“You coming with me, or making your own way?”
Shaking my head, I made my way slowly up the stairs on the bus, my legs grumbling at the effort. At twenty-nine, I wasn’t old by any stretch of the imagination, at least not for someone who didn’t do what I did for a living. A four-day hike in a dense jungle with a forty-kilo pack tended to make you feel a lot older than you should.
“Nah mate, I gotta a few things I want to do around the house first. Plus, I want to ride my bike back home, enjoy the cooler weather.”
Bastian snorted at me, “Fuck me, Tank, you are the only one other than Creed that doesn’t give a shit how cold or wet it is when you ride. You won’t find me taking my old girl out in anything but over thirty degrees.”
“That’s because you are a pussy and just a pretend biker, you shame the man that gave you life,” I taunted back at him, enjoying the banter and camaraderie Bastian and I shared, even though he insisted on calling me Tank. Eight fucking years and the bloody idiotic name still haunted me.
“Says the man who pierced his ear with a diamond stud.”
“It was a fucking dare, and it ain’t a diamond fucker.” My fingers went to the small silver stud in my left ear and grimaced at its presence there. I had one quirk, well more like a slight issue really, I didn’t like to lose a dare. If someone dared me, I needed to prove myself, no matter the stipulation. Which is why I had the highest nude streaking score on the base, and why I had a tattoo of a tank on my left pectoral muscle, had my ear pierced as well as my cock. However, that particular piercing didn’t last too long. Getting an apadravya at the end of your dick might be good for the ladies, but for me? Pissing with the bloody thing annoyed the crap out of me. And after it got caught one time too many in my underwear, I took it out but never told a soul. I couldn’t have them thinking I was a wuss, I went through the pain of getting it so in my mind I won.
Never ever dare Gabriel Booth, because I didn’t lose. Ever.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEVON
I slapped my hand on the bedside table trying to stop the noise coming from my alarm. God damn, it felt like I only just got to sleep not more than an hour ago and now I had to get up.
Hmmm sleep, I miss sleep.
I was lucky if I got three hours a night, and even luckier if I stayed in bed even if all I did was toss and turn. Most nights I had to get up and have a shower then roam the house until tiredness crept back into my body and it had no other choice but to collapse from sheer exhaustion. Groaning at the unfairness of another sleepless night, I tossed the blanket off and forced myself to the side of the bed into a sitting position. Flicking the lamp on, the first thing that came into view was the photograph of my mother.
“Hey mumma, you know if you have any pull up there it would be nice if you could manage to grace me with a few more hours of dreamless, uninterrupted shut-eye… just saying,” I said aloud to the frame photo. “No? Ah, well, such is life,” I said, as I did every morning. Getting a response from my question would be a miracle considering my mother died when I was only five in a car accident. That accident triggered a chain of events no one ever saw coming, my dad and brothers nor me. We all had been affected by the death of our mum and wife, all for different reasons. My dad lost the love of his life, the mother of his four children, it also nearly took the life of his youngest child and only daughter, me.
I had been with mum that day when an out of control semi-trailer crossed a medium strip and ploughed into the small carpark my mum had stopped in to help me fix my seatbelt. Our small car had been hit directly in the centre-pillar and pushed for a hundred metres, collecting other cars as we hurdled into them stuck to the truck’s large bumper.
My mum, who had taken off her belt and climbed over the centre console to help me had no chance of survival. One of my most horrific memories was of her lifeless body getting torn and twisted in the wreckage of our car. The final nail in my nightmare coffin was when I saw my mother’s head get decapitated by the twisted and razor-sharp metal of the car’s torn roof. I could still feel her blood spurting all over my face and in my mouth as I screamed. Which explained why I showered at ungodly hours after a nightmare.
The accident was also the reason the family was hit with another bombshell. I had not been seriously hurt in the crash, not critically anyway, but I did break an arm and had a multitude of cuts and deep gashes. The doctors at the hospital ordered the appropriate tests and scans which led to them discovering I had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, or ALL, which was much less of a mouthful but still didn’t diminish the seriousness of childhood leukemia nor the devastation it had on my family.
The impact of having ALL at the same time we buried my mother, went through chemo as well as mourning the loss of the woman who was irreplaceable, was enormous. A five-year-old had a hard time understanding why Big Bird was mad at Mr Snuffleufagus, but understanding she was sick and had to spend weeks on end in the hospital being stuck with needles, without her beloved mum holding her hand the entire time it changed my childhood forever. Gone were the nail polish parties and the trips to the park, replaced with hospital stays and a father who was drowning in his grief all while trying to be the sole parent to three active boys and a sick daughter.
The brother closest to me in age was Kyle, when I came along Kyle was already eight years old, Andrew was next at thirteen, and the oldest Mitchell, sixteen. Why my parents spaced out the birth of their children the way they did, whether it was a conscious decision or not, I don’t know but I personally believed they did it to make my life miserable.
Having three older brothers picking on me and tormenting me as a healthy kid was unbearable, having cancer with three older brothers and no mum to control them had been completely intolerable. Fast forward the three years it took for me to be cancer-free at eight, to age twelve, when a second bout of leukemia struck, and I went through a more aggressive round of treatment that lasted longer than the first. It was then I decided that my parents had my brothers long before me as punishment. Somehow, they looked into the future, foresaw my gender and punished me for it, they also added to my misery by giving me a completely weird name. I mean Devon, come on people! Kyle, Andrew and Mitchell were totally normal, boring names, being named after a cheap lunch meat was just plain mean.
Giving my mother a mock glare, I pulled myself out of my morbid musings and headed for my bathroom. One good thing about being the only female in the house was the adjourning bathroom just for me and only me. As I got older, I realised being a girl didn’t just give me a life sentence of older over-protective brothers, it also came with superpowers. Such as, discovering that males run screaming in horror when they came across a random tampon sitting on the basin. Or leaving a training bra hanging innocently on a towel rack could make them sweat and not in a good way. Once I discovered this power, I set about harnessing it to use it to make life a bit easier for little ole’ me.
One extension later and I had my own wing, entry door, kitchenette and a small lounge-room.
Now I could see this in a bad light, admit that they were never going to let me leave home even at the age of twenty-three… or I could take the small victory and say suck on that, I chose the latter. Because let’s face it, moving out of home despite my adult status was going to be a herculean miracle. Mitchell moved out years ago, was married and had two kids, Andrew lived in Geelong, twenty-eight point one kilometres away, during the week and only came home every other weekend. He lived with his girlfriend of nine years and even though they had a kid they still weren’t married. Carrie hated me, saw me as the reason she was yet to get a rock on her finger and hated the weekends she and their child had to come back here to stay for two days. Kyle, however did still live at home, and it was just he and I most of the week, my father worked on an oil rig in the Bass Strait on a twenty day on seven day off roster. Hence, Andrew coming home every other weekend so Kyle got some R and R from babysitting me, life was a lot easier with just one brother around to torture me
.
Thank the lord Mitchell lived on the other side of Melbourne and didn’t make it home more than once a month now. His job as an executive, in a suit and tie wearing job, made it hard. Okay, so I didn’t understand exactly what he did for a living, and honestly, I didn’t care, but in a very loving sisterly way of course. His absence because of distance didn’t stop the constant phone calls and check-in texts I received during each and every day.
‘How are your energy levels, are you eating enough protein, have you had any nose bleeds?’… blah and so forth. I mean give me a break already, so far in my life I had survived a fatal collision and beat cancer’s arse twice! Surely, I could manage to feed myself without unnecessary reminders? Stewing over my sudden angry mood brought on by my brothers, I indulged in a longer shower than usual which meant I was going to have to skip breakfast in order to make it to work on time giving me another reason for me to be angry at the three baboons. I loathed to admit that sometimes they were right, not that I needed a constant babysitter because I didn’t, but in their defence their worries weren’t completely unfounded.
I was on the forgetful side, some doctors referred to chemo brain as an explanation for my lapse in memory, I was small in stature due to the chemo and radiation therapies at such a young age and I was a bit of a ditz. While the doctors said that had nothing to do with my cancer or treatment I preferred to think they were misinformed. So, I went off on rants, completely forgetting what point I was supposed to be making, and sometimes I lost all sense of direction and time when I went for my runs. And so, what if I talked to strangers, made friends with them and on occasion brought one home and cooked for them. It was called being friendly, geez, where was the crime in that I ask you?
Hurrying through drying my short black hair, I rushed back into my room and pulled on a pair of yoga pants and tank then shoved myself into my favourite book themed hoodie. My, ‘It’s a Devon thing, you wouldn’t understand’, hoodie was my latest and greatest purchase from the internet. I had a thing for having my name printed on my clothes, which in itself was strange because I did not like my name, at all. I ran my fingers through my hair, making the ends stand up just enough to make it look like it was deliberate and I had some sense of style, took a second to brush my face with a little mineral glow powder, slashed on some pink lip gloss and headed out of my room. Hopping on one foot, I shoved the other one into my pink and white sneaker then did the same dance for the other until I finally reached the entrance of my little sanctuary dressed and ready for the day.
Now I was ready for my job, it wasn’t a real job, not in the true sense of the word. Basically, I walked dogs for money and not really all that much to be truthful.
See the truck driver that caused the accident that killed my mum had been high on drugs to keep him awake, unfortunately, it was just before he veered off the road and crashed into us his high suddenly came to a halt, and he fell asleep at the wheel. And while he was sent to prison for his part in the accident, his employer, a high profile and very large chain of transport vehicles all over Australia, took it upon himself to make sure my family was looked after financially. He also changed the procedures within the company on how the drivers logged in their hours on the road. Implementing a new digital log book and technology in the engine itself so no funny business could go on. He felt bad for my father, losing his wife and finding out his daughter had cancer all at the same time, the bank account he opened for me came in very handy during my chemo and radiation treatments, it also came in handy because as I got older no one in the small oceanside town would hire me.
All they saw on my resume was the word cancer and they immediately saw work-care and health insurance claims. I even made out a new one without any reference to my childhood illness but that got me nowhere because everyone knew me, as for the new business owners who didn’t, a local clued them in fast.
I didn’t want to sit at home and do nothing all day, the money given to me and my family had been more than ample to allow me to do that. But having cancer most of my childhood, being in hospital for weeks and sometimes months at a time, I missed out on schoolyard fun with friends, and didn’t get to experience little things like when the popular boy makes eyes at me. I missed out on way too much and wasn’t about to sit behind a door wrapped in a bubble instead of living. So, one day I went for a walk to contemplate my dilemma, on the way on that walk I came across old Mrs Walter struggling with her oversized poodle. One conversation with her and the next day I became Fifi’s official walking partner. Not long after that, another dog joined the crew, then another, then another until I had seven permanent doggy clients.
Oh, the pay wasn’t much, in fact one lady paid me with flowers from her garden and another passed on her out-of-date women’s magazines, but I didn’t really care about the money. Feeling needed and able meant so much more to me than the dollar value, it kind of validated my usefulness in the world. Participating in it instead of being a burden.
Pushing open the back gate, I skipped over the old railway sleepers still left buried in the earth even though the rail line had been closed decades ago, and knew when to avoid the holes where people had removed the old wooden rails to use in their gardens. In some places it might be classed as stealing, here in Queenscliff it was seen as recycling.
It took me an hour to collect the three dogs on the walking list today, it should have taken less than fifteen but the pet owners liked to chat about everything from their roses to the painful bunions on the bottom of their feet, no matter the subject I enjoyed my time with the elderly and it didn’t hurt that they all had known my mum. Sometimes, the favourite part of my day was sitting in a loungeroom filled with outdated floral furniture surrounded by the odour of mothballs and animal hair chatting about my mum.
Today’s walking was going to be a breeze, three small dogs eager to get outside and walk faster than the pace of a snail. Deciding to let the dogs have a treat I headed for Swan Island, a small island which was just a few kilometres from the main street of town, a nice walk down to the ocean and the bridge that connected the main land to the island.
As I crossed further over the bridge, I tightened my hold on the leashes, winding them another couple of loops around my hands. Swan Island wasn’t as exciting for the locals as it was for the tourists. It boasted a smorgasbord of accommodation, and the bird and nature nuts had an even better time with the vegetation with it offering a sanctuary to a plethora of wildlife hence, why the dogs had to be firmly in my control. Technically speaking I shouldn’t take them on the island, but the business owners and the council knew me and knew I was only there to enjoy the walk and I would never let the dogs roam free.
The island also had a huge military base at the end, the road that led down there only allowed access with a government approved pass, and while I had no intention of going in, that way was quiet and free of sightseers, so that was my destination.
Shaking my head vigorously enough to dislodge the hood of my jumper off my head, I sighed when the cool sea wind blew through my short hair.
“What do you reckon fellas, isn’t this the most beautiful place in the whole world,” I shouted to the dogs so that they could hear me over the strong wind. Yeah, so they couldn’t understand me, yeah, if they could, they probably wouldn’t be as impressed as I… but these dogs were a lot better alternative than chatting with my brothers.
Suddenly, the dogs started barking, the smaller fox terrier, unimaginatively named Foxy growled darkly, his hair standing high down the ridge of his short body.
“Hey there boys, what has your ganders up? Not another rabbit, I hope,” I said, shaking my head.
“I think they are growling at me.” A deep voice rumbled from the top of the sandy slope to my left causing me to let out a squeal. The slope wasn’t that high, but the man standing on top of it was a giant. He was also the best-looking man in the universe… no the galaxy! My eyes stayed riveted on his large muscled body as he made his way down the sandy dune, his feet
never faulted once. Hell, had it been me I would have rolled down the blasted thing but not the hunk. Everything about him was big, from the black boots on his feet, to the thick muscled thighs encased in tight denim, all the way up to his…
“Are you checking me out Pixie?” the hunk in denim asked me with amusement. Suddenly, standing in front of me, and right in front of me at eye level, was a solid wall of dark-green tight t-shirt covered muscle.
My god he was tall! My face was literally level with his pectoral muscles, two hard mounds of — did he call me pixie? Normally I hated when people commented on my lack of height, but this delicious man could call me whatever he wanted.
My mouth dried, my lips too. Slowly looking up, then up some more until the face of a Greek Adonis came into view.
A strong chin, sharp cheekbones, straight nose and the prettiest grey eyes were staring right back at me.
“God, you’re pretty,” I blurted, without any control what so ever.
Oh well done, Devon, bloody marvellous.
CHAPTER FIVE
GABRIEL
I came to the sand dune to ponder my decision not to go back to Ballarat with Bastian. I gave him some cock and bull story about some errands and shit, and I did have things that needed doing but they could have waited. Truth was, the last mission had kicked my arse, more mentally than physically. I craved the toll on my body, whether it be trekking through the jungle, or ploughing a path over rocky terrain in the desert. Dealing with the paper pushers and the idiots sitting in an office a continent away, making the decisions how, when, and why my team worked pissed me off.
I had respect for my fellow soldiers, the guys in the trenches next to me, dodging the bullets right there with me. What I didn’t have time for was the brass who had never stepped foot on a battlefield, or held a gun anywhere other than the target range. They were the ones that decided when we went in, the politics of an operation where politics had no business. Shooting another human being took more thought than how it would look on the front page of the next day’s paper. Worrying about if our country had a trade agreement and useless shit like that.
Gabriel (The Wounded Sons Book 1) Page 3
