I was in the kitchen getting drinks by the time they came through the front door. Pale hair pinned up, Quinn was wearing some kind of navy thing that sparkled. She smiled.
“Casey!”
“Damn, I missed you,” I told her, kissing her on the cheek as Travis followed her into the kitchen, “but you didn’t have to dress up for me. I like you in anything, or nothing at all if you prefer.”
Travis grabbed the glass of wine I’d just poured, slapped me up the back of the head, and handed the drink to his wife, who was busy laughing at my exaggerated wink.
If I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d put him in a headlock and get his dressy clothes all dirty. I gave Quinn my best puppy dog eyes instead. “You’re not going to let him beat me up, are you?”
“Of course she will,” Travis interjected. “In the order of men in her life, I outrank you by a mile.”
“Oh yeah?” My eyebrows went up as I looked from Travis to Quinn. “Where am I on this list?”
“Dude. You’re so low on the list, you’re not even on the list.” He took the two beers I’d uncapped with him into the living room and handed one to Coby. “And really … butt plugs?” He sank into the perfectly worn groove of my recliner and smirked.
Ignoring him, I put the wine bottle back in the fridge and said to Quinn, “If you ever get tired of Mr Vanilla, you know where to— Oh hey!” My eyes caught the little cherub peeking out from behind Quinn. Mussed blond curls and brown eyes so wide it made you hurt just to look at him. Sam, the three year old foster kid I rescued almost two weeks ago, watched his mother overdose and die, and now he couldn’t speak from the resulting trauma. What made the entire situation so fucked-up was that people like Travis and Quinn couldn’t have kids. She was so badly beaten as a pregnant teen, she’d not only lost her baby, she’d lost the ability to have more. The bright side was that they were given the opportunity to be foster parents. To me, that alone made the world a better place. If they managed to adopt him, Sam would grow up with a future.
Crouching down to eye level, I gave him my best grin. “You came all the way over here just to see me, bud?” My eyes shifted to the big piece of paper clutched so tightly in his hands it was a wrinkled mess. “And what’s this?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Quinn began. I glanced up at her nervous tone. “We have dinner reservations at Mr Chow’s, and really, we’d forgotten about them with … everything going on.” She eyed Sam pointedly. “And obviously we weren’t going to go because we don’t want to leave Sam with just anyone, or leave him at all really, but then …” Quinn took hold of Sam’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Show him your drawing, Sam.”
My heart swelled a little at the tentative trust in Sam’s eyes when he looked at me. He offered up the crumpled bit of paper.
Taking it from him with care, I smoothed the edges out and held it up. My name was etched all over it in a chaotic scramble of colours. Nothing else. Just … Casey. My eyes burned and I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “Dude,” I said affectionately. “You did this for me?”
Sam nodded wordlessly.
“There’s more of those at home,” Quinn whispered.
I met Quinn’s eyes briefly and saw the sheen of tears. Clearing my throat, I said to Sam, “Well this is going on my fridge. Front and centre. You know why?”
He shook his head.
“Because when everyone sees my name all over the fridge, they’ll know all the food in there belongs to me. That means no one else can eat it.” Sam’s eyes were solemn, as though what I’d told him was the most important thing in the world. “But,” I added, “I’m pretty sure I saw some ice cream in there that had your name on it. Want some?”
Sam nodded again, and this time I was rewarded with the corners of his lips turning up slightly. Just that slightest reaction made me want to fist pump the air.
“But you have to do something for me first, bud, okay?” A frown started to overtake his face. “Give me a hug? I need one of those because it’s been a long, tiring day,” I told him with a meaningful glance at Travis. It was a wasted effort because football just came on the television. Kicked back in my recliner with a beer, Travis looked in no apparent rush to be going anywhere.
Sam walked straight into my open arms. I stood up, bringing him with me, and he burrowed into my chest. After helping put the picture on the fridge, we got the ice cream. Holding onto him with one arm, I used the other to get a spoon from the drawer.
“Bowls are for girls,” I told him with mock seriousness. “We’re men. That means we can eat it straight from the carton.”
“Casey! You’ll teach him bad habits.”
I chuckled at Quinn as I handed the spoon to Sam. “Hey, I know how to take care of kids. Fill them with the sugar, show ‘em how to jump on the bed, then send them home to puke all over their parents.”
Quinn scowled and set her wine down on the bench. “Maybe this—”
“I’m assuming he has things, right?” She nodded. “So go get them and bring them up so you can go already.” I shifted Sam in my arms so he could reach the ice cream carton, noticing Quinn’s hesitation. “Hey. I got this, okay?”
She shuddered visibly. “Don’t say ‘I got this.’ It makes me nervous. Last time someone said that, my life turned into an episode of The Sopranos.”
“Blame Mac,” Travis called without shifting his eyes from the screen. “Everyone has a catchphrase. That’s hers.”
“Oh yeah?” Quinn dug through her bag for the car keys. “What’s mine then?”
Travis paused for a moment before saying, “Baby, you’re so big.” He smirked at her before licking his lips in a way that would give me nightmares for weeks.
Quinn rolled her eyes as she walked out the door. “Be right back.”
“Take your time!” Travis shouted after her.
By the time she returned, the three of us were on the couch, Sam sitting on my lap as we watched the football.
“Look who I found downstairs just about to ring the bell,” Quinn called out.
All eyes shifted to the doorway and tension rose swiftly in the air, thick enough to choke on.
Ah shit.
I lost my voice for a moment, and not in a good way. Morgan was standing beside Quinn, and I’d seen Band-Aids bigger than her outfit. The way she ran her eyes over me would make a porn star blush. I shifted Sam in my lap, feeling the urge to cover his eyes.
Stupid sonofabitch. I had no business being set loose in a bar, drunk. The evidence of that stood right there, waiting for me to say something. I was left with two options. One: I could pretend I didn’t know her from a bar of soap—unlikely to work—or two: I could introduce her to the room and face the wrath of my business partners. Where was door number three when you needed it?
I re-introduced Morgan to the room. Then I handed over Sam, took Morgan by the hand, and with an, “excuse us for a minute,” I led her down the back of the loft for privacy.
“You didn’t return my calls,” she began.
“Sorry. I got caught up with uh, work.”
Morgan took in my filthy, dishevelled appearance with sympathy. “Tough case, huh?”
I thought back to our paintball expedition and the fact that Mac had somehow overcome all odds to come out the winner. “You could say that,” I hedged.
“I know exactly what will make you feel better.”
The gleam in her eyes left no doubt. “I bet, but I’m babysitting Travis and Quinn’s little boy tonight. Maybe we could try this again another night?”
She shrugged and stepped a little closer, not seeming to mind the smell of sweat wafting off me in waves. “I can help. I’m good with kids. Want me to stay?”
Jesus. Morgan was persistent, I’d give her that. I glanced over to the living room to find all eyes on us. I shifted uncomfortably and smothered the heavy sigh. I really wouldn’t mind getting laid. All that naked and willing flesh on display was making my cock sit up with interest. “Sam’s not good with stran
gers.”
Ten minutes later I managed to get her out the door. Then I turned to face Travis with his flat, knowing eyes and folded arms. “We need to talk.”
I made a point of looking at the large clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Oh is that the time? You guys are gonna be late.”
“Tomorrow,” he warned me. “You and I are going to have a chat.”
On that ominous note, they left, Quinn shooting me a look of sympathy before she disappeared out the door. I went back to the fridge for another beer and then changed it to a juice, getting one for Sam while I was there. I didn’t like drinking around little kids when they were in my care. I’d experienced firsthand the damage alcohol could do to an angry parent around a child. I wasn’t my father. When it came to kids, I knew the importance of responsibility.
“Tilt your chin up a little and look at me.”
Like a good little soldier, I tilted my chin and faced John and his camera. With brows drawn, he crouched a little and changed his angle.
“Narrow your eyes more, Grace. I’m supposed to be seeing your inner bitch, but right now you look about as pissed off as a bag of chips.”
I gave a deep, heavy sigh before setting my jaw and narrowing my eyes. John shook his head from behind the camera. I don’t think he was buying it. I couldn’t blame him. I was a hardened professional in the modelling world, able to summon whatever look was required from me with ease, but today was not my day. Nothing was going right, and two days after flying in from a quick assignment in Italy, jetlag was still making me its bitch. Why was I so damn tired all the time? Exhaustion burned deep in my bones and I couldn’t shake it.
A loud thump came somewhere from my left, followed by my assistant, Jemima, hissing, “Mitsy!”
I squinted, unable to see beyond the glare of the lights. Not that I needed to. Mitsy had been disrupting the entire photo shoot since he stepped paw inside John’s Melbourne city studio. The damn dog hated the entire world and everybody in it. Now he was busy making sure we knew just how much. The fluffy, white dog slash furry beast belonged to my boyfriend Dalton, but Dalton was still in Italy, spending an extra week with mutual friends.
Dalton’s mum had been taking care of Mitsy in his absence, but she stopped by unannounced this morning, claiming she had to go out of town for work. I suspected she was telling a big fat lie. Not just because she worked the counter at the local post office, but because she couldn’t look me in the eye as she handed him over. That should have been my first clue that today would suck donkey’s balls. The second had been when I put on my jeans and realised they were a smidge tight. Being thin was always the new black in the fashion world, and I hated having to watch everything I ate. The third clue had been the missed call on my phone and subsequent message. I hadn’t listened to it yet, but I already knew what it would say and it scared the living shit out of me.
Just give me a few more days.
Please.
Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I’d taken pity on Mitsy and brought him along to the photo shoot with me. That was an obvious mistake we were all currently paying for.
“Grace!” John clicked his fingers to get my attention. “Give me some bitch, okay?”
Instantly I thought of Dalton’s dog and the heat of my glare should’ve cracked the camera lens. Mitsy didn’t travel well, as evidenced by the nasty message left behind in the cab on the way here. Too late, I’d remembered Dalton mentioning Mitsy’s aversion to moving vehicles and that it helped if the dog had something to chew on. Arriving at John’s, I’d had to hand over an extra wad of cash just to pay for the cleaning.
“Perfect,” crooned my photographer and best friend.
John was early-thirties with short, dark silky curls and facial hair that wasn’t quite a beard, but longer than stubble. What would you call that? Brubble? I tried not to snort. The brubble was new since I saw him last. It suited him, adding to the tattoos peeking out from his shirtsleeves. The man was rough and a little wild. All he needed was a Marlboro hanging from his lips and someone should’ve been photographing him instead of me.
“What?” he said.
Click. Click. Click.
“Nothing,” I murmured, schooling the amusement that flashed in my eyes.
No one could read my expressions like John could, not even Dalton, who on more than one occasion accused me of being a cold, unemotional bitch with no personality. Not true, but something inside held me back from being my real self in a relationship, and it was something my boyfriend liked to bring up numerous times when drunk. Pushing the issue aside, I focused on John.
“I’m just wondering what you would call that growth on your face.”
Click. Click. Click.
John changed the camera angle and squinted through the viewfinder. “Is that what’s going through your head right now, Grace? My beard?”
I shrugged, ignoring the growls of hunger from my stomach and the ache of my tired body. “I was thinking brubble, but the word sounds a little abrasive, like I could use your face as an exfoliator.”
He shifted position and my eyes followed his movement, making sure to keep my glare as directed. “I don’t know if I should keep it or not. What do you think of it?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On how far you plan to take it. I mean, beards are trending right now. I still watch Lord of the Rings just for Aragorn’s facial hair, but if you take it too far...”
John paused, brows raised in question as he relaxed his hold on the camera. “Too far?”
I fought the grin. “No one wants to have sex with Chewbacca.”
He laughed from behind the lens, his chuckle deep and sexy. Damn. Why wasn’t I able to fall in love with John?
Bracing my hands on my knees, I glowered as directed.
Click, click, click.
John was my one true friend. I didn’t want to ruin that. Neither did he. We’d talked about it and decided it was too weird. John’s theory was that my one true love had been brutally murdered in a past life and I was waiting for him to come back to me. Admittedly, he came up with that when completely wankered from a bottle of wine. John was usually a hard liquor man, but that night it was all we had on hand after finishing a photo shoot in Broome at three a.m.
“Dalton doesn’t fit the profile,” he’d slurred, pointing his finger at me with a hand that held both his wine glass and a cigarette.
“What profile?” I slurred back.
“The profile of your gladiator.” John hiccupped. “The warrior who’s fought through the centuries to find his way back to you. You’ve just gotta lose the cold armour, Grace,” he informed me, his closet romantic side escaping with every sip he took. “He won’t be able to bust down your castle walls if you don’t. Dalton’s too weak. You need someone who’s going to push your buttons, and not just the ones in your panties.” He offered a meaningful look towards my lady parts as well as waving his hand in the same direction in case I didn’t get the reference.
He was right about the cold armour. It never used to be there, but life had a way of changing you into someone you never imagined you’d be, and giving you a life that you’d never really wanted.
I came from a big family. Two loving parents, an older brother, Henry, and two younger twin sisters, Emma and Ava. Henry was lead guitarist in the band, Jamieson. I always knew he’d be famous one day. He’d been attached to that guitar from birth. Emma and Ava were fraternal, but similar, sort of like peas and corn. They’d decided at an early age to join the Air Force. Our house subsequently became fluent in Top Gun. For an entire year, they wouldn’t answer to anything other than Iceman and Goose. And me? Every day was different. One day I wanted to be an Olympic trampolinist, the next a heavy haulage trucker. Only one thing remained constant: I was the sister that caused trouble. We were allowed ice cream if we ate all our vegetables, and I was always the one that fed them to the dog and said I ate them. When we went to the shops, I was the one screaming and causing a sce
ne for the chocolate so craftily displayed at the supermarket checkout. I was the one that begged for a skateboard and broke my arm when I tackled the biggest hill in our housing estate. I was the one that wouldn’t go to sleep at night without demanding at least five stories and a glass of water.
You probably get the point, but nothing fazed my mum, not even me. She was the person you could just look at and know she was someone who loved life. She radiated it from every golden pore, like some goddamn beacon that was too beautiful for words. My father worshipped at her angelic feet, but when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, everything changed, including me, and when she died four years later, everything inside my dad died too.
He’d spent years doing everything to prolong her life: surgery, radiation, chemotherapy, tonics and healthy eating. It was horrific, because at such a young age, even I could see there was nothing left of her. Watching someone so bright and vital fade into nothingness was unbearable; it was harder than saying goodbye.
Two months later at the age fourteen, I stumbled on a foreclosure notice from the bank. We were losing our house. Employing my best snooping skills—because I was the child that always found where the Christmas presents were hidden—I found out just how bad it was, and my heart broke for my father. We were left with medical bills so big they might as well have been Mount Everest. In that one horrifying moment, I saw Henry giving up his guitar, feeling obligated to work some boring, dead-end job to help support our family. I saw Emma and Ava’s dream of the Air Force turn into working the check-in counter at Sydney’s international airport. So when some random stranger at the local coffee shop took in my gangly, awkward frame and told me I could be earning big dollars on international catwalks and “hey, here’s my card, call me,” I didn’t laugh in his face. I clutched that card like I was adrift in The Perfect Storm and it was my goddamn life raft.
I’d been working nonstop ever since, most of the time away from home with a tutor to help me finish high school. And while the money I made had paid the bills a thousand times over, the price I paid was horrendous. I didn’t know my family anymore. We weren’t close. I’d lost them at the same time I’d lost my mum. Henry, Emma, and Ava were out there living their dreams while I was stuck in a life I’d never wanted.
Give Me Grace Page 3