“Goodbye,” she said, feeling just the opposite of that word.
Scott inclined his head. “I’ll see you soon.”
Sam toed off her boots and crept inside the house. She didn’t know if Nicole had seen her kissing Scott, but no good would come out of a confrontation this late at night. She stood in the hallway and listened. It sounded like everyone was in bed. Or Nicole was, she doubted Tabby was home yet. Sam snuck into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She was so hopped up on the night’s events, it felt like she’d never go to sleep. She’d hooked up with her old nemesis, and it had been…incredible.
You drive me fucking wild, Samantha. You always have.
She grinned stupidly, not wanting to think too hard and feel for a little while longer.
Chapter 11
July 2, 2007
The signs of what was coming were everywhere—the Tupperware box of hardcore painkillers on the kitchen counter, the fact that the once-crammed schedule of doctors’ visits and chemotherapy sessions taped to the fridge was now almost empty, his mother’s thinning, yellow face. She was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.
It should have been sinking in by now, but it wasn’t. Scott still didn’t believe it, though he wasn’t sure anything could make him believe it.
His mother’s relatives were arriving from Northumberland, Chelsea and Oxford. They were too polite to stay in the house, booking hotel rooms and visiting every afternoon, crowding his mother’s bed and stressing her out with their grief. Scott tried to mediate the visits, but his mum always put a hand on his wrist and said, “Shouldn’t you be studying?”
He should. His final exams were only a couple of months away and he had assignments coming out of his ears. He could have applied for grief extensions, but schoolwork was the only thing that got him out of his brain. His teachers were all taking extra time to mark his essays and his friends kept buying him Coke and hot chips for no reason. This strained generosity was his first thought when someone rang the doorbell and left a pie on his front step.
It wasn’t a British pie, covered in pastry and made to be eaten warm, it was an American pie, dark purple with a creamy whorl in the center. He assumed it was just another random gift from someone who couldn’t handle death and put it in the fridge. Two days later he came home from football training to find another pie—pink with fresh strawberries. On a whim he brought it to his mother. She smiled at the mystery of it all and she managed to eat several forkfuls, which at that time was momentous.
Scott ate the rest of the pie himself, standing in the kitchen, a steady stream of tears leaking out of his eyes. The pies kept coming after that, two or three a week, blueberry, banana, raspberry, peanut butter, pumpkin and chocolate.
“Don’t fucking eat them!” his father would bellow. “You’ve got no idea who’s sending them! There could be ground glass in there!”
But Scott did know who was sending the pies. He’d seen Samantha DaSilva creeping along his porch and laying the fresh pie on the welcome mat, her eyes darting around for signs she was about to get caught before ringing the doorbell and running away. It was hard to describe how knowing that made him feel. It made him ache. It made him lonely. It made him even more shitful for stealing her panties. It made him love her more.
Present Day
The morning after his encounter with Samantha DaSilva, Scott was drinking a lot of coffee and trying to come up with a romantic and creative way to see her again. He was considering the novelty value of tandem bicycles when Toby burst into his office in a rumpled shirt and yesterday’s pants. “Sorry I’m late, Mr Sanderson!”
“Scott,” Scott reminded him. “Is everything okay?”
Toby suppressed a yawn. “Yeah, great.”
Scott studied his assistant. He had black circles around his eyes and looked about ready to keel over from tiredness. “Are you sure? You can go home if you’re feeling sick.”
“No!” Toby said, his eyes stretching to what seemed like twice their usual width. “I can’t go home.”
“O…kay?”
“Sorry,” he said, clearly making a conscious effort to look slightly less mad. “If I go home, I’ll have to keep looking after them and I can’t. I just can’t. It’s too sad and loud and sad.”
“Right.” Scott took in his miserable expression and decided he’d better ask. “What are you talking about?”
Toby sighed and sat in the guest chair. “Well, you know how my parents breed Cocker Spaniels?”
“Er, not yet, but go on?”
“Well they breed Cocker Spaniels and two weeks ago, Mopsy, our prize bitch—” Toby’s blue eyes widened. “That’s a breeding term, Mr Sanderson, I don’t mean that in an offensive way.”
“Scott. I know. What happened?”
“Mopsy gave birth and the puppies looked kind of strange. At first my parents thought it was a genetic throwback, but now the pups are bigger and it’s pretty clear they’re not Cocker Spaniels, they’re mutts. Mopsy must have hooked up with a dog in the park or something. My parents are so pissed—sorry I mean, they’re so annoyed—they want to get rid of the puppies right away.”
Toby was staring at him, clearly expecting some kind of reaction.
“Is…having mutts a bad thing?”
“God yes, my parents usually make a thousand dollars a puppy.”
“Bloody hell!”
“But that’s only for purebreds. These aren’t worth anything. It’s too early to say for sure, but I think they might be half-Rottweiler.”
Scott whistled. “I can see why your parents are annoyed. There’s not many people looking for a cuddly pet that’s half attack-dog, huh?”
“Oh, Rottweilers are sweet and mutts are a lot healthier than purebreds, but these pups were pre-ordered before they were even born. My parents just lost six thousand bucks and they’re pissed. They want the puppies gone.”
“Like…in a shelter, gone?”
Toby looked at him with tortured eyes.
“They’ll put them down? Why? Surely it would be cheaper to sell them?”
Scott was basing this off his ex-girlfriend’s bulldog, whose euthanasia following a car accident had cost as much as a three course meal at The Ledbury.
Toby’s gaze dropped to the floor. “My dad…my dad has a firearms license.”
“Jesus Christ, but why can’t they just sell them? Sell them, or throw up an ad on Craigslist and give them away?”
“I’ve tried, but I can’t tell people what kind of dogs the puppies are, or how big they’ll be. No one’s interested. On top of that, the pups are too young to be away from their mum right now. It’ll mess them up.”
Scott would have pointed out that being ‘messed up’ had a clear advantage over being shot, but Toby already looked on the brink of tears and he didn’t want to push it. “Okay, so why were you late?”
“I was trying to get my mum to promise not to do anything to the pups while I was at work but…” he broke off, his lower lip quivering.
Scott walked around his desk and laid a hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “You’re okay, mate.”
Toby swiped a furious hand across his eyes. “Sorry. This is so embarrassing.”
“It isn’t. It’s a rough situation. Look, what can I do to help?”
“You don’t know anyone who wants six half-breed dogs, do you?”
No. But Scott was deeply, painfully aware of the conversation he’d had with Sam the night before. He hadn’t lied, he had been thinking about getting a dog, even half-heartedly browsed some breeders’ websites. But looking at Toby’s tear-stained face, he knew he was nowhere near making a decision.
“I don’t know anyone who wants six dogs. I barely know someone who wants one.”
“Barely…?”
Scott chewed his tongue, but it was too late. Toby’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “You can have them for free, I swear! You can have them and I’ll pay to have them vaccinated and they’re such, such good dogs, boss, I promise. You’ll
love them!”
Scott held up his hands. “Mate, when I said I could help you out, I didn’t mean committing myself to six or even one puppy. I just moved here.”
“Okay, but what if you just come and looked at them? My parents are going out this afternoon, you could come over and check them out in person. I swear to God they’re the sweetest things alive.”
“I don’t—”
“Have a look at this.” Toby fumbled with his pockets and pulled out his phone. A few swipes and the screen was in Scott’s face showing six black and gold puppies lolling around their regal-looking mother. It was a low blow. The puppies were stretching their miniscule paws and yawning. Their mother, a pure gold dog-goddess was licking them intermittently and when she did, their eyes closed in silent ecstasy. Scott felt like someone had punched him in the chest. “They’re…cute.”
“Aren’t they?” Toby swiped across, playing another video of the puppies nursing. “If they are half-Cocker Spaniel and half-Rottweilers, they’re called rockers. They’ll be loyal and protective and gentle and the Rottie should breed the Spaniel bird-brain out.”
Scott shut his eyes, unwilling to keep looking at the pups. “Toby, that’s enough.”
“Sorry, but…one more look?”
Scott opened his eyes and saw his assistant mooning at him with an expression no dissimilar to the newborn puppies. He sighed. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
And think about it, he did. Toby went outside to his desk and Scott began to think alternately about puppies and Samantha. The details of the previous night were like a crazy dream—the competition, the burgers, talking to her about their lives, her legs straining against his as she rocked backward and forward. He’d kissed her. He’d not only kissed Samantha DaSilva, he’d made her come without using his hands. There was something between them, now, he just needed to make sure he didn’t fuck it up.
But how?
How to show her he was serious without coming across like the love-sozzled virgin he’d been ten years ago? Asking her to look at puppies was a fairly unique and romantic situation. It would also show he was committed to staying in Melbourne…
On one hand, it was insane. On the other hand, it was all insane. The entire situation—Toby being in possession of several soon-to-be executed puppies—it smacked of coincidence—no, worse, fate. He didn’t believe in that airy-fairy bollocks. He was an atheist. He had a dead mother. He was a natural born citizen of Her Majesty’s England and he refused to accept the universe was throwing puppies in his lap.
And yet…
Before he could question this line of thought any further, he picked up his office phone and dialed Silver Daughters Ink. The phone rang once before…
“Silver Daughters Ink, this is Tabitha DaSilva speaking to your ears right now.”
Scott frowned. “Erm, hello Tabby, it’s—”
“Scottison! The big Scott! Scotty 2.0! How are you today, m’buddy?”
The problem with outrageously extroverted people was that you never knew if they were taking the piss or not. “I’m fine, how are you?”
“Good, mate, hungover as shit but I don’t have clients ’til two so I’m sweet. How did your night go?”
Scott had a vision of Samantha riding his lap, moaning, her hair slipping through his fingers like living silk.
“Awkward silence! That’s what I like to hear!” Tabby gave a mad cackle. “Anyway, enough about the gross things you did to my sister—what’s up? Why are you calling?”
Scott cleared his throat. “Could I, er, please speak to your sister? Samantha, I mean. If she’s not too busy.”
“What about?”
Scott frowned at the receiver. “Erm, can’t you just go and get Samantha?”
“No. Why d’you want to talk to her.”
Scott stared around his office, trying to think of better reasons for calling and was unable to come up with anything less creepy than the truth. “Look, I just want to talk to her about going to see some puppies because—”
Tabby gave a piercing squeal. “Puppies!?”
“Yes, now can I please—”
“What kind of puppies?”
He gritted his teeth. “Cocker Spaniel and Rottweiler crosses.”
She shrieked even louder than before. “That’s a thing?”
“Apparently, now—”
“When and where can I meet these puppies? Can it be now? Or at least today?”
“Tabby,” Scott said with all the force he could muster. “I like you, you seem nice and funny, but I want to talk to Samantha. Can you please get her?”
There was a short pause in which Tabby chewed gum loudly.
“Is, uh, everything okay?”
She gave an indignant scoff. “No, it isn’t, Scott Sanderson. No. It. Isn’t.”
“What…is happening exactly?”
“You’re blacklisting me after I helped you achieve your lifelong dream, that’s what’s happening.”
Scott frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Did I, or did I not get her away from the greasy hands of Tall Matt last night, so that you were the lucky man who capitalized on her post Ink the Night sadness and fingered her? Did I not help you do that?”
He looked around the office, worried someone would hear. “You did. Although we didn’t…and it wasn’t because I capitalized on her—”
“Perhaps you should contemplate that if you want to keep creeping on Sam, especially under innocuous puppy-related circumstances, I might be your best bet?”
Scott opened his mouth to protest then realised she had a point. “Okay, you’re not wrong, but I’m not creeping on your sister. I don’t want to make her do anything she doesn’t want—”
“Don’t stress, man. No one can make Sam do anything she doesn’t want to do, bless her. Look, I get what’s going on. You want to ask her opinion about some puppies, partly because you want her to see how committed you are to living in Melbourne, mostly because you want to shag her, is that about right?”
He took the receiver away from his ear, stared at it and then put it back. “How did you…?”
“Oh I’m quite brainy,” she said with a loud snap of gum. “I got a 99.95 on my ATAR and it does not take a genius to know what men are thinking most of the time, trust me. Now, what time do you want me and Sam to come meet you?”
“Er…” Scott checked his watch. “What about quarter past six? I mean if—”
“Quarter past six sounds sick. Kay, byeeeeeee.”
She hung up.
Pleased, confused and slightly nervous, Scott sat back in his chair until he accepted the wheels he’d set in motion. Then he stuck his head out of his office door and caught Toby’s eye. “I’m coming to look at the puppies at quarter to six. Also, what’s your address?”
Toby smiled so wide he almost cracked his face in half.
* * *
Toby checked his watch for the umpteenth time. “They should be here soon, right?”
Scott remembered all the slapdash DaSilva school-runs he’d witnessed—the girls clambering into their dads’ battered Commodore still wearing Ugg boots and carrying cups of tea and toast. “Yes. They’ll be here soon.”
He and Toby were standing on the front steps of Toby’s house, a run-of-the mill, three-bedroom place. Nothing about it was unusual and yet Scott felt uneasy in its presence. Could have been the David Lynch suburban nightmare thing, was more likely due to his personal assistant being extremely jumpy. His parents weren’t around but he hadn’t offered to let Scott in the house and he kept shooting the street fearful looks.
“Toby, are we…not allowed to be here?” he asked.
Toby tried and failed to give a carefree laugh. “Of course.”
“Are you sure?”
His broad cheeks blushed crimson. He seemed to choose his next words carefully. “It’s not that you’re not allowed…it’s just that it’s a bit…My parents, they’re a bit…” Toby shot him a helpless look.
“Clean?”
Toby shook his head. “I’m making it worse. I’ll just show you.”
He walked up the steps and unlocked the front door and gestured to Scott to look inside. “Oh!” Hanging in the foyer of Toby’s house was an enormous wooden crucifix, complete with a man-sized Christ. Not only was Jesus crowned in thorns and nailed to the wood, but his flayed skin, bleeding side and general unhealthiness at this particular period of his life was displayed to a horrifying degree. He was all mottled skin and infected gashes and he had huge yellowish shadows around his eyes. Scott felt his eyebrows shoot upward and willed them back into place. “That’s very…it’s quite…”
‘Disgusting’ was the word he wanted to use, but that didn’t seem appropriate.
“My parents are religious,” Toby said quietly. “Born again. If you think this is bad, you should see the painting we have in the kitchen of Jesus healing lepers.”
He shuddered slightly, then fixed Scott with wide, pleading eyes. “I wouldn’t choose to put these things up in my house, Mr Sanderson, but my parents do and right now I don’t have enough money to move out and…yeah.”
“I understand what you’re saying. My father and I …” Scott struggled to find words to describe their relationship and gave it up as a bad job. “You can lock the door. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Thanks.” Toby shoved the key into the door and Scott wondered how people with such a blatant interest in Jesus could be contemplating shooting six puppies for not making them any money. Truly he did not understand Christianity. Though he suspected he now knew what made Toby unusual for a boy of his size and handsomeness. He had that nervous ‘is this a sin? What about this? Is this a sin? Am I sinning? Am I a sinner?’ look of the few truly religious boys he met at school.
Toby was just pulling the key from the door when a silver Yaris rounded the corner. He didn’t have to see their faces to know it was Samantha, the ache in his belly told him everything he needed to know. He waved, realised the girls hadn’t seen him and jammed his hands inside his pockets.
“That’s them,” he told Toby. “The younger sister, Tabitha, has blue hair.”
So Wild Page 15