Kiwi Strong (New Zealand Ever After Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “I don’t think,” Gray said, a tiny movement at the corner of his mouth betraying amusement, which was better than stony silence, anyway, “that any woman’s ever said, ‘Right, big boy, let’s go’ to me.”

  “Because you say it to them first,” I said. “Obviously.”

  He thought about that a moment. “Well, yeh,” he conceded. “Probably. I usually buy them dinner first, to be fair.”

  I laughed, and he grinned, too, just for a second. “So you see,” I said, “it could work. You’re not looking for a commitment, clearly, or you’d be married already. And I need somebody kind, but … sexy enough. To get me excited, I mean. And that’s you. We’re here for a couple weeks, and I’m on night shift this week, which means I only have until eleven o’clock at the latest, and you have to get up early, so …”

  “I don’t know whether to be happier that I’m sexy enough to get you excited,” he said, “or that this isn’t going to interfere with my sleep.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “We’ll call that a hard no,” he said. “I find I’m not sufficiently seduced by this plan. Oddly.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to feel stupid and rejected. I failed.

  “Normally,” he said, “I’d probably jump at it. If you hadn’t said anything and had just cuddled up a bit more, I’d be jumping at it right now. But …”

  “I couldn’t do that,” I pointed out with my last bit of pride, “since you’d discover the truth pretty quickly. I told you. I’m not good at it. You’d be buggering off like both of those other blokes, except that you wouldn’t have anyplace to bugger off to, since I’m right here.” I got busy collecting the rubbish from my flower-arranging, stuffed it in the bin, and said, “Never mind. I tried. Just forget it, all right? Sorry about the … foot thing. I don’t know what I was thinking. I probably embarrassed you. Nobody does that, not at dinner. I realized that, afterwards. I never know the right thing, if you can’t read it in a women’s magazine. Never mind, though. No harm done, right? Time for me to go anyway. I need a nap before work. Actually, I need exercise, but I’m out of time and out of light, so it’ll have to be a nap. See you tomorrow.”

  I fled.

  Humiliation: 1. Daisy: 0.

  Story of my sex life.

  36

  The Right Thing

  Gray

  I was fairly sure I’d handled that completely wrong.

  I looked at Daisy’s yellow kowhai that she’d arranged in a vase for my mum and felt bad. At my feet, Xena whined. I said, “Yeh, girl, you’re right. I’m a clumsy bastard.”

  A knock at my door, and my heart leaped. I headed out there in a fair hurry, opened it, and said, “Let’s try that again.” Or I started to say it, because it was Mum.

  “Oh,” I said, and ran a hand over my hair. “Hi.”

  She gave Xena a pat, since the dog had come forward, tail wagging, to say hello, then said, “I could go away again, if you like. Seems a bit hard, though, as I’ve traveled three and a half hours. And you asked me, of course, so there’s that.”

  “No,” I said. “Of course. Come in.” I gave her a kiss, took the suitcase from her and headed for the stairs, then remembered the flowers and took a detour into the kitchen to grab the jar.

  Mum said, following me up the stairs, “Never tell me you cut those for me, because I won’t believe it.”

  I said, “I could be insulted, but I won’t be, because you’re right. Daisy did it.”

  “Daisy, eh.” We made it to the pink-and-blue bedroom, and she said, “How are they getting on, then? More groceries in the boot, by the way.”

  “All right, I guess.” I dumped the vase of flowers onto the wide windowsill and thought that I should probably do something with the dormers up here. Make nooks, or something. Women liked nooks.

  “You don’t sound sure of that,” Mum said. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “You can ask them tomorrow. The girls, at least, because Daisy’s working nights. Midnight to eight. Sleeping during the day. Not sleeping enough, probably. She’s got a list. Trying to do everything at once.”

  “And not letting you do anything,” Mum said.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She’d asked me to do something, and I’d turned her down. None too gently, either. I couldn’t even go over there and say something marginally better, because she was sleeping.

  Mum said, “Groceries. Boot.” So I went and got them.

  The night was dark and gray, the air damp and cold. Fog, surrounding me. I was running to the river, blundering my way through the low-lying clouds that wouldn’t let me see, and then I was plunging into shocking, numbing cold.

  She was in there, trapped in a car, and I had to find her.

  I swam under water as long as I had breath, but there was nothing but cold, black emptiness, and a current that wanted to pull me down and swallow me. I surfaced, and then I dove again. Over and over, frantic now. Searching the darkness for something, anything that wasn’t water, my hands groping, finding nothing. Seeing the image all the same of her white face, her staring eyes, her dark hair drifting over her head, her hands pounding on the glass. Trying to get out, because she was trapped.

  Because she was drowning.

  My hands couldn’t find her. I was so cold, and I was losing my strength. And I couldn’t find her.

  I woke up shouting. Sweating. Shaking.

  The duvet was all the way off the bed. That was why I’d been so cold. The dream was about being cold, that was all. A nightmare. Stupid.

  A whine from beside me, a sound of rustling and shaking as the dog pushed her way out of the heavy duvet that had fallen on top of her, and a warm nose was nudging my ribs. I put a hand down and felt her broad head, stroked the silky ears, tried to say something, and couldn’t.

  A tap on the door, and my mum’s voice. “Gray?”

  “Yeh,” I said, and the door opened, a wedge of dimness against the dark.

  “All right?” I heard from closer in, and saw her there, outlined against the light, wearing her fleecy dressing gown, the one she’d loaned Daisy.

  “Yeh,” I said. “Sorry. Nightmare, that’s all. I need a nightlight out there. You could’ve fallen down the stairs. Sorry to wake you.”

  “I’m not going to fall down the stairs,” she said. “I turned my light on.” Another moment when I tried to think of something to say, and she asked, “Cup of tea?”

  The nightmare still had its tendrils wrapped around me. Like Daisy’s wet black hair, floating around her white, panicked face. I shuddered, and Mum said, “Cup of tea.”

  It got lighter, which was Mum switching on the fixture on the stairs, and I clicked on the lamp beside the bed, then climbed out, tore off my damp T-shirt and chucked it in the hamper, pulled on a clean one, and told Xena, “Bad dream, that’s all.”

  I heard Mum coming up the stairs, because the old boards creaked. Something else to fix. She pushed the door open with her backside, came over to hand me my cup, and settled herself in the bedside chair with her own mug. I took a sip and said, “You found the whisky.”

  “A splash, that’s all,” she said, putting her feet up on the edge of the bed. “Nothing like a splash of whisky to send the terrors on their way. This takes me back. You used to have bad dreams as a kid. Course, it was cocoa then, and no whisky. Except in mine, because I’m the mum. You’d tell me about your dream, and sharing would make the bad things go away.”

  I said, “I remember that. It was a bear, usually. A grizzly. Or a murderer. I was terrified of grizzlies. And murderers with knives, for some reason.”

  “And I’d tell you,” Mum said, “that there are no bears in En Zed.”

  “Except in the zoo,” I said, just like I always had.

  “So what was it this time?” she asked. “Is it about the brain again? Something worrying you? You having symptoms?” That was my mum, straight to the heart of the matter and no mucking about.

  “No,” I said.
“No symptoms. Well, other than wanting to kill that fella. You could call that a symptom, because the anger’s been pretty strong.” She’d put a fair slug of whisky in there, and the drink was hot, fragrant, and potent. I had no idea what time it was, but it felt late. Two o’clock, maybe, something like that.

  “That’s normal,” she said. “Nothing wrong with a man wanting to kill somebody who’s hurt a woman he cares about, as long as you don’t actually do it. Not that I think it’d be a loss, but I’d rather not visit you in prison.”

  I laughed, and she smiled and said, “So. What?”

  It took me a minute. “I think I made a mistake,” I finally said. “With Daisy.”

  “Ah,” she said, and that was all.

  “The dream …” I said. “It was stupid. It was about what happened before, the night I met her, except it wasn’t at all. She got herself out of that car, and out of the river, too. I wasn’t the one rescuing her. She knew it. She said it.”

  “But maybe now,” Mum said, “there is something more you should do. And maybe you’ve failed her some other way.”

  “Geez, Mum,” I said. “Thanks. You’re meant to be soothing.”

  “What’s the point of being soothing if you need to hear the truth?” she asked.

  “Fair point,” I conceded.

  She stood up and said, “I’ll finish this in bed, then.” And spoiled the whole tough-love act by squeezing my hand, bending down to kiss me, and saying, “Love you, baby boy. You dreamt it because you needed to, that’s all. Now you can go do the right thing.”

  Which was all very well, but what was the right thing? It wasn’t exactly noble to agree to have sex with a woman you’d been dying to get your hands on since the night you’d met her. Especially if she offered it up with no strings attached.

  Which she had, so what was my problem?

  I was a pretty simple fella. I identified the issue, and I solved it. I found out what I had to do, and I did it. I didn’t have nearly enough subtlety for this. This would be nothing but complication, whatever Daisy said.

  That was a no, then. Again.

  37

  Courting

  Daisy

  Work was good. Well, not good, not with three codes tonight, and none of them surviving. Not when I was holding the hand of a woman losing the pregnancy she’d longed for, and had nothing comforting to say except that I was here to help. On the other hand, setting up a five-month-old infant presenting with croup on a nebulizer and seeing her little chest, which had been heaving with the effort to draw breath, start to relax? Seeing her mum’s face crumple with relief when, two hours later, the baby was able to feed again? That was good, and so was the fella who’d been brought in after a smash on a rural road at six this morning and told me, “Nah, no worries. Box of birds, except for this wee splinter of mine. Ask the doc to save it for me, would you, darling? Otherwise, the missus isn’t going to believe it.” The “splinter” being a fence post stuck all the way through his shoulder. There was no stoic in the world like a farmer.

  The bad, the sad, the mad, and the glad … by morning, I’d seen it all. As usual. I was back in my competent place, if not my happy place.

  I wasn’t any worse off than before, anyway, I thought as I was changing out of my scrubs and back into my loose trousers and T-shirt. It was two weeks, that was all, and Gray would be out of my life and I’d be out of his. Also, how embarrassing would it have been when my clumsy attempt at normality went pear-shaped? I’d be spared that, anyway.

  I took my bra off, because I was going straight home, and the tag had been scratching at a sensitive spot on my back all night long, driving me mad, shrugged into my cardigan, which would provide temporary modesty, and rang up Security to ask for an escort to my car. My friend Ruby, who’d done the shift with me and was now shoving her feet into her clogs, asked, “Got ex trouble, have you? Sucks. Where are all the good blokes, I’d like to know?”

  “Dunno,” I said. “And something like that.” And then, since I was trying to be more open in my life now—with, as we know, mixed results—added, “It’s my sister’s ex. You know, from Mount Zion.”

  Ruby said, “Oh. I thought they stayed up there, though. Other than your sisters, of course. What’s the point of a closed community if you go buggering off all the time, terrorizing the rest of the world?”

  “Usually they do stay there,” I said. “He probably is, too. I’m just being careful for a wee while, just in case.”

  “Has she filed for a restraining order?” Ruby asked. “I’ve had to do that twice with blokes who wouldn’t leave me alone. Easy-peasy, though. It’s a form, that’s all, and a hearing.”

  “We’re going to the lawyer today,” I said. “Applying for a temporary protection order instead.”

  “Oh,” Ruby said. “Ouch.” She knew as well as I did what that meant. Domestic violence. I’d taken photos of Fruitful—Frankie’s—bruises when they were at their worst. I hadn’t imagined that Gilead would come around, but I had thought she’d feel pressure to go back, and I’d wanted to be able to remind her what she’d left. Leaving the only life you’d ever known could be a terrifying thing.

  A protection order didn’t mean the man would listen, of course, but it meant the cops would, if you had to ring them up. Hopefully.

  It would also make Gilead furious, and it would make the Prophet more than that. He’d be filthy. Public defiance? The threat of exposure to the outside world? Yeh. Filthy. And if the thought made me quail—that was another reason to do it. We had to put some layers of protection in place, and not just for ourselves. For the others, too, the ones who were still there. Most men at Mount Zion weren’t like Gilead, but some were. I wanted them scared.

  Ruby said, “That’s good, then. Covers you and your other sister too, I guess, if you’re worried about him coming after you. Seriously, though? Would he?”

  This much openness, I wasn’t doing. I said, “He blames me. I went and got the two of them out, you see. Also, he knows she’s with me.”

  “Hang on, then,” Ruby said, “and I’ll walk to the lobby with you. Just in case.”

  When we got out to the lobby, George Tupuola, my favorite security guard, was already there. At least I thought he was there for me. He was actually standing in the corner, laughing at something.

  With Gray.

  Ruby stopped, put a hand on my arm, and said, “Wait. Hang on. Isn’t that Gray Tamatoa?”

  “Yeh,” I said, because I couldn’t think what else to say, and also because I seemed to have lost the power of speech. Why was he here?

  Ruby said, “Bloody hell. He was my mad crush in my Uni days. Used to go watch him on Saturday nights, sitting in the Zoo—you know, the student section at the stadium—and dream. I saw him once or twice in a bar, but never got a look-in. Now here we are, me single again and him single always, and fit as ever, I will just say. Oh, yeh. Come to mama. My big chance to make an impression, and look at me, not a lipstick in sight. How’s my hair?”

  I said, “Your hair’s in a ponytail. Like mine.” I was feeling pretty narky, for some reason.

  “Right,” she said. “Wait.” She pulled the elastic out of her wavy, many-shades-of-blond hair—the kind of hair I’d always wanted, the kind princesses had in stories—shook her head and did some fluffing with her hands, bit her lips for color, and said, “OK. Ready as I’ll ever be. Pity I’m in yoga pants and clogs, but there you are, can’t have everything. I’m wearing my lucky bra, so who knows?”

  “You have a lucky bra?” I asked.

  “Yeh,” she said. “Pink.”

  “I know it’s pink,” I said. “I saw it. I just didn’t know it was lucky.”

  “Well, just once,” she said. “But it was pretty bloody lucky. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Bedtime story, eh.” Like a woman who didn’t freeze up on the couch. And one who had something to fill out her lucky bra.

  As for me, I left my hair in its ponytail. Gray knew what I looked like. Half-drowne
d or half-naked, muddy or sweaty or both, in his track pants or his mum’s fuzzy dressing gown, in all my glamorous glory. And if I got a pang thinking of him meeting curvy, blond Ruby, with her wide mouth and her blue eyes and her tip-tilted nose and her sparkle that had every man on staff standing up straighter when she came around? And watching him decide that she wasn’t a “hard no”? Well, that would be stupid and pointless. I wasn’t good at sex, I quite possibly couldn’t even manage sex, and I’d told him so like a fool, or possibly like a woman heading off a hideously awkward scene when he found out for himself, and here we were.

  And, yes, I was also wondering pretty hard why he was here. In the first second, I’d had a horrifying mental image of something happening to one of the girls, but if it had, surely he’d have been watching for me and looking tense. Instead, he was posing for a selfie with George, which wasn’t exactly “Let me rush you to your sister’s bedside” territory. So I tried not to feel cross and like a wicked stepsister, and also tried not to let my heart beat harder and my stupid breath catch in my throat at the sight of him in his plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up a couple times and all that breadth of shoulder and thickness of forearm, in his jeans and work boots, looking like toughness on a stick. And I headed across the lobby with Ruby, who was practically dancing in her clogs.

  “Hi,” I said, brilliantly, when we got there.

  “Morning, Daisy,” George said. “Beat out all the other boys to be your escort this morning. Best job going.”

  He laughed, a merry ho-ho, and I smiled, put my arm around his substantial waist, and said, “You know I always hope it’s you.” Which, since George was forty-five and had six kids, was pretty safe to say. Hence the arm and the touching and so forth.