Arrogant Aussie

by Masen, Kat

  But he promised me nothing’s going on.

  And I choose to believe him.

  Lying there, beside him, knowing how much he’s wanting to take it further but respected my boundaries makes me crave him even more.

  Oliver understands me, and I don’t have to play the good girl around him. He knows me better than anyone else, a realization which terrifies me.

  I desperately wanted to climb into bed with him last night, feel his masculine touch all over my tense body. Yet, that guilt, the one which halts my every move, the one that consumes my conscience, can only give him so much.

  It isn’t what he wants. I’m certain he wants to fuck me into oblivion.

  But perhaps, what I gave him was more than I have ever given anyone else. The intimacy we shared, the private moment behind closed doors, it was an act many people, including myself, had somewhat felt ashamed of baring to another person.

  It didn’t take me long—my body reacting to the movements he made in his bed. I pictured his beautiful hand wrapped around his cock, each stroke, and finally an orgasmic explosion.

  In the light of day, the weight of my actions is standing right in front of me dressed in a pair of denim shorts, a Yankees cap, and a white Adidas tee. How can he look so irresistible, yet so casual at the same time?

  Oliver hasn’t said a word, nor treated me any differently. It’s as if last night never happened, and I don’t know how I felt about that.

  Before we step into the car, I ask him to stop.

  “About last night—”

  “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “We don’t?”

  “Nope. Secret’s safe with me.” He winked.

  It’s as if he has climbed into my mind, read my thoughts, taken notes, and done everything right given the unusual and complicated circumstances. Maybe he can read minds? I examine his face—it doesn’t alter nor appear any different.

  You’re ridiculous. Read minds? He’s not Edward Cullen for Christ’s sake.

  I thank him with a smile, hopping into the car while buckling my seat belt to start the next leg of our journey.

  Oliver spent the morning checking the car to make sure everything was up to standard, confident we wouldn’t encounter any problems on our final leg of the journey. The town mechanic suggested keeping a close eye on it.

  We drive for a few hours, admiring the scenic view of the mountains, talking about movies, a little bit about sports, which mind you, I have no interest in whatsoever. I often bring up David Beckham—the only thing I know about soccer thanks to his incredibly good looks. Oliver rolls his eyes, quick to point out that my obsession was borderline creepy, and that he’s old enough to be my dad, to which I argued.

  It became a pattern of ours—talk, laugh about what we are conversing in, argue because we don’t agree on something followed by dead silence.

  Right now—you could drop a pin on the floor and hear it crash landing.

  All over what drink is better—Pepsi or Coke.

  Stupid. Everyone knows it’s Coke.

  Our silence continues until we hit the state of Utah. The southern part of Utah is a land of unsurpassed, surprising beauty. It’s characterized by contrasting landscapes of snow-capped mountains, orange sandstone cut by erosion into bridges, arches, and strange sculpted red rock. I relax into the seat, staring out the passenger window and taking it all in.

  “Welcome to Utah,” he mouths.

  “You want to stop? You know, check out some sites?”

  “Are you avoiding going home?” Oliver turns his head to wait for my response, then quickly back to the road.

  I am a prisoner out on parole, an ankle bracelet strapped to my leg, and going near the prison is causing the bad nightmares to return. The anxiety begins to cripple me. I don’t know why or how this has chosen to consume me at this very moment.

  “Gabs? Are you okay? You look… pale.”

  I shake my head, the air restricting in my throat making it impossible to breathe. Oliver pulls over, and I hear the gravel crunching beneath the tires. As soon as the car stops, he leans over, placing his hand on my shoulder and massaging it with ease. I close my eyes, wishing this life, my life, could be different.

  “I’m confused,” I whisper, my voice croaking. “I don’t know any different, Oliver. I was raised in a world of power and money. Women don’t make their own fortune. They bank on their husbands and become trophy wives.” I stare directly ahead of us, nothing but open road, open desert, and endless possibilities.

  “You… you are different to them,” I stutter, rubbing my hands against my thighs.

  “Them?”

  “My father, Sebastian…” I trail off. “You make me feel worthy like I’m worth something.”

  Oliver’s hand graces my cheek, a gentle caress against my heated skin. The simple touch prompts me to close my eyes. How can this be? In simply one move, a gesture of kindness, and he has calmed my world and reined in all focus on him.

  “Look at me,” he begs.

  I turn to face him, opening my eyes painfully slow. His eyes are boring into me, reaching inside every part of me, igniting a flame once dwindled. My breathing slows to a regular pace, certainly enough, so my skin begins to cool, and I’m able to focus on his beautiful face.

  “You are worth everything. And any guy lucky enough to call you his, should worship the ground you walk on. You get me? Don’t feel anything less than that.”

  I want Oliver to worship the ground I walk on. I desperately want him to tell me to turn back around, get far away from here, and make a life on our own. Drive back to our oasis, Hermosa Beach, where life is simple without the pressure of anything else.

  “Why do you have to say the most perfect things sometimes, you’re annoying that way,” I whisper, lowering my head.

  “Because I want to get you into bed, so it seems like the easiest way to do it.”

  I slap his shoulder, and he grabs my hand, kissing the side of it. “I’m serious about you being worth it, Gabriella. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, you fight hard for what you want. You don’t accept the first roadblock. There are always hurdles, the universe is fucked that way. But never underestimate the power of your own self-worth.”

  “Thank you,” I mouth, resting my face in his palm. “And about the bed thing? You don’t have to butter me up, I’m already as buttered as you can get.”

  Oliver laughs, turning the engine on. “I’ve unleashed the dirty beast within you.”

  “Oh…” I grin. “This could get worse, but you need to drive, and I need to sit here so nothing good can come from dirty talk.”

  “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

  I nod, enjoying the thought of Oliver suffering just as much as me. “I believe you’re in a state of discomfort.”

  “Sweetheart, discomfort is an understatement. Our foreplay session which has been going on for two weeks now, has turned my blue balls black.”

  As the car begins to drive, I can’t help but want to ask the question, the curiosity killing me.

  “So, you haven’t been with anyone else since the night we first met?”

  Oliver shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Is this the longest you’ve gone without…” I trail off, unable to say the word etched into my curiosity.

  He nods his head, still not saying anything.

  “Have I tamed the manwhore inside of you?”

  “You’ve done something… that’s for sure.”

  I sit back in my chair with a satisfied smile on my face. A stream of songs comes on, but I’m lost in oblivion, my mind wandering to the possibility of us. How different life would be. We would live in Hermosa Beach, enjoy endless days of being with each other. But then, like a cold splash of water, the reality would be vastly different. Oliver wants his soccer career back, which means that if it is a possibility, he would be on the first plane back
to Australia.

  A million miles from here.

  And I have my own battles.

  No money, no job, no roof over my head.

  My father controls every aspect of my life.

  And leaving his control would leave me with nothing.

  I instruct Oliver to keep driving. No matter where we stop or visit, I won’t be unable to avoid the reality of coming home.

  We turn around the bend and drive down the treelined street. Each tree that passes causes my stomach to flip, the ill-feeling catching in my throat as my skin begins to crawl with heat. Every feeling which consumes me when I lived here comes back like a giant wrecking ball. The freedom of my own choices vanishes at the sight of the large dark-brick home appearing on my left.

  Oliver slows down, stopping in front of the tall iron gates with the initials E.C. The home had belonged to my great-great-grandfather, Elias Carmichael, and he passed it on through the generations. My father, despite his controlling behavior, couldn’t control the one thing he desperately wanted—a son to call his own who would carry the name.

  “It’s a beautiful property,” Oliver says.

  “It looks like a jail.”

  I remember staring out of my bedroom window as a young child, oblivious to the world I would grow up in. I’d spend countless hours gazing at the luscious green lawns, perfectly manicured thanks to our team of gardeners and my mother’s obsession with maintaining this property. I thought it was all beautiful.

  I would look at the sky, see the purity of the untouched clouds, dream about things that made me happy. But then, I grew older and wiser. I began to see my father for who he was—a dictator, a man possessed by image and wealth, and my mother followed his trail and mimicked his footsteps.

  “So when do I get to meet the family?”

  I turn to face him, torn between the need to go inside and tell my father I’m done with his hold over me, or just running away and forgetting this life exists.

  “I can’t… I can’t…” I blurt, panicked.

  Oliver rests his hand on mine. “I was just kidding. I’d probably need to get you in bed first and see if you’re worth the hassle.”

  A smile escapes, and a bit of tension releases. “I don’t think I can go in there.”

  “Then don’t. No one’s holding a gun to your head.”

  “Then where do I go?”

  Oliver starts the engine, throwing the car into reverse. “We can pull a Thelma and Louise right now. The world is our oyster, baby.”

  My stomach erupts into laughter, the very thought of Oliver dressed as Louise has me in stitches.

  “Do I want to know how you’ve even seen that movie?” I laugh.

  “A mother obsessed with Susan Sarandon, a father infatuated with Geena Davis, and two sisters. That’s how.”

  “I might be a drama queen at times, but by all measures, we can take it down a notch. How about we go somewhere? There’s something I would love to show you.”

  He smiles, running his thumb against my bottom lip. “Lead the way, Gabs.”

  Oliver

  We stand in the long dreary corridor staring at the large monument carved in gold.

  The statue resembles a child, a wide smile etched into its face. As I lower my head, I read the inscription on the plaque. It references the opening of the children’s cancer wing inside the hospital we’re standing in.

  “Your name,” I say, continuing to read while processing my thoughts. “You opened this wing?”

  Gabriella runs her hands along the foot of the statue, silently, with a reflective smile. There’s an aura surrounding her. She appears at ease with her thoughts unlike the usually troubled woman I have grown accustomed to.

  “The last three years, straight out of college, I began working on foundations and charities with my mother.” Her expression alters between a graceful smile to one of sadness. “My mother does it to make herself look good. She couldn’t care less about the goodwill and charitable cause. Everything with her is about upholding the Carmichael name.”

  “She sounds splendid,” I sneer.

  “About two years ago, one of the heart surgeons who often donated sizable amounts of money for our events had a son. He was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of five. Dr. Chan and his family were always contributing, and I felt helpless, wanting desperately to help them because time was of the essence. So, I put together the biggest charity ball in the county, called every associate of my father’s to attend and donate. We raised enough money to open this wing, make it as comfortable for children and their families while they went through chemotherapy.”

  I’m shocked, unable to put words together to express how amazing this woman is for bringing this all to life to help families in need. During our time together, she never once mentioned in detail what she did back home, almost as if she purposely kept it a secret due to being ashamed. Far from reality. She should be fucking shouting this from the rooftops.

  “You did this? Opened the wing… this hospital wing?”

  “Yes, I mean, not my money, but yes. It was a hard year and a lot of work, but the reward outweighs it.”

  “And the little boy?”

  Her smile quickly fades, the corner of her eyes blinking as she clears her throat. “He didn’t make it.”

  We both stand quietly, unable to piece a sentence together to lift the sadness away from this moment. Life is unfair and has a cruel way of stripping people of their souls. I’ve been fortunate in life never to have lost anyone close to me.

  “My father calls these parties frivolous. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough. Before college, I considered studying medicine, but I deemed it rather pointless since he wouldn’t entertain a daughter not marrying and settling into his chosen life for us.”

  I felt myself flinch. The mention of her controlling father still strikes a chord. I love Pa, but if he’d have ever told me not to play soccer, I would never have listened. But that’s the difference between Pa and her father, Pa would never have asked me to do something I didn’t want to do.

  “Oliver?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know,” I tell her, though part of me knows she isn’t strong enough yet. It will take some miracle for her to grow a backbone, and time is quickly running out.

  I sensed her need to be alone, to figure herself out through this mess she calls her life. It’s what I need to do when I am confused. Solitude for clarity always helps me gain perspective.

  “I need to do this.”

  “You do, but you know that.”

  She takes a deep breath, smiling as she strokes the plaque. “Oliver?”

  “Hmmm…”

  “I want to be there with you tomorrow if you’ll let me.”

  A part of me begins to shut down, the raw emotion of tomorrow’s reality crashing into me hard and fast. I can’t talk about it or let my thoughts fester in front of her.

  “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy.”

  “Oh... okay.”

  “Listen, we should go. I’ll call you when I’m done tomorrow, anyway.”

  She nods, turning away from me.

  Damn! I’ve hurt her. She wants to be there with me. Yet, I’m not ready. Tomorrow is make or break, and if it turns out to be break, I won’t be ready for her to see me crumble into nothing.

  We walk back toward the Jeep, and without a word, she grabs her bag and tells me she’ll catch a taxi.

  I don’t stop her nor say goodbye.

  I am sitting in some bar not far from the hotel, drowning my sorrows with bourbon and Coke. It’s the closest one—the proximity within short walking distance. It’s not anything fun, a bit classy, but still served the goods I need to ease the nervous tension building inside of me.

  The girl at the bar, blonde with the longest legs I’ve seen in a while, begins to chat me up. She leans in close, plays with her hair, and
runs her finger along her lips way too many times. She’s keen. I could have her, which I contemplate but shut it down.

  Gabriella has spoiled me for anyone else.

  And I loathed her for that.

  A rowdy bunch of men steps in, demanding the waitress to serve them. They’re dressed in designer suits—arrogant looking fuckers. The kind who belong on Wall Street snorting crack off hookers’ arseholes.

  “C’mon, Gemma, serve us a round, and maybe I’ll give you some like last week.”

  The dude bumps into me, not apologizing. Fucking bastard. He’s an inch or so shorter than me. Dark hair slicked to the side like a fucking pussy.

  “You might want to watch where you’re going, mate.”

  He’s taken aback, cocks his head with widened eyes.

  His friends—the bunch of dickheads—snicker behind him.

  “You’re not from around here,” he notes with dark amusement. “Lost, are we? Missing your kangaroo?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “C’mon, Sebastian, leave the guy alone.”

  The name struck a chord. Prince Charming. Anger boils deep in my system as hot as lava. It churns within, hungry for destruction, and I know it’s too much for me to handle. The pressure of this raging sea of anger will force me to say things I do not mean or to express thoughts I’ve suppressed for weeks.

  Is this him?

  The guy Gabriella is forced to marry.

  The guy she will spend the rest of her life with if her father has his way. The man who will implant his seed and give her a family for all the wrong reasons.

  “Sebastian… I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, a friend of mine. Good friend. Actually, mentioned it as the guy she won’t commit to.”

  I watch as the whites in his eyes turned a pure black as his iris glower teal. His lethal stare warns me to stay on guard, his clock is ticking, and my time may run out.

  The guys behind me, they rile him up.