And then it hit me. Charlie had to be gay. There was no question about it.
Doug waltzed in and flopped down on the floor before them, belly up, begging for a scratch. Suzy couldn’t ignore my presence when so eloquently announced by my canine sidekick.
“Oh, you’re home,” she said, sitting up straighter on her perch and then thinking better of it and pressing her side against poor, sweet, playing-for-the-other-team Charlie.
I threw myself into an available armchair and took a drink.
“Surprise,” I said dryly.
“You’re late,” she told me while Charlie took a large swallow of his warm-looking beer.
“Missed me?” I asked her.
“Yes,” said Charlie as Suzy offered a huff and shake of her teased-up head of hair.
“I’ve been waiting for ages,” the she-devil said. “If it wasn’t for darling Charles here,” - She ran a hand down his arm, either ignoring his stiff posture or not registering that anyone, especially anyone male, could want to place distance between themselves and her - “I would have gone out of my head with boredom.”
“Lucky Charlie,” I said, and he grimaced.
“Lucky me,” Suzy corrected in a purr.
“I thought you had a boyfriend,” I pointed out.
She blinked at me and then smiled. “Oh, yes. That.” Then nothing.
I shook my head. Enough of this, I had my own version of slutty to put on and teasing my hair took a whole lot of effort. Mainly because I hated the look on me.
Who didn’t?
“Why are you here, Suzy?” I asked.
“I have the most wonderful news,” she announced, and for a second, I thought she was going to say she was getting married. That Detective Douche, three days into his new life in Northland, had proposed, sweeping her off her stiletto-clad feet and declaring his undying love for her.
I was getting quite carried away with the mental imagery, placing nasty little graffitied moustaches on both of their faces in my head and evil looking cupids firing fire-tipped arrows at their bodies.
Sometimes my imagination got the better of me.
“I have an offer on your house,” Suzy said making the thought-bubbles I’d just painstakingly placed above their teased-up heads of hair in my mind burst.
“You what?” I said.
Her lips pursed into a judgemental duck’s bum of distaste and she repeated, slowly, as if I were mentally retarded, “I…have…an offer…on...your house.”
“My house is not for sale.”
“Nonsense. Everything is for sale if you have the right currency.”
“Donuts?” I asked, eagerly.
“You don’t need any more donuts, Summer. Surely you can see that.”
And the she-devil strikes again.
“I could go a donut,” Charlie announced, earning brownie points. Or should that be donut points?
I smiled at him. He grinned back at me.
Gay or not, the dude was a dude.
I basked in his attention for all of a few seconds, before Suzy placed her curvaceous and not an ounce overweight butt in-between us.
“You can’t refuse,” she said.
I blinked up at her and then took a sip of my beer. I needed something stronger, but I wasn’t sure I’d reach the drinks cabinet before the devil pounced. I liked my soul exactly where it was, thank you very much.
“Not interested,” I told her.
“But you haven’t even looked at the offer.”
“My house is not for sale.”
She almost stomped her foot in despair.
“You’ll never get a better offer, Summer,” she told me. “And you can’t expect to keep this roof over your head for much longer. The place is going to fall down while you’re asleep in your bed and then where will you be?”
“Dead?” Charlie offered, looking slightly askance at the ceiling.
I narrowed my eyes at the she-demon and said, “There is nothing wrong with my house.”
It was one thing to come after me in front of my only paying guest. It was quite another to come after my Gran’s house.
A soft touch against the back of my neck let me know that Gran was watching.
She didn’t hold me back, so I stood up from the armchair and pointed the beer bottle at Suzy.
“You can take your offer and shove it…”
The course sensation of rope sliding across my neck saved Suzy, and then the damn thing wrapped around my throat; tightening.
I let out a little sound of distress and then turned on my heel and escaped before I made a spectacle of myself. By the time I made it to my bedroom, I could barely breathe, and my fingernails had left gouges in my neck where I’d tried to remove the phantom sensation of being asphyxiated.
The rope disappeared, and I sucked in breath after breath, sweat trickling down my face, plastering my hair to my neck. I sank onto my bed, my legs giving out from beneath me, and shook with absolute shock and terror. I’d never felt anything like that before. I reached up gingerly and pressed my cool palm to my hot neck. The skin stung where my nails had broken it. I could have sworn I could feel the indentation of the rope.
I scrambled across the room and looked in the mirror, but the only marks were the ones I’d made. Four precise scratches down both sides of my throat and neck.
I wasn’t sure what it meant. But it meant something. It always meant something. A feather. A kiss. A wash of water. The soft touch of the wind. It didn’t matter what I felt across the back of my neck; it meant something.
I staggered back to my bed and collapsed on it, staring at the wooden floor unseeing for long seconds.
The rope was the same sensation, but much more pronounced, as the one I’d had as I’d passed the Shimmering Sands Apartments earlier. First bedsheets and then rope. I sniffed the air. The scent of fish and salty sea greeted me. The salt could have been from the ocean somewhere outside my bedroom window. But the fish was definitely not something I’d associate with my home beside the beach.
I let out a sigh which hurt my throat as if I had been strangled recently.
A knock sounded out on my door and Charlie said through it, voice slightly muffled, “She’s gone.”
I stood up and opened the door and stared into wide eyes and dishevelled hair and a beard that was three weeks past needing a trim.
“Sorry about that,” I offered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the scratch marks on my neck in the dim hallway lighting. “Suzy brings out the worst in me.”
“She’s quite a number,” he offered, staring up at me.
Despite his vertically challenged appearance, he had a kind face and calm demeanour. His presence alone helped to soothe me.
I stepped out and shut my bedroom door. I didn’t let anyone in there; it was my sanctuary.
“You’re home early,” I said to him, leading the way back into the lounge.
“Sea’s calm. No waves,” he offered, throwing himself back on the sofa.
I stared at him as I picked up the empties and righted the cushions on the armchair.
Nothing much fazed Charlie. He’d blended into Doubtless Bay with as much aplomb as a regular. He never complained, loved my old and slightly rundown house, and even enjoyed the same beer as me. Self-righteous she-devils on the prowl for more than a commission on the sale of my property didn’t upset him for long. He’d started humming and flicking through a magazine.
I chucked the bottles in the recycling bin and stared at the offer Suzy had left behind on the kitchen bench. The third offer in as many weeks. Picking the folder up, I threw it in the rubbish unread and then turned to face Charlie and Doug.
“Wanna go out?” I asked.
Doug sat up and wagged his tail. Charlie lowered his surfing mag and stared at me.
“Where to?” he asked, incredulously. This was Doubtless Bay after all.
“The pub,” I said, trying not to wince at the type of establishment I would be escorting my guest into.
; He smiled slowly and then rolled off the couch.
“You buying?” he asked.
I couldn’t quite suppress the grimace on that one.
So much for getting the house re-plumbed after he left. But at least I wouldn’t be facing the Taipa Tavern - and Mikey Rika - without a sidekick.
Chapter 7
To See A Man About A Dog
There were several Harley Davidson motorbikes, a black panel-van, three mud splattered utes, and bizarrely a camper van in the carpark of the Taipa Tavern. The Holden fit right in. I was glad I’d insisted on Charlie driving; my Micra would have been eaten for dinner by some of this lot.
The gravel crunched under the station wagon’s wheels as Charlie negotiated a parking space out of nothing. I had visions of the bikes toppling over, one after the other, when I opened my door and accidentally knocked into the closest one.
Sucking in my stomach, I worked my way out of the car and gingerly passed the obstacle course, only breathing again when all six bikes remained standing.
“Could you have parked any closer?” I asked.
Charlie blinked at me and then said, “It was either here or next to the camper, and I don’t trust tourists.”
“You’re a tourist,” I pointed out to him.
“Only when I leave,” he replied and headed for the front door to the tavern.
Music wafted out on the warm air; the windows opened to allow a breeze through. Being two streets back from the ocean, there wasn’t much to speak of. The occasional flurry as it made its way up the estuary, but sea breezes this far back were few and far between. You were more likely to get a gust of dust-filled air from an eighteen-wheeler as it trundled over the one-lane bridge nearby.
My stomach flipped and flopped unattractively as we approached the worn wooden door that marked the no going back point. My neck remained blessedly free of sensation, but that wasn’t saying much. It wasn’t an exact science. My premonitions - for want of a better word - weren’t always present when danger was; they hadn’t warned me about Suzy when we were kids, after all.
I wasn’t sure how it worked, but only that I tended to get “feelings” when I needed them most. Absence of a feeling now only made me think the challenges we’d face inside the bar were more of the mundane variety.
As in six biker dudes taking up the front half of the tavern; their leather jackets hanging over the back of their chairs; their black ink on display under tight fitting vests; biker boots crusted in road dust propped out in front of them and taking up most of the passageway between the chairs.
A waitress spun past, carrying a tray of empties. Her shorts looked painted on, but at least she wore a flouncy blouse. The fact the blouse was see-through was irrelevant. It was the thought that counted.
A couple of forestry workers were shooting pool off to the side. Someone was singing a bad rendition of OMC’s How Bizarre up on the karaoke stand. Lights flashed, glasses chinked, the scent of tobacco and sneaky marijuana wafted in from the courtyard out back. I could smell hot chips and salsa, beer and sweat.
Charlie slapped his hands together and deftly manoeuvred through the throng toward the bar.
I managed two steps before I tripped over a biker’s boot as he shifted it to get more comfortable. A hand wrapped around my elbow and steadied me before I face-planted in the lap of the biker dude’s friend.
“Easy, honey,” a gruff voice said.
His hands were calloused and about the size of dinner plates. He had Māori tribal art decorating his beefy arms and words dripping inked blood wrapping around his neck. I couldn’t decipher them in the dim light of the tavern, but considering the patch he was wearing on his leather vest, I expected them to be gang-related.
I smiled brightly and patted myself down. I was wearing the ripped jeans, the tight-fitting singlet and little else. My PI license was in my back pocket. My gun was in the car. Carrying a firearm into a bar like the Taipa Tavern was a big no-no. And considering who was staring up at me right now, a disaster waiting to happen.
Not that Darren Rika needed a carry permit to obtain a gun.
My eyes skipped over his bearded face and landed on the words inked into his neck.
Brotherhood. Blood. Aotearoa. Power.
I didn’t need bright lights to tell me what they said. I knew exactly what Tia’s eldest brother wore tattooed on his skin. Inked into his heart.
“Darren,” I said, checking out his companions. Mikey wasn’t one of them.
“Little Summer O’Dare,” he murmured, not letting my arm and elbow go. “What brings you to the TT?”
I nodded toward the bar where Charlie was yelling out an order for the barkeep.
“My boarder wanted to get a drink.”
Darren leaned to the side slightly to stare past me; his eyes narrowed as he assessed Charlie. Thankfully, Charlie had slipped on some boots and jeans; got rid of his jandals and board shorts. But his t-shirt was still a little too beachy for the TT.
Not that my sequinned skull top was much better.
Darren looked back up at me from where he was still sprawled in a seat, his eyes running over my face, my hair, my boobs and singlet.
“Like what you’ve done to yourself, Summer,” he said, and the men sitting around the table with him chuckled.
“Is that a new tat?” I asked, nodding to a swirling design on the inside of his arm.
He turned his arm over, tensed his muscles, making them bulge, and said, “Wanna touch it?”
I loved Tia. I really did. She was a laugh a minute; no holds barred, kick-arse chickie from the North. She could hold her liquor, bodyboard like no one’s business, and make a mean espresso coffee. Don’t even get me started on her donuts.
But how my Tia Maria survived an upbringing with the Rika boys, I’d never know. I’d seen Tia in little more than a bikini. She wasn’t covered in tats. She wore her moko on the inside. Not like her brothers. Not like Darren Rika.
“Er,” I squeaked, and the table full of bearded bikers fell into raucous laughter.
Darren swatted me on the rump and said, “Go get me a beer, Summer.”
“Yeah, sure,” I managed and scurried away to where Charlie was chatting up the barman.
I slipped onto the stool beside him and picked up his beer, downing the glass in several well deserved gulps. Charlie stopped mid-sentence and watched me as the barman shook his head and poured another glass. Foam ran down the chilled sides of it, and by the time it reached the paper coaster the guy had placed it on, I had finished Charlie’s drink and was reaching for the new one.
“Something wrong, Summer?” Charlie asked carefully.
“Just need some Dutch courage,” I said and held up a finger to the barman to indicate I’d need another.
“You gotta twenty?” Charlie asked, nodding at the barman and his empty beer glass. I scowled but pulled out my wallet.
Slamming down the note, I picked up the two new glasses of beer and turned to Charlie.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said.
“And where are you going?” he demanded.
“To see a man about a dog,” I muttered and pushed off back toward Darren Rika.
Tia’s brother wouldn’t have expected me to bring him a beer. Not really. He’d been teasing me; if a gruff, biker pothead could tease a buxom, ginger woman in a place like the Taipa Tavern. But he’d offered me an in, and I was not above taking it.
Spending too much time with a Rika boy was not my idea of fun. At least it hadn’t been since high school and Mikey. Mikey wasn’t quite as rough around the edges as his big bro Darren, but what he lacked in beard and tats, he made up for in cunning. From what I’d been able to ascertain in the past, Darren Rika was the brains of the organisation, the various other Rika brothers were the muscle, and Mikey was the dogsbody.
He kept himself out of trouble with a survival instinct rivalled by none. He was a slippery sucker, though. He watched and waited, and when you thought he was nothing more than the runt o
f the litter, he slipped out from under it all and came up smelling of roses.
Mikey was the only Rika brother not to have been arrested. Exactly the way Darren liked it.
I slammed down his glass of beer and pulled a seat over, throwing myself into it as the table of bikers went uniformly silent. They’d had their heads together, no doubt discussing their next pot harvest and how much cash it would bring them. Or what tattoo would complement blood and mix well with brotherhood.
I took a large swallow of my beer, purposely letting the foam coat my upper lip and then smiled winningly at the eldest Rika brother. He stared at me for a long moment and then reached out and picked up the beer I’d placed before him. His eyes never left mine as he took an equally large swallow.
I matched him. Swallow for swallow. The gulps got bigger, the gaps between them smaller, until we both slammed down our glasses in tandem and he shouted out for another.
The barman brought over two more glasses and a crowd of people. Charlie watched with wide eyes and a paling tan, but thankfully he knew better than to step into the mess I was creating.
“Summer, Summer, Summer,” Darren said, his voice booming. “You’re playing a dangerous game, honey.”
“I like living life on the edge,” I told him.
He shook his head.
“I’m three times the size of you, Summer. There’s no way you can drink me under the table like you do Mikey.”
I smiled, feeling the foam on my upper lip begin to slip. I reached up and wiped the back of my hand over my mouth, and snatched up the new glass of beer.
“Wanna bet on that?” I asked him.
He tapped his finger against the side of his new beer glass and studied me.
“Your funeral,” he said and started drinking.
About halfway through the second glass, I knew I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Beer was filling; no joke. And even though I had curves for Africa, - I snorted at that. What, did Europe have no curves? - I wasn’t exactly the size of a mountain like Mount Rika sitting before me.
Chasing Summer Page 6
