood is caffeine.”
His expression softened and he checked his expensive-looking watch. “What about a beer?”
Sam considered it. On one hand, day-drinking was a bad idea when you were emotionally distressed. She’d learned that the morning her dad left. On the other hand…it couldn’t possibly make her day any worse, and she didn’t have any clients booked for the afternoon, just a consolation. “Okay, just let me grab my jacket and let Noah know where I’m headed.”
“Sure. I’ll wait out here.”
Sam walked back toward SDI and pushed the glass door open. Noah stood behind the front counter. “Called the cops about Frank. They said they’ll be around in a couple of hours.”
“Cool, I’m going out. I should be back soon.”
Noah nodded, his gaze never lifting from the pages of Assassin’s Quest. He had the paperback propped open on the counter. He was obsessed with fantasy novels—the more dragons, elves, orcs and fake maps before the contents page, the better. Ironically, he hardly ever tattooed fantasy iconography, choosing to specialize in pin-up girls and blackwork.
“Aren’t you going to ask where I’m going?” Sam demanded. “What I’m doing? Have you no concern for your boss’s health and/or safety, Newcomb?”
“You’re going to get a drink with your old neighbor,” Noah said, not looking up. “Text me if you need me to close the shop.”
Sam felt herself blush. She brought this on herself by teasing him, but still. “It’s not like that. It’s not a date. He wants to talk about dad.”
“Sure.”
Sam glared at him. His tone conveyed a little too much amusement for her liking. “It’s not a fucking date. I told you, we used to hate each other.”
Noah raised a big hand, both dismissing her and saying goodbye without a word.
Sam was irritated, but knew better than to try and argue semantics with Noah. She grabbed her jacket and headed back outside. Scott Sanderson was waiting in the exact spot where she’d left him, smiling with the easy patience of a man whose life wasn’t being churned up in a shit cyclone. Must be nice.
“Shall we go to The Cornish?” Scott asked, as though he still lived here and that was their regular pub.
“Sounds good.”
The Cornish wasn’t one of her regular places and that suited her
just fine. The last thing she needed was any of her mates quizzing her about the pretty boy she was drinking with.
She and Scott fell into step as they headed for the pub. They were silent, but it wasn’t awkward, more as though they’d agreed to hit pause until they got to their destination. Sam studied him out of the corner of her eye, trying to get over the trippiness of a familiar face that was ten years older. The young Scott had hunched a little, awkward about his height or, as Sam often thought, reluctant to straighten in front of his asshole father. Adult-Scott had a purposeful stride, straight backed, yet oddly graceful. Creating movement within still images was one of her specialties as a tattoo artist and Scott was a delight to watch. She imagined him as a bare-chested ballerina, flexing at a wooden barre, all gleaming muscles and groin in flesh-colored tights. His eyes would glow like hot coals as he made the presumed feminine look so masculine, it hurt. Her hands itched for a pencil and paper.
“So, business aside, how have you been?”
“Fine,” Sam lied. “How have things been in London? I assume you were living in London?”
Scott inclined his head. “Cambridge, then London. And it’s good, I live fairly close to mum’s family and there’s always plenty going on.”
God, he was lovely. His voice, his face. Sam wished she’d had the foresight of getting laid before she’d agreed to this drink. “Cool. Uh, what do you do these days?”
“I’m in finance.”
This was a strong contender for the most typical thing of all time. Her fancy, number-loving neighbor was now a hot banker. Sam bit back a smile. “And that involves…what exactly?”
The discussion of Scott’s job took them all the way to the Cornish Arms where Sam steered him to one of the tables out the back. The only other patrons were a couple of middle-aged blondes, too caught up in intense conversation to pay them any mind.
“Do you still smoke?”
Sam laughed because the idea was so foreign to her now. “No. I stopped as soon as it was legal, pretty much. What about you? British people are all chimneys, or so I hear.”
“Not me,” he said, sitting across from her.
Of course. Too much of a good boy.
Because he was still a good boy, that much was obvious. Galahad. He’d always suited that name in more ways than one. Even when he was pranking her and her sisters, there had been an apologetic air about it. A ‘let’s call a truce and never speak of this again.’ Yet he was capable of some ugly things—the mean letter he’d written when her mother left, the missing photographs that had almost ruined Nicole’s life, the strawberry pie smashed across the back lawn.
Don’t think about that.
Upon realising there was no table service, Scott went up to the bar and ordered them a couple of pints. Sam watched him—noting his high perfect ass and broad shoulders. When he returned, offering her the drink, she noted his long, lean fingers. They looked like they belonged to another man, a painter or a piano player. She imagined them sliding down the front of her jeans and rubbing her, his skin cold and damp from the beer. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, willing the illusion to disappear.
“So, have you got a girlfriend in Yea Olde London Towne?”
Scott screwed up his face. “Yes. I mean no.”
“Unsure?”
“We just broke up.”
Sam ignored the sizzle of excitement that ran through her. “Ah, well that explains why you’re in Melbourne. Break ups are a good time to go on spontaneous plane trips. Both my sisters moved interstate after break ups.”
Scott smiled. “How unoriginal of me. Where are Tabby and Nicole, now?”
Sam was surprised, then realised, of course he knew their names. He’d thrown expired dairy products at them. “Nix is in Adelaide and Tabby’s never in the same place for more than a month. Right now I think she’s in Bondi.”
“The hipster capital of Australia?”
“Yeah and if you could see her now, you’d know exactly why she’s there.”
They smiled at one another, that strange tingling feeling welling up in Sam’s wrists and hands. “So…you said you wanted to talk to my dad. What about?”
Scott took a long pull on his beer before placing it down with a thunk. “There’s no sensible way to say this, but I came to make you an offer on behalf of my father.”
Greg Sanderson’s face burst into Sam’s mind—dark-haired and mean. She hadn’t seen him for almost as long as Scott. The day he’d moved out, she and Nicole had bought a bottle of champagne and even their teetotaler dad had a glass. “He’s still kicking around, is he?”
“I’m afraid so.” Scott’s face was neutral but the heat in his eyes said the relationship between father and son was as strained as it had been that day he dragged Scott into the house for watching them. Sam felt a tightness in her stomach that had nothing to do with arousal. “Your dad doesn’t want to buy the house, does he?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what he wants.”
“No way.” Sam couldn’t believe Greg Sanderson’s nerve. He’d spent all her childhood and teen years trying to pry the house away from her dad and now he’d sent his son to keep the cycle going. What an asshole. “You can tell him from me that it’s never going to happen.”
Scott held up a palm. “I get where you’re coming from but you should know…”
Such big hands. Rough, too. Is that from rowing? Does he have abs? It felt like he might when we hugged. God, that voice. So posh. What would he sound like in bed? I bet he’s either super quiet or he talks complete filth. Jesus, why am I being like this? Concentrate.
“…and that’s why he’s under the impression your business might be, uh, struggling a little and he believes the time might be ripe to buy you out.”
Shit. That had been information worth hearing. Still, it wasn’t as though it would have changed her answer. Sam straightened up and looked her former neighbor in the eye. “We’re not selling, not for anyone. Silver Daughters is doing just fine.”
“Okay,” Scott said with a practised calm. “That’s just not the impression he’s gotten from your neighbors.”
“You mean the renters who are spying on us for him?” Sam shot back. “I know it doesn’t look the way it did when you were here ten years ago and yeah, maybe we could be pulling in more customers, but I don’t need you patronizing me, Galahad.”
“Two things.” Scott held up the equivalent number of fingers. “One, I’d believe what you were saying more if, fifteen minutes ago, you weren’t crying into my jacket and telling me everything was ruined.”
Sam gritted her teeth. “What’s the second thing?”
“You called me Galahad again. I don’t want to be overly familiar, Samantha, but I feel like I should inform you in the past ten years, I did in fact lose my virginity.”
The incorrect response to this information was jealousy and yet, much like her arousal at first seeing him, that was how Sam felt. Jealous. “Congratulations.”
His smirk said he knew what she was thinking, but that was impossible. She’d never shown any interest in helping him out of his goddamn virginity. At least not to his face. She herself had lost it at the first opportunity with Evan from Visual Arts—him sliding it in after all that awkward fingering in the back of his car. She hadn’t waited for Scott, she wouldn’t have waited for Scott, so why did it even—
“Another beer?” a passing bartender asked.
Scott frowned. “I thought it was bar service only?”
“Slow afternoon. You guys interested?”
Despite the fact that she had a quarter pint left, Sam said she did and Scott followed suit. Did he need to get drunk to hang out with her? She couldn’t blame him, even if the idea stung. They drained the last of their pints as fresh ones were placed in front of them and immediately picked up the new glasses. Liquid reinforcement, Sam thought. Or liquid courage.
Scott cleared his throat. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about knights or virginity…or our past. C
an I just ask where Edgar is?”
Sam drank a fifth of her pint, suddenly exhausted. “He’s gone somewhere on a spiritual awakening, ‘let me teach you independence’ thing. He wouldn’t say when he’d be back.”
Scott blinked. “I see. So you have no idea where he is?”
Sam was relieved she didn’t have to explain her father’s eastern philosophy inspired eccentricities to another man in her life. Scott clearly still remembered him doing yoga in the backyard. “None whatsoever. I don’t know if he’s even coming home.”
“And the business?”
She could have continued lying through her teeth, but from the look on his face, Scott Sanderson already knew the truth. “Dad put it and the house in my name and now it’s going under. The business, that is, not the house. Although I’m having such bad luck, that’s probably next.”
“I see,” he said again.
Sam took a swallow of beer to stop herself from adding that it was her fault, that she’d been lazy and hadn’t learned how to run Silver Daughters properly when she’d the chance.
Scott drummed his fingers on the table. “Okay, so what do your sisters think about your situation?”
Her mood dipped even lower. “They don’t know. I didn’t want them to worry and I knew Nicole would freak out and Tabby would do something crazy and unhelpful and I…I thought I could handle it.”
Scott’s fingers moved even harder, humming against the wood of the table in a perceptible rhythm. That was right, he used to be a drummer. Sam remembered hearing the noise in the morning and early afternoons, remembered walking by once and seeing a shirtless Scott sitting behind his kit in the living room. His eyes had been closed, his smile beatific, sweat dripping down a chest that was surprisingly defined—
“Samantha,” Adult Scott said sharply. “I told myself I wasn’t going to elaborate about what my father is proposing, but considering you’ve been left on your own to deal with this, I want to tell you how much my father is offering for your property.”
So Wild Page 6