Floored Page 10

  “Yeah, we’re ditching them. But there’s good news.”

  There were three voicemails and a text message from Justin now. Each of them pleading with her to come home to him. Telling her she was forgiven and he loved her and needed her. It seemed drastic to ditch the whole phone but maybe it was for the best.

  “What’s the good news?”

  He stood. “There’s an Avis in town.”

  13: Pushing Normal

  He was out. Two years, four months, nine days. It was over.

  He went to the counter to pay for their lunch. He felt punch-drunk, dazed. Fucking lost. He hadn’t even argued with Stud, because he knew it was his own fault. He’d forgotten to take her phone.

  No more Fetch. No more Robinson Street. No more deliveries, no more pick-ups. No more dodging Wacker’s psycho moods or playing the bumbling idiot for Maisy to fawn over. No more being the punching bag for Toddy, Johno and Grumble. No more estimating cash by bag weight or memorising coded orders. No more hyper-vigilance and only ever being half asleep.

  He could shave, have a haircut. Acid scrub the horrible tattoos off. He could burn the boots and vest and the hateful filthy t-shirts. He could forget how to drop his letters and stutter. He never had to play Mortal Combat or Call of Duty ever again. He never had to eat crap fried food or drink till he was sick to avoid shooting up. He never had to cringe or slump or make himself smaller. He never had to throw a fight, or stand by when someone was being attacked or threatened.

  He could be normal.

  No more tricked up, re-routed emails and fake postcards from Africa to home. He could call his mum. He could see his family. He could go for a surf, he could see a movie, eat at a nice restaurant. He could have an ordinary conversation about nothing without having to look over his shoulder to see if he was being watched.

  He could get laid.

  He could live his life again.

  Deep down, it’s what he knew he needed. So why did he feel so fucking hollow, so emptied out? So angry? He wanted to hit something. Shout at someone. Chuck a fucking force ten tantrum.

  Because he’d been undone by a seventeen dollar Supreme pizza. Made because he dropped his guard when he’d answered the door to a delivery boy, been pleasant because he’d felt some kind of warped kinship with the guy and it was raining. It was thirty seconds of carelessness. It blew two years, four months and nine days to shit.

  He stood in a queue at the counter and silently cursed the two old ducks in front arguing about splitting a thirteen dollar bill. Over the top of their heads he caught the eye of the cashier. She smiled nervously. He leaned forward and snatched the disputed bill off the counter and handed it with his own and a fifty to the cashier. He ignored the stress that caused: the outraged fluttering of hands with fake nails and too many rings, the raised squeaks of half-hearted protest, and the wild eyes. He’d be the highlight of the week for those two.

  He still wanted to hit something.

  Because it wasn’t done. It wasn’t over. And they didn’t get the brass ring. Whoever was behind the identity theft scam was still out there. For all his time and effort, for all the warrants they could write and arrests they could make, all they’d do was fell soldiers in the army. The soldiers were replaceable and they wouldn’t win the war, only disrupt operations with a minor skirmish.

  He didn’t want it to end like this. Those two years, four months and nine days of his life he’d turned over to the gang crime squad. They weren’t coming back. Just like Milo’s wife, they were dead. They had to stand for something more than a speed bump, a detour in the game.

  But he was out and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was officially on leave, pending a full psyche evaluation and a desk job. Jesus Fucking Christ.

  From the second he stepped out onto the main drag of Tumut he was free, he was shaking loose, zeroing out and pushing normal. He felt sick to the bottom of his gut about what that meant and how to do it. Could you lose the talent to be yourself? Once you broke the habit, was it possible to get it back?

  Especially when you weren’t ready.

  So, unofficially he was on his way to Perth.

  Driver was waiting for him on the pavement near the car, eyes down on her sensible shoes. The good thing was she was safe. No one was looking for Fetch. Fuck what Stud said, no one would believe Fetch was a cop. The gang members were too busy suspecting each other as the doublecross fell apart and retribution became the flavour of the month. No one was interested in a lady limo driver either. She could be home tonight if she hit the road now. No wiser, but way richer for the experience.

  She looked up when he approached. Oddly, he was going to miss her. His one little piece of near normal. Before he’d half passed out in the back seat he’d been thinking about what it might be like to feel her cool, capable hands on his skin because she wanted them there, not because he’d coerced her into touching him, goaded her into agreeing to hurt him. He was keen to see her outside of her sexless uniform, with her hair unbound and the tension she carried in her pretty face smoothed away. He’d like to make her laugh without being self-conscious. He’d love to see her lose her temper without worrying about the consequences. And seriously, he wanted to know who hurt her and made her so closed up and cautious.

  And he’d like it if pizza delivery had never been invented.

  She waited till he was alongside the car then said, “Why do we need Avis?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Oh, so now you don’t like my driving.” She came to attention, folding her arms tight across her chest. “I was good enough to be your getaway driver and you slept the whole way here. And we had a deal.”

  He mirrored her stance. “Yeah. Life sucks. We have a new deal now. It goes like this. I walk down the road there and hire myself a car and drive on. You get in your car and go home. When you get there, call the number on the business card. My boss Michael Studdley will tell you where to take your car to get it put back the way it was.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “That’s my best offer.”

  “No.”

  “Look Driver, last night you tried to bolt. This morning we agreed you’d only take me as far as Port Augusta. This is better. You’re safe. That call; it’s all over. I’m out. You’re safe; permanently safe. No one is going to be looking for you.”

  “I didn’t agree to turn back in Port Augusta.”

  “You were always a flight risk and I don’t care what you think you agreed on, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He threw his hands up. “Well, what the fuck else am I supposed to call you?”

  “My name is Cait.”

  “Is that Kate as in Katherine? Or is there a hairdresser around here somewhere by that name.”

  “It’s Cait as in Caitlyn. It’s my real name. You can call me that while we’re driving to Leeton.”

  “We’re not driving to Leeton. You’re going home.”

  “No.”

  “You get to keep the money.”

  “No.”

  He sighed. Stubborn cow. “You can keep saying ‘no’ till you grow horns, it won’t change what’s going to happen.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” She was good and stroppy now. Hands fisted on her hips.

  “Blood loss.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, you want to know what’s wrong with me?”

  “I just asked, didn’t I?”

  He scrubbed both hands through his hair, tugging it out of his face. “I’m unemployed.”

  She huffed. “I’d say that’s an improvement on the type of job that gets you slashed, and it’s no reason not to stick with the deal.”

  “I was attached to that job.”

  “Don’t give me that. What was that call about? You didn’t act all subservient and scared.”

  Ah, so she’d copped that particular performance with Wacker in the car park. He’d tried to be quick and discreet. “That was the
royal shove off, the axe, the flick, the arse. That was your signal to do as you’re told and go home.” He moved to step past her.

  “Where are you going now?”

  He stopped and turned back and raised his voice. “What part of need to know about our arrangement do you not get?”

  “What part of you don’t get to tell me what I want and we had a deal do you not get?”

  “You lost me last night when you wanted to bolt.”

  “Well, I don’t want to bolt anymore. I was kind of freaked out. What would you have done?”

  “I’d have been dust.” He made a show of looking at his watch; an ugly chunky military style affair he’d never have to wear again. “Which is what you need to be in the next fifteen minutes.”

  “No. I don’t want to go. I have nothing to go back to. Last night I didn’t know if you were a good guy or a bad guy. I only wanted to get away.”

  “So a fruit salad and four hours driving makes me a good guy.”

  “No, just a guy who isn’t interested in hurting me. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I can toss you. But I’m okay with that.”

  He stepped forward and got in her face. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” She didn’t flinch, she didn’t step back either. She smelled like oranges, sweet and tart. He’d noticed it last night but thought he’d imagined it.

  “Everything you’ve done, you did to protect me.”

  He breathed in deep. “Yeah, like making you a target in the first place.”

  “I didn’t say you were a genius.” She pushed past him and opened the back door. “Now get in the car. We’re driving to Leeton.”

  He stood there looking at her, holding the door open for him. He’d shouted at her, attracted attention; not that it mattered anymore, but still, they were having a domestic in the middle of downtown Tumut. He got in the car.

  He could ditch her in Leeton.

  14: Rip

  Her bikie slumped in the back seat like all the stuffing had been ripped out of him. Whatever got said on the other end of that phone call had a big impact on him. He was in a foul mood. He’d shouted at her on the street. He’d never raised his voice before. He’d never lost his cool with her, and he’d certainly been under enough pressure and pain to do so.

  But he could be in a ‘bite heads off chickens’ mood and he still wouldn’t get to tell her what to do. She was driving to Perth. If he wanted to hire his own car and race her there he was welcome to.

  He was looking out the window as she pulled back onto the highway. “Driver, I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  She checked the rear-view. Still slumped. “That’s okay. You’re having a tough day.”

  “Hah. You think this is a tough day. This is a shit easy day. I…”

  She looked up again. He’d lapsed into a silence she wasn’t going to tease out. According to the rules she didn’t have to. But he was so odd like this. All the cheek, all the fun, all the steel resolve and energy plucked out of him.

  Eyes up again. “I’m a good listener if you want to talk.”

  His head came around. “Just drive.”

  She drove. He sat, unmoving. About an hour later he said, “Find one of those rest stops and pull in.”

  It took another thirty minutes of driving before she sighted a Driver Reviver stop. She slowed to the shoulder of the road and pulled in, the tires crunching on the soft gravel. He got out and went to the back of the car, tapped the boot lid. She opened it and he rumbled about inside, taking out a plastic bag.

  She got out and retreated to a picnic table, sat on it and swung her legs. They had the place to themselves which was good because he took his vest and t-shirt off. His bandage was blood-spotted. She sighed. She was an awful person. She never used to be an awful person. She hadn’t asked about his arm and she should’ve offered to change his bandage. She would. As soon as he stopped doing whatever it was he was doing.

  There was an old rusty oil drum with a grate set over it functioning as a fireplace. He pushed the grate aside and dumped the stuff he’d taken from the boot in the drum. He pulled off his boots and socks and tossed them in as well. God, she hoped he kept his new jeans on. Lordy, he was well built. Every muscle defined; every line of his body honed and workshopped to perfection. There was no way not to watch him. He took off his chunky watch and tossed it in the drum. It would be a kind of crime against humanity not to watch him and visually worship his physical state. Her mouth was as dry as a sandpit. His hands went to his zip. Sweet Jesus. He was losing the jeans.

  Caitlyn heard her own quick exhale. Fetch would’ve heard it too. But he didn’t react. She could not look away from him. He pushed the denim off his legs and scooped the pants up, tossing them in the drum, silver skull belt and all. He was completely naked. God in heaven. He stole her breath away. Her whole body got hot and her hands tingled. She was aware of the hard plank of wood she sat on, she was aware of a tight knot of want in her chest. She was more shocked at the feelings spiralling through her than she was at his behaviour. She clenched her fists. She was becoming liquid need, but he was oblivious. He went to the boot and rumbled about. She couldn’t see him now over the car, but she could hear him moving things around. He emerged seconds later in last night’s black trackpants, shirtless with an Athlete’s Foot shoebox in his hands.

  He came across to the picnic set and sat on the seat, by her right side. They both faced the car. Caitlyn’s tongue had dissolved like her sense of decorum, her respect for privacy, her professionalism. Even if she could’ve put more than two syllables together, what was she supposed to say? He rolled a sock on his foot and took one of the shoes from the box.

  “I need to run.”

  Nothing like what she expected him to say. Did he mean run away? What now?

  “I’m not…” He laced a shoe. “I’m not coping. I need to get my head together. Give me an hour and come get me. Watch the fire.”

  He had the other shoe on and her brain was still on slow motion, what fire? Her tongue was chalk. She managed to shape the words, “Are you okay?”

  “I just stripped in front of you. I think we can agree I’m not okay.” He stood now, both runners on. He stepped in front of her. “I’m sorry. But you should’ve gone home from Tumut.”

  “What fire?”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “What fire?”

  He held his hand out.

  “We’re still doing this?”

  “You’re scared of something other than me. You tell me.”

  “It’s in the car.”

  She pushed off the table, thinking he’d step back. He didn’t. She was between him and the solid frame of the picnic set. He caught her arms and held her. “I’m sorry. You go home first thing tomorrow.”

  She put her hands to his chest, over the bar of the cross and pushed him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He was rock still. Both their heads dropped, both their eyes went to where their bodies touched. Caitlyn held her breath. Fetch gave way, shifting back a little so her hands lifted from him. They came away alive, electric with the feel of hot skin. She stepped around him and went to the car, the thudding of her heart surely as fast, faster, than the cars speeding past.

  He followed. He took her phone, fished his own from the back seat and turned away. He sent a text, something quick, and then tossed both phones into the drum. She should’ve expected the fire, felt stupid about how shocked she was when he set the drum alight. He had a look of satisfaction on his face as he watched it take. Whatever he was burning was more than clothes and plastic technology. There can’t have been anything terribly offensive about a pair of jeans and a t-shirt he’d bought less than a day ago.

  He watched the fire and ponytailed his hair. She watched him, fascinated by whatever emotion was gripping him. Something between anger and pain, between loss and release.

  She was still watching him when he turned to her. “One hour. Straight down the highway.”

  He took off, his feet spr
aying the loose dirt and gravel up. He wasn’t jogging, he was sprinting. She moved to the side of the road behind him so she could test that theory. He ran like he was made of wind along the shoulder of the road, cars shooting past him in the 120km zone. It wasn’t safe; he could get run over by some idiot. Caitlyn’s instinct was to get in the car and follow him at a crawl to protect him from another vehicle ploughing him down. But he’d hate that. If he’d wanted it, he’d have asked for it. He wasn’t reticent to say what he meant, even when he knew she wouldn’t like it.

  She watched the fire in the drum. She listened to birds call lyrically, soft shifting bush sounds, and the hard whir of traffic on the highway. She went back to the picnic table and sat. She closed her eyes and thought about touching Fetch’s chest, about how seeing him strip off made her feel—like she was the one stripped naked emotionally. About how his lack of embarrassment was as much of a turn-on as the way he looked at her, as the way he was constructed: the power in his legs, the strength in his arms, the depth of his chest.

  She felt her breath quicken. She was alone, but surrounded by the sense of him. He was a liar, but he had a sense of humour. He was a thief, but he had grace. He was a criminal, but he had good manners—most of the time. He was an actor, but he wasn’t looking for an audience. A manipulator, but he was happy to admit it. There was a kind of bastard honour about him. For a crook he was too moral, for a cop he was too sly.

  He was the most untrustworthy man she’d ever met. But she was beginning to trust him completely.

  Unlike Justin, he wasn’t going to lead her on and break her heart. Unlike Justin, whatever Fetch was going to do, surprising as it might be, he’d do with ruthless efficiency. It’d be over and done with, a breathless brutality that’d knock her sideways so quick she’d rattle, and leave her no alternative but to stare at the truth of it.

  Wasn’t that better? Better than the slow worm of deceit, the insidious drip of uncertainty and the cloaking, choking blind of illusions built with compliance and stolen away by stealth one tiny confidence at a time.

  Justin’s treachery was the deeply practised kind, layered with nuance, built with time and care. He nurtured collaboration. He fostered collusion. He made the thing a shared desire. He’d turned the mirror back on her so she’d tricked herself; became her own victim.