The Cait Lennox Box Set

by Roderick Donald

  G was listening intently to his wife, her words causing his mind to drift off to another place as he tried to imagine what was happening to Rishi right now. He felt a rush of emotion for the poor kid, and of course for Cait. She definitely had more feelings for Rishi than just as a good friend, even if she wasn’t letting on.

  In fact, G had spoken to Cait about Rishi only just the other morning over breakfast. She was prattling on about”Rishi this” and”Rishi that” and had asked his advice about how to remain close friends, but still retain her independence. In his usual fashion, G had thought about how best to advise his daughter and had replied rather philosophically:

  “Caitie, the path of life is not to be found but rather created, and the activity of making it changes both the maker and the destination . . . which means in simple speak, just go with the flow. Don’t put restrictions on something that you’re not even sure exists yet.”

  “Let’s wait and see how Rishi is tomorrow,” G replied to Jools, who at this stage was chilling, lost in sad thoughts, finding solace in the glowing warmth of her nightcap. “Hopefully he’ll be okay. If things haven’t improved for him I’ll contact his parents. You realize they’re on holidays in India at present?”

  A pregnant pause took over as they both drifted off to another space.

  “Do you think Caitie would know Divya and Arnav’s contact details? She must have an email address, or better still, a phone number. They need to know.”

  “Right as usual, G. I’ll check out the hospital tomorrow morning and let you know. Then we’ll decide.”

  Excited by the heady, musky fragrance of Jools’s excitation, and Jools’s damp, hot breath kissing his neck like the warmth of a summer’s breeze, G ceased sucking his wife’s hardening nipples and was coaxed downward by her natural perfume, the enticing scent drawing him under the sheets toward her moistening womanhood.

  Tracing the mound of Jools’s breasts with his tongue, G tasted the salty rivulets of sweat that were puddling under her breasts. Taking his time, he heightened the intensity of the moment by moving his tongue in geometric patterns across Jools’s stomach, at the same time gently tracing the outline of her torso as he sensuously moved his probing fingers downward, lower and lower.

  G savored his wife’s quickening breath as his exploring tongue darted in and out, his manhood becoming aroused as he instinctively moved his hips in sync with the developing rhythm of Jools’s thrusting.

  He sensed his wife’s excitement building. The intensity of his caresses increased as G worked his way down, quickly running the tip of his tongue straight down Jools’s center and beyond.

  G’s ardor was building to an intensity that was almost painful.

  Then Jools gasped, releasing a hissing sigh of excitation that was reminiscent of a pressure cooker blowing its top, and urgently dragged her partner on top of her to complete their coupling.

  Moving in a unison of familiarity, feeling the electricity between them, they embraced, scratched, and gently slapped, rising urgently to a crescendo, their excitement increasing in parallel with the intensity of their passion.

  And then in a heartbeat the blinding moment of lovemaking was over. Husband and wife lay there exhausted, entwined in each other’s arms, bathed in a lather of sweat, breathing heavily as if they had just run a marathon.

  G unraveled himself from Jools’s embrace, rolled over onto his back, graciously accepting a tissue from his partner, and finally spoke.

  “Sorry about last night. It was a bit inconsiderate, but I just got carried away. I love you heaps, you know that.” With that, he promptly moved to his side and within less than a minute fell into a sleep that was deeper than a dead man’s dream.

  Jools never ceased to marvel at how G could just switch off and fall to sleep as if on command. She became aware of his slow, regular breathing, smiling to herself and mouthing the words “me too.” One of G’s frivolous analogies that he used from time to time strangely passed through her drifting mind: the only thing better that the sleep of the just is the sleep of the just after . . .

  With that, Jools closed her eyes, promptly joining her partner in the land of nod.

  “Thanks G. Hard day at the office today. Wonder what the poor people are doing, eh?” remarked Gordy in his Aussie-Canadian accent, which for the moment had a laid-back Far North Queensland twang to it. Thirty-five years on the road traveling the world had made him a parrot and he picked up accents and languages without even trying, and at the moment he was very FNQ. He’d just finished a four-month stint working as a painter in the Mount Isa copper mines to replenish his dwindling funds after spending eighteen-odd months traveling the length and breadth of Central and South America, and right now he was very North Queensland savvy.

  And he was here in Melbourne visiting his long-standing friends G and Jools for a few weeks before he left Australia to go on yet another adventure to some godforsaken Third World country. As Gordy used to say to his friends in the West: “You guys work to live; I work to travel,” which he had been doing since he was nineteen.

  “Hey, it’s really good to see you all again . . . and G, you’re my rock you know, man . . . you’re just always here. We really had some good times on the road together, eh,” said Gordy, clicking his umpteenth rum and Coke in a toast against G’s drink.

  “Hey, the yacht’s looking good. You guys been doing a bit of work on it since the last time I was here? Business must be good for one of you at least, eh.”

  Gordy was sitting in the stern of Sean and G’s twelve-meter racing yacht Fig Jam, leaning against the safety lines, soaking up the after-race vibes, talking shit. They’d just placed second in a Thursday night”social” race around the sticks and it was the first of those magical Melbourne spring nights of the new sailing season after a hellishly long, cold, and very wet winter.

  The remnants of the day’s warm breeze were kissing their exposed skin and it just felt good sitting out in the open for a while longer. The red sun melting into the western horizon provided a picture-perfect backdrop to the gently swaying masts in the marina that were moving in time with the mesmerizing din of their halyards, as they flicked against the masts of the moored yachts with a high-pitched twang.

  Idyllic. Well, certainly if you were a yachtsman.

  “You’ve heard it all before, Gordy. Owning a yacht’s like standing under a cold shower tearing up hundred-dollar bills. But Sean’s been kicking some goals lately with his business so he’s tipped in a few dollars,” replied G.

  “A few dollars? Piss off, you prick. How does twenty grand sound?”

  “Yeah okay, Sean’s generously paid for a new main and a spinnaker and a new foil for the forestay and had the bottom stripped back and antifouled.”

  “And don’t forget the carbon fiber boom vang. You got a vacuum between your ears, you dickhead.” G and Sean were always ribbing each other in that noninsulting way that only close friends can.

  Competitive yacht racing is a sport where things are constantly pushed to the limit and beyond. Insults, accusations, and even arguments are the norm on the water, so you needed a thick skin and to be prepared to cop flak when things went wrong. Once the preparatory gun echoed across the water signaling a five-minute countdown to the start of a yacht race it was war, with thirty-plus boats jockeying for clear air in their fight for the perfect right-on-the-line start. A loss of concentration or getting the rules wrong meant that you could expect to be crashed into. Or nudged at least. And that was expensive, because when you were in the wrong and damage occurred there wasn’t only your own boat to repair, but you could also expect an invoice from the other yacht involved.

  Basically, there was no room for prima donnas or taking things personally, and this aggression on the water just naturally flowed into G and Sean’s day-to-day conversations.

  G grabbed a fresh rum and Coke from Kylie as she appeared through the companionway carrying an arm full of drinks and some nibbles.

  “Yeah boofhead, and a
new carbon fiber boom vang,” replied G in a mock conciliatory tone.

  Kylie, the only female crew member, had been down below deck and right now she was person-in-charge of mood and music. Thinking of G, she’d just put his favorite band, Pearl Jam, on the yacht’s music system and cranked the volume up a tad as Eddie Veder belted out Better Man in his distinctive guttural voice. G’s incessant banter trading insults with Sean had drifted down below from topsides and she smiled. Kylie had a soft spot—actually more a mateship, bordering on something deeper—for G and she knew that he’d be singing along in his head.

  For a fleeting moment the song’s lyrics played a game with Kylie’s head. G really is a better man, certainly better than most. There’s definitely an electricity between us—I can feel it. The way he sometimes looks at me . . .

  And his touch. Not lecherous . . . it’s just, well . . . he’s definitely being more than good friends when we have a hug and a goodbye kiss on the cheek. If he wasn’t married to Jools and I wasn’t with Marcus . . . just maybe . . .

  This was the beginning of Kylie’s third season sailing on Fig Jam and she really enjoyed the camaraderie with the rest of the crew. When she first started sailing with them it was trial by fire and she had to constantly prove herself, but now she’d done her time before the mast and according to Sean, in his totally sexist but nonderogatory Irish way, she passed with flying colors, earning the title of”honorary bloke.” He used to chide Kylie that all she needed to do now was learn to piss over the stern of the yacht like the rest of the crew instead of peeing into a bucket down below.

  But this was all good fun as far as Kylie was concerned, and simply part of making her mark in a sport dominated by testosterone and male egos. She’d grown up with five brothers and had always been a bit of a tomboy, so she felt totally comfortable with the male banter and hanging out with the guys on board—her surrogate”brothers,” as she affectionately referred to them.

  As G had said many times in his prerace psych-up moments to his crew, “When we’re racing, we’re on the water for one reason only, and that’s to smell gun smoke. First place is the only place. So sail to win.”

  And when shit happened, as it regularly did in such a dynamic environment—bad tactical decisions, sail changes going pear-shaped, or worse still, things breaking or sails blowing out—and the yelling started, Kylie was known for taking no prisoners and giving back as much or even more flak than may have come her way from the guys on board.

  Kylie had a rapid-fire acerbic tongue and a”don’t fuck with me or I’ll chew you up and spit you out” attitude that had cut down many an opponent. But she certainly wasn’t butch or a man-hater either. From a distance Kylie was attractive in a pleasant way, but not a stunner either—at just over five feet and weighing a hundred and fifty pounds, she regarded herself as being a bit on the heavy side, but she couldn’t give a rat’s ass. She felt comfortable being a size twelve, going on size fourteen on occasions.

  Apart from G’s son Dec, at thirty-six Kylie was the youngest person on the crew by some eleven years. She was physically strong for a woman with broad shoulders, no waist to speak of, a 36D bust, and a solid build, but she definitely possessed a feminine body at the same time.

  Then, as if there was a flip side to the coin that was Kylie, she had a mysterious sex appeal about her that just drew guys in. Many a yachtie had tried to get into her pants over the years and all had failed. Kylie was intensely loyal to her partner Marcus, but this didn’t prevent her from being in touch with her sexuality, so she liked to flirt when the mood took her, but that was as far as it ever got.

  Except with G.

  He unknowingly played with her emotions and when she was around him her normal defenses melted away. Disappeared into the ether. When Kylie was in his company she became a real softy and as much as she hated to admit it, she wore her heart on her sleeve. This opened up an emotional vulnerability that not many people had gained an insight into—certainly none of her”brothers” on the crew—and in some perverse fashion made her seriously protective of G. So in that intrinsic female way, when G and Kylie were in yachtie-mode, Kylie always kept an eye out for G and knew where he was at all times.

  Not that she was possessive. Far from it.

  Instead, Kylie justified to herself that she was just looking out for her friend and skipper. But really, if she was capable of looking behind the façade of her actions she would no doubt find deeper feelings; feelings she subconsciously suppressed, because G was married and untouchable, and she was happy and in a long-term relationship with her partner Marcus.

  “Hey guys, thanks for the sail tonight. I’ve got this round,” said Gordy in his matter-of-fact way to G, Sean, and Kylie as they were walking into the members’ bar.

  “Beers all round, or time for a bottle of red, eh?”

  Gordy grabbed the drinks. The others commandeered a table outside on the terrace that a group of”social” yachties were conveniently vacating just as the crew of Fig Jam arrived. Their leaving was well timed, but it may also have had a smidgen to do with the arrival in the bar of”real” yachties who had just completed a race and were full of boasting, bravado, and bullshit. The remnants of the past few hours were still evident on the table, including a copy of today’s Australian Tribune newspaper which had been disassembled, obviously read, and then roughly put back together and pushed over to a corner of the table.

  As Gordy brought the drinks back and was putting them down next to the discarded newspaper, his eye was caught by the headline on the top fold:

  LATEST NEWS

  Five charged over bashing of Indian students in Melbourne CBD

  The Australian Tribune, Friday October 14

  Robert Macillicuddy

  Five men have been charged over the brutal bashing of two male Indian students in Melbourne's CBD last night.

  The two victims, aged 20 and 22, told police they were approached and attacked in Swanston Street outside Melbourne Central at 10:20 p.m. Their attackers, who were subsequently arrested by the police, were all of South Sudanese origin.

  The two victims are both Melbourne University students and had just left the Melbourne Central cinema complex after seeing a movie. They were walking back to their student accommodation in Carlton when the attack occurred.

  One student was treated at the scene by paramedics for minor injuries and allowed to leave and the second student was taken to hospital with facial injuries and suspected broken ribs . . .

  “Hey, what the hell’s happening to this country?” said Gordy, passing the drinks around as he spoke. Picking up the discarded newspaper, he read the headlines out loud to no one in particular. As if it was cursed, he chucked the paper in disgust, throwing it so hard into the middle of the table that he almost knocked over Sean’s beer.

  “G was telling me before about Cait’s Indian friend who was bashed last Saturday night simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now this.”

  “I never thought I’d see it, but Australia’s getting the United States disease.”

  Gordy felt like he was on a corner soapbox, preaching his thoughts to the masses as all eyes at the table suddenly turned his way.

  “Sean, aren’t you into building accommodation for these guys? Look what’s happening to your clients?” Gordy pointed almost forcefully at the newspaper. “They’re getting bashed, that’s what. Surely you can’t be happy about it, mate.”

  Gordy had spent literally years of his life coming and going to India and he had a real soft spot for the country. India was one of Gordy’s”headspace” refuges as he liked to call it, so Gordy’s response to the headlines had some substance to it.

  “Yeah, it’s not good, Gordy. It’s the gangs of young immigrant kids,” said Sean in his Irish brogue. Even though he may have come to Australia some twenty-four years ago, his accent was still tainted with a lingering Cork drawl which thickened after a few drinks.

  “Bloody refugees who don’t know right from w
rong.” Sean wasn’t known for his subtlety when it came to immigration.

  He stopped talking long enough to down his beer in three large gulps and then continued in rapid-fire succession.

  “I mean, what’s wrong with the Indians? Sure their food might stink a bit, but they’re okay. That Rishi kid at G’s place last weekend seemed like a nice enough lad. Pity he got bashed.”

  “Yeah, he looked really bad, Gordy,” said Dec, who was sitting up the other end of the table with his mates, eavesdropping on Sean and Gordy’s conversation. “Like, he had a black eye and stitches. He even fell out of his chair, but Sean saved him.”

  Sean looked Dec’s way and said, “Dec, I just carried him inside, mate. It was your mother and Cait who did all the work.” Though opinionated, he wasn’t a person to blow smoke up his own backside.

  “I mean, the Indians we deal with all seem like good young kids. They’re certainly keen. They come here to study, pay their money for our student accommodation then bugger off back home. Unless they overstay their visa, then that’s the government’s problem.”

  Sean stopped for a pensive moment of introspection, looking around to see if he still had an audience.

  “Gordy, it’s these young thugs who’re screwing it up for all of us. Round them up and stick them on the next boat out of here, I say.”

  Sean was a straight, up-front builder who called a spade a shovel. He was more used to dealing with tradesmen and to him things were either black or white, so his solution to the worsening bashing problem was simple. In his mind if these young thugs screwed around, send them back to where they came from. End of story.

  “Sean, you’re a total bigot. How can you possibly say that!” retorted Kylie. She’d been listening in to the edges of their conversation and missed the rationale behind Sean’s comments.