by Teagan Kade
I bite my lip, containing myself. “I can handle it. I’ve surfed Pipeline, J-Bay…”
He laughs again, louder this time. “You think Shipstern’s anything like Pipe? Shipstern’s a fucking mutant of a wave, a destroyer of worlds, and you were out there in a baby swell. We would have been picking up pieces of you if was really working.”
“I thought I left smug arrogant assholes like you back in the States, but I guess you really are ubiquitous, aren’t you?”
He relaxes, leans back in his chair. “Curious way to say thank you.”
“I am going back out there. I am going to conquer that wave.”
“No one conquers a wave, Hollywood. You can respect the ocean, ride it, but you cannot fucking conquer it.”
I stand, the chair sliding back with a screech. “We’ll see about that.”
“You can ride me if you want,” comes an Irish accent from the table beside us, a snigger following.
I turn to see a small group of men, probably backpackers. “What do you say?” the one in the middle continues, “or do you need to ask your boyfriend first?”
I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.
Deacon’s over there in a second flat, the smartass still in his chair on the floor, Deacon’s arm up hard under his chin. One of the others goes to grab Deacon around the neck, but Deacon thrusts his boot out and hits him in the chest. The guy goes down, another lifting his bottle ready to smash it into Deacon’s head, but Razor gets to him first, a powerful right hook connecting with his jaw.
It’s chaos. The brothers and the backpackers go sprawling across the room. I see one of the backpackers literally fly into an old pinball machine, the glass breaking under his back.
“Hey!” calls the bartender.
A bottle smashes by my feet.
I get under the table on my knees, breathing hard.
In all the chaos what strikes me most is the way Deacon is going to town on the guy who made the wise crack in the first place. He’s smashing his head left and right, the guy’s collar fisted up in his hand, the other swinging into his face. Thud. Thud. Thud.
He’s going to kill him.
I run over there, dodging another bottle.
I reach down and try to pull Deacon away.
He spins, fist raised and eyes wild, but he lowers his hand when he sees it’s me, lets the guy he was working on slump groaning to the floor, his face a mess of blood.
“What the farkin’ hell is going on here?”
Everyone looks to the doorway. A man stands there in blue shirt and black pants, a man I’m assuming is a local police officer.
Deacon stands, his brothers flanking him. The backpackers are dotted around the room in various states of disrepair.
Deacon puts his hands out. “Sergeant Wilson. Nice to see you.”
Sergeant Wilson looks to the bartender, the woman who looks like she was brought up on a breakfast of shrapnel and broken dreams, the tattoos on her arms worn and weary. She’s solid, too, the kind of lady you wouldn’t want to mess with, and I don’t intend to start.
“Sarah?” the sergeant calls to her.
Sarah shrugs. “I don’t know, Bill. I didn’t see who started it.”
The sergeant looks around. “Why is it wherever you guys show up somewhere it turns into a shitstorm? You can’t help but cause trouble, can you? Who’s going to pay for all this?”
Deacon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a clip of cash, thumbing out bills onto the closest table. He looks to the bartender. “Will two-grand cover it, Sarah?”
She nods, arms crossed. “Should do.”
The sergeant steps over one of the backpackers and takes Deacon by the shoulder, spinning him around and pulling out his cuffs. “Don’t know why you fuckers even hang around.”
No one seems to complain or act surprised. It’s like this happens every night.
Cuffed, the sergeant walks Deacon to the doors, speaking into the receiver by his collar.
Razor waves. “Seen you soon, bro.”
Deacon turns to me as he walks by, expression dark. I’m starting to think he doesn’t know how to smile, how to even get his face to switch to anything other than ‘maximum brood’.
Razor and Bo walk out in turn, Razor kicking one of the backpackers in the ribs on his way out. He winks at me. “See you back home, Hollywood.”
With the brothers gone, it’s just the bartender and I.
She picks up a glass and shakes her head. “What a fucking mess.”
I step over glass. “Does this happen often?”
She clears the bar with an arm. “More than I’d like, but they pay up plenty every time—enough to keep the place running. Can’t say I can complain about that.”
She nods to the door. “You with them, the Hunt brothers?”
“Not exactly.”
“But you’re American too, right?”
I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leans over the bar towards me, turning a glass over and throwing a cloth over her shoulder. “Got a name?”
“Lux.”
“Want some advice, Lux?”
I smile. “Sure.”
“Stay away from those three, especially the tall one.”
She must be referring to Deacon. “Why?”
A groan follows from an unidentified backpacker.
“People don’t come here for a holiday, love. This place is thick with thieves.”
“You’re saying they’re criminals?”
She shrugs, picks up the glass and begins to clean it out. “You come here to die or you come here to hide. I used to be a prison guard, you know. Twenty years up at in Sydney at Parramatta Jail with some real nasty cookies. Your boy? Deacon? The way he fights, the shitty tats, way he watches his back—he’s done time, mark my words. Maybe they all have. Question is, how long and what for? I can guaran-bloody-tee you it wasn’t for jay-walking.”
I look back to the mess. “They seem harmless enough.”
“They’re quiet, keep to themselves, sure, but you ask me, that makes them even more dangerous. They’re trouble and in my experience you want to stay as far away from trouble as you can around here, especially a cute little get-up like yourself who probably hasn’t had her heart broken yet. Leave,” she warns, “before Finke, or the brothers, get the better of you”.
She might be right.
She puts the glass back down. “How long were you planning on staying?”
“The brothers were nice enough to put me up, actually. It would be nice to pay them, though, show my gratitude. I don’t suppose you know where I could get some work around here.”
“You done bar work before?”
“In college, yes.”
“You work hard?”
“I do.”
She looks me up and down. “I suppose I could do with a hand. I don’t imagine the local crowd would say no to the eye candy either. It would be a nice change from the ax wound of a face god gifted me with.”
I swallow. “I think you’re—”
“Shut it. I value honesty in my employees. You want to bullshit, become a politician.”
I nod. “I understand.”
She puts down the glass again and wipes the bar even though it’s now spotless. “You start tonight, help me clean up this cluster-fuck. Ten bucks an hour.”
I extend my hand. “Done.”
*
I arrive home well after midnight to find Deacon sitting at the kitchen table, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “They let you out.”
“They?” he laughs. “Sergeant Wilson’s the only policeman in town, and yes, I’m out. He can’t seem to stand me for more than a few hours. Heard you got yourself a job?”
I sit down opposite him at the table. “She’s kidding about the afternoon rush, isn’t she?.”
“She was, but she sure as shit wasn’t kidding about the ten bucks an hour.”
“How’d you know that?”
He lifts the tumbler to
his lips, the amber liquid tilting in the glass. “Word travels fast around here.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“If you’re a moron, sure.”
I stand. “You’re calling me a moron?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I lean over the table and punch him as hard as I can in the shoulder.
He doesn’t move an inch.
“I know pensioners who punch harder than that.”
I punch him again, this time in the chest. The guy’s like a rock. I sit back down and cradle my hand. “Ouch.”
He places the tumbler down. “Prepare to make that word a major part of your vocabulary, Hollywood.”
“Why?” I question.
His eyes light up. “Because tomorrow we start training for real.”
*
Another day, another date with Deacon the Terrible.
I look down into the pool. I’m not quite sure, but I think there’s a giant rock at the bottom of it. “What the hell is that?”
“Your new best friend,” he says, right before he pushes me in.
The ocean’s cold, sure, but the water in this backyard pool is beyond freezing even with a wetsuit.
I burst from the surface shivering. “You asshole!”
He jumps in beside me smiling.
I wipe water from eyes. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
The smugness covers his face completely. Do I detect the hint of a smile there? “More than I thought I would. You okay?”
A real asshole wouldn’t ask.
“Fine,” I mutter, treading water. The pool’s a lot deeper than I thought.
“You’re going to dive down there, pick up that rock and carry it to the end of the pool.”
“Underwater?”
He laughs. “You can try it on land if you like, but that fucker’s a lot heavier out of the water than in it. Trust me.”
“And what, pray tell, is the purpose of all this?”
“Once you can carry that rock from one end to the other and back again without surfacing for a breath, you’re ready for Shipstern again.”
I lift my eyebrows. “As I overheard an Aussie say, piece of piss, mate.”
I dive under and kick to the bottom, trying to pick up the rock but finding my feet floating away from me every time back to the surface. Defeated, I rise to the top.
Deacon tosses something towards me. I catch it. It’s a weight belt. “You might need this.”
I attach the belt and dive again, the belt allows me to stand on the bottom of the pool and get into a squatting position. Picking up the rock isn’t easy. It’s the size of a watermelon, though far more ugly. I cradle it and start walking, but I haven’t even made it five feet before I have to surface again to Deacon’s smug fucking face.
“Not so easy, is it, Goldilocks?”
No, damn you. I’m doing this.
I dive again, maybe make it another foot before I come up with lungs burning, arms heavy already.
Given my recent run-in with death, perhaps this isn’t the best idea, but I’m not about to let this guy get the better of me.
“Fun, isn’t it?” he taunts. “Ready for the next game?”
“Game?”
“Sure. We both go down and you try to get away from me. Simple, right?”
I look at Deacon’s muscles bulging underneath his wetsuit. Whatever he has planned, I doubt it’s going to be easy.
I drop the belt and count. “One, two, three.”
We both dive down together. Once we’re at the bottom Deacon takes hold of my arms and starts to wrestle me.
What the fuck is he doing?
We roll together. I try to pull away, but his grip doesn’t ease up. We tumble and thrash. I twist, try to gain some leverage, but he’s strong—real strong.
Almost sixty seconds in and I’m starting to panic, Deacon’s stony face giving nothing away.
Finally, he lets go and I kick to the surface. He breaks through next to me.
I splash water at him. “What the hell was that all about?”
“All the big-wave surfers use it for training to simulate what it’s like when you wipe out, being tossed and turned over and over, the wave refusing to let you go.”
“So you’re playing the wave?”
He laughs. “Baby, I’m nothing compared to the Stern—lightweight. You should know better than anyone that once you get pounded up there at the Bluff you’ve got to remain calm for maybe a whole set—three, four minutes. You surface, you get thrown down again, over and over. You’re got to be ready for it, disorientated, the world black and null, no way to work out if you’re up or down, no light. That is what this is all about.”
I take a deep breath and prepare to dive again. Fucking great.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEACON
“This one. Go!”
I watch as Lux paddles into the wave. She disappears from sight with a whoop, the blast of the barrel closing out following shortly after. That’ll teach you.
We’re at Little Stern, a small break around the corner from the Bluff and largely protected from the bigger swell. Still, it’ll bite if you don’t know what you’re doing.
I head into the wash expecting to find her flailing, but she’s already back on her board paddling to the lineup. “You okay?”
She flicks her hair back. Sexy doesn’t even begin to describe it. “Fine. Needed a good tumble.”
I watch the back, the next set coming through. I point. “The sets at Shipstern come every sixty seconds in a good swell. You’ve got to be ready, wait until the end of the set to go unless you want to be pounded by every fucking wave when you wipe out.”
She nods, sitting on her board beside me, her chest rising and falling, breasts lifting with each breath.
I see a solid right-hander loom up and turn, lying down on my board, starting to paddle. “Watch and learn.”
I paddle harder, feel the welcome pull of the wave building behind me, a mountain of water that wants nothing more than to beat me down to the bottom and never let me go. I lied to Lux. I live to conquer waves, to dominate them completely. If you can master something as mental as Shipstern, you can take on anything. Fear’s a choice, simple as that.
I drop in. It’s steep, stepped, but I pull to the trough easy and rise back up, stalling to tuck into the barrel. I get nice and deep inside it before it spits me out over the back. I land on my board and paddle back to the lineup, the smile on Lux’s face says it all. Razor’s cheering from further down the line.
I brush the water from my hair. “That is how it’s fucking done.”
I look back, spot Bo paddling in. I almost miss it at first, but when I look closer, I’m sure. The glint of light comes again from up on the ridge. I look again and I’m certain.
Someone’s watching us.
*
Lux passes by me in the kitchen smelling soapy and sudsy, floral undertones like always. It’s the kind of cock-stiffening smell I’ve been missing. I can only imagine what her pussy must be like, how it would feel to slide my finger inside her, my tongue, feel it close around me hot and wet.
She scrunches her face up at me, swiping her jacket from the table. “You alright? You look like you’re having a stroke.”
I snap out of it, straightening up and pressing myself against the cupboards. Any harder and my cock’s going to leave a fucking dent in the door. “I’ll come by at closing, walk you home.” I’m not taking any chances after what I saw down at the beach this morning.
“I don’t need a chaperone.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.”
“Fine,” she waves, “but don’t expect any free drinks”.
How about a free blowjob? “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The front door closes and Razor comes out of his room holding his boys. I swear to god his hand is permanently attached to his crotch. “That Lux?”
“Going to work, yeah.”
“Fuck, man. H
ave you seen the sawn-off Sarah keeps under the counter? That woman scares the shit out of me.”
“‘Woman’ is being a bit liberal, isn’t it?” calls Bo from the sofa.
I wipe down the bench. “There was someone watching us at Little Stern.”
Bo kneels up on the sofa, hands over the back. “What do you mean ‘watching us’?”
“I saw them up in the scrub—binoculars, maybe a scope. It was hard to tell.”
Razor sits down, lifts his shoulders. “Could have been fucking anyone, man. Maybe it was Mrs. McLoughlin down the road trying to catch a glimpse of your Loch Ness monster.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”
Razor pushes the salt shaker between his hands. “Come on, bro. You’re being paranoid. No one knows to look for us out here. We’re a million miles away.”
I’m not convinced. “Weapons check, right now.”
Razor rolls his eyes. “The Bachelorette is on in five minutes, man. It’s like the only damn show we get out here.”
“So you better be quick.”
He throws his hands up. “Fuck. Fine.”
We head to the laundry together. I push the washing machine aside and remove the false panel from the floor, pulling out the duffle bag we’ve had stashed here since we arrived. We haven’t had to use it… yet, but it doesn’t mean the day won’t come. Better to be prepared than dead.
I carefully place the bag on the floor and unzip it, pulling out each weapon and passing it up. Razor and Bo check over them in turn, examine the action and bolts, make sure they’re good to go.
It wasn’t easy to get guns over here. It’s not like the States where you can walk into Walmart and grab yourself a .22. The laws here are tight.
I take out a shotgun and snap it in half, eyeing down the barrels. “Ammo?”
Bo reaches down and stacks up the boxes. “A hundred shells, give or take, plenty for the semis.”
I take the shotgun off my shoulder and line it up out the window, the cold barrel reassuring against the side of my face. They might come, yes, but I’m ready to protect my family at all costs, even if it means my life.
I place the shotgun back into the bag, collect the other weapons and zip the duffle bag up. With the panel and washing machine in place, you’d never know they were there. I brush my hands together. “For all our sakes, let’s hope I’m wrong.”
