I return my towel to the bathroom, which is now empty and void of Rocco’s clothing. After wringing out my underwear, I hang it ceremoniously over the shower rail. I have a feeling that this time Rocco won’t bite my head off over it.
****
When I walk into the kitchen, Rocco has a first-aid kit open.
“Okay, let’s patch you up,” he says and points to a stool, which I sit on. He unscrews a small bottle of Dettol and holds a cotton ball on the end, swishing the liquid onto it.
“This is gonna sting a bit,” he says, as he dabs the brown liquid against my skin.
“Ah! You’re not wrong,” I say through clenched teeth.
He’s fast, yet gentle. He squeezes a dollop of white cream onto his finger and smooths it over the wound. In next to know time, he’s tended to both knees and has patched them.
“You’re good at this,” I compliment him. You’d make a good dad. Wait, why am I thinking that?
“What? Putting on Band-Aids? I’ve had to patch up worse than this.”
With great care, he inspects my hands and gives them the same treatment, except he uses smaller Band-Aids this time. “Your hands aren’t quite as bad. I think you’ll live.”
“That’s great news, Dr De Luca,” I tease.
“Isn’t it?” He winks at me and starts packing up the kit.
“I’m sorry I can’t afford to pay your rent,” I blurt out.
He shakes his head and mumbles something I don’t quite catch. Something like ‘I know a way’? The wicked look that casts over his face is every bit cheeky, and I know what he’s thinking.
“And don’t even think about sexual favours,” I warn him, with an erect finger aimed at his face.
“Promise. I wasn’t. You’ll engage in them because you want to, not because you’re obliged to.”
“Very funny.”
“Like I said before, I don’t give a shit about rent. It’s not an issue for me. I’m just glad you weren’t seriously hurt.”
Aw, look at Rocco being all sweet. It appears he does care about someone other than himself, and he was fine about the rent problem. Money mustn’t be an issue for him.
“You and me both.”
“Can you cook?” he asks.
“Nope,” I proudly admit. “You’ve seen the extent of my culinary capabilities. Green jelly and two-minute noodles. Oh, and don’t forget popcorn. I’m a legend when it comes to microwaving that stuff.”
“Yes, you are,” he says through a deep chuckle. “What if I showed you how to cook a few things? Think you could handle it?”
The eggs he cooked the other day were incredible, but I get the feeling he’s hiding more talent in this area.
“You can cook, huh?”
“I’m not just a pretty face.”
No, you’re not.
“Why do you want to teach me?” I ask, curious to know what his angle is.
His brows bunch together and he smooths one hand across his chest. He gazes into my eyes, then turns and packs up the first-aid kit. “Because noodles aren’t my thing.”
I don’t buy it. That conflicted look he just gave me tells me there’s more to this.
I reach out and place my hand on his forearm. “Tell me why,” I say in a soft voice and stare into his dark eyes.
Rocco puts down the kit and lets out a long breath through his parted lips. “I wanna get back into cooking. I like it, okay? But there’s no point putting in the effort for just one person, and I thought …”
A grin stretches across my cheeks as I realise that he’s actually serious, and sharing something of himself.
“Wipe that smile off your face,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “You need to eat better, too.”
I nod. “You’re right. I do. Teach me about food, oh wise one, and I’ll try not to burn the place down.”
Rocco laughs and pats the top of my head. “That’d be a good start.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROCCO
“Is there something you don’t eat?” I ask her as I gather a few things from the fridge.
“I’ll eat pretty much anything. Except broad beans. I hate those. My mother used to shove them down my throat, but I never liked them.”
“Ha. Me too.”
As I slice some mushrooms, wielding my butcher-style knife as if I’m a professional chef, Soph watches me with keen interest.
“These don’t look like normal mushrooms,” she says.
“These stumpy looking ones are porcini and the flatter ones are portobello,” I say, pointing to each of them with my knife.
She nods.
The chopped vegetables sizzle when they hit the heated olive oil in the pan. I add some garlic and toss. It doesn’t take long for the aroma to fill the kitchen.
“Hmm, they smell amazing,” Suds coos.
The chopped tomatoes and chilli are chucked in next, and I scatter them with a good couple of grinds of salt and pepper. I add dried pasta to a pot of salted boiling water.
“My mamma would have had me make my own pappardelle pasta, but I’m too hungry to muck around with that tonight.”
“You’re shitting me. You can make your own pasta?”
I look at the cupboard above the fridge and point to it. “I’ve got mamma’s old pasta maker stashed up there.” Maybe one day soon I can get it out and give it a whirl. I have someone to cook for. I totally should. By the time V gets out, I’ll be cooking like mamma and I used to when I was a boy.
“How come you were all dressed up today?” I’ve been keen to ask her since she stumbled in the door.
“I was doing something I should have done a long time ago.”
“And what’s that?”
“Starting to get my shit together.”
“And how’d it go?”
“I might be put forward for a job, just had to send a reference through. With any luck, I should hear something in the next week.”
His mouth pulls into a smirk. “Good work.”
“You know I have you to thank,” she says. I’m stumped to think what I could have done.
“For what exactly?”
“Kicking my arse the other morning.”
“Yeah, right.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. I really was an arsehole to her that day. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Don’t be. I needed it.”
I drain the pasta and toss it with the vegetables. When the pasta is mixed through, I dust it with a handful of grated Parmesan cheese.
There aren’t too many words over dinner. We’re both too busy eating. I have to admit, though, it was nice to actually sit and eat with someone. And to not be getting pissed at the same time. Something about simple human contact. Not being alone. It makes me think of V, which is probably why I don’t have much to say. It also makes me wanna drink when I try and imagine his life inside … his living hell.
While I clean up the kitchen, Suds makes some calls, cancelling her cards and stuff. What a pain in the arse that’d be. Later, I turn on the lights and we move to the lounge room. Instead of sitting on separate couches we sit on the same one. It doesn’t feel weird at all. After blood and showers and nudity, I think we’re both past that.
I don’t even take in what we’re watching. It’s just a series of colours and flashes on a screen.
Suds shuffles beside me and lifts her legs and places them over my lap, as she did that night.
Ever so softly, she runs the backs of her fingers down my temple and places her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” Her voice is laden with worry.
Inside my head, all I hear is no.
“Fine,” I grunt out.
“Uh-huh,” she mutters. “Just as I thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Suds curls her fingers over my closest hand, which is now resting just above her knee. I’ve got the shakes. Bad. I know it, and she knows it. My skin is clammy, and I feel like shit. I’m the picture of a man who wants a drink.
&
nbsp; “Listen, I know I’m not really in the position to be asking favours, but will you let me take you somewhere?”
“What, like now?”
“No, not tonight, but maybe tomorrow.”
“Am I gonna like it?” I have a feeling it won’t be nude chicks jelly-wrestling …
“Time will tell, but I promise you, it’ll be good for you.”
Good for me? Is she gonna make me see a doctor?
“If that’s the case, then you’re not really selling me on it. Wanna give me a hint?”
“Nope. It’s better this way.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s all I’m getting out of you, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
Looks like I’m waiting to see what tomorrow brings.
I sink back into the lounge and put my foot up on the coffee table, pushing the paper aside. “Hey, I almost forgot. Jones gave me some mail to pass on to you.” I jut my chin towards the envelopes sticking out from under the newspaper.
“I kinda wished you’d somehow lost them on the way home.”
“Sorry. Just doin’ as I was asked.”
“Thanks,” she grumbles. “I was gonna re-direct my mail from April’s, but figured I’d organise that when I have my own place sorted.”
“Makes sense.” Surely she’s not planning on leaving yet? It seems as if she can’t afford anywhere else. Still, I know it won’t be long before V needs the room. I don’t particularly want to bring it up, because that’d lead to more questions. I don’t want to put her under pressure, and besides, there’s no need to push her to leave when there’s still time.
She picks up her sexy-arse black glasses and slips them on. I can’t look away. Something about those damn glasses. With each letter she opens, my dick grows harder. I’ve got a right mind to slip my hand into those sexy shorts she’s wearing. For a second, when we were in the shower earlier, I was sure that once I got naked something would happen. Not that I wanted to take advantage of her while she was fragile, but she drives me so fucking crazy. The friction between us just does something to me … it makes me want her. Surely she senses it too? Once I was naked though, she couldn’t get out of the bathroom quick enough. What the fuck was up with that?
She opens the last of the letters and then sighs loudly. In short, sharp bursts she draws breath. A lone tear glides down her flushed face.
What the fuck? One second she’s fine and the next she’s turned to water?
“Suds, what’s wrong?”
She glances up, and her glassy eyes drill into me. It’s as if someone kicked me fair in the chest with a big heavy boot. She screws up the final letter and tosses it on the coffee table and then stands and walks zombie-like into the kitchen. She reaches for my bottle of Patron from the top shelf and a small glass. I’d put it up high for a reason.
I stalk after her. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, more forcefully this time.
With a shaky hand she fills the glass, which holds at least three standard shots. The clear liquid spills down the side of her mouth as she takes large gulps. When the liquid is gone, she wipes her lips with the back of her hand and slams the glass on the counter.
“I just can’t get a fuckin’ trick.”
Again, the glass is refilled. She drinks then storms off to her room without another word.
She harps on at me for drinking alcohol, and then slams down, what? Six shots in thirty seconds?
I’ve gotta read that letter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SOPHIE
They’re taking my shit-box of a car. That’s the grim reality of it. They’re playing hard ball, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I know I’ve had countless warnings. I know the bank’s threats are never empty, but I was just hoping that it would never come to this. It’s the only asset I have of any real value. Five to six thousand dollars at best. They’re cutting off my way of getting around, which will hinder me when it comes to getting a job. It’s taking away part of my independence. I might as well be sixteen again, relying on public transport to get from A to B.
I have no one I can ask for a loan. The bank won’t touch me after he maxed out our credit cards and they cut them up. I know April would bail me out, but I can’t expect that from a friend. Not when she’s got her whole life ahead of her, not to mention planning and paying for a wedding. Money only ruins relationships. She’s already paying for my trip to Vegas, and I’m not about to burden her with this or jeopardise our friendship.
In slow circles, I twist the solid platinum band with diamonds on my right ring finger. I could sell my grandmother’s ring, but how could I? Nana was the only one who believed in me. She didn’t judge. She just wanted me to be happy.
Fuck it. As if I can fight this. They can take my car, because I won’t give this up.
I pick up the silver frame by my bedside table with the photo of the two of us. Nana was five years sober in this shot. Her silver hair is set in curls, just like she’d get done at the hairdresser every Friday, and her blue-green eyes are shining with the reflection of the sun through the trees in her cottage garden. She’s wearing the purple cardigan that she never wanted to part with. I miss her so goddamn much.
As my vision begins to blur, I know that the tequila has well and truly kicked in. My insides are like a raging fire and my head is swooning.
I may have been a little dramatic out there. I mean, what was I thinking? How am I going to help steer Rocco away from the bottle when I’ve just performed like that? I’m only reinforcing that when life goes to shit, you should drink through it. It’s not the message I want to send, especially to him, but I was on autopilot. I just needed to feel numb.
I need a new job like I need my next breath.
With the comforter wrapped tight around me, I bury my head in my pillow and cry like a fucking sissy. Anyone would think I just sculled a cup of gin. I’m so pathetic.
****
ROCCO
She could have been seriously injured. What if she’d hit her head, or worse still, broken bones? And she was worried about paying rent. I meant it when I said I didn’t give a fuck about it. I don’t. I’m more worried about what’s really going on here.
I pick up the letter, and as I scan over each line I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The bank is going to seize her car. She’s right. She can’t get a fucking trick. It’s no wonder she just downed that much booze. This bullshit is enough to drive someone to drink.
Suds needs to talk to someone. Given the shit we’ve already talked about, maybe she’ll talk to me more. It’s sad that even though she’s so close to April, that when shit like this happens she bottles it up and keeps it to herself. She soldiers on, determined not to burden anyone with her problems. I know exactly what that’s like.
I knock on her bedroom door—yes, I learnt my lesson—and wait for some kind of sound that lets me know I’m clear to enter without being inflicted with grievous bodily harm.
A curt ‘what’ is grunted.
The wooden door creaks as I pry it open. The moonlight is streaming through the partially open blind, enough to make out her figure curled up under the covers, and her long hair tangled over her pillow.
I pull back the corner of the covers and slip in behind her and place my hand on her upper arm. She shifts her body to face me.
“Can’t I even cry around here in peace?” she grumbles, but there’s a hint of humour to her tone.
“I read the letter,” I tell her. No point beating around the bush.
A heavy sigh leaves her lips. “You don’t need to worry about me.” She sniffs.
“I am worried about you, whether you fuckin’ want me to or not.”
“I’m tired, Rocco. Tired of struggling.”
“Wanna tell me why the bank’s beating down your door?”
“It’s all his fault.”
“Who’s?”
There’s a long silence between us, and I wonder if she’s about to k
ick me out or start crying again.
“Four fucking long years, Rocco. I’ve been paying off a debt left to me care of Prince Fuckface.”
“What the fuck? What happened?”
“Rewind four years when I was engaged. That was my first mistake.”
“Okay,” I say, to keep her talking.
“I went into the relationship blind. Of course back then, I had my parents’ full support. Their daughter was going to marry an established businessman with a prominent family, and it was going to be a big, lavish wedding. I was stupid and naïve, and didn’t think twice buying a house in joint names with this man. I was going to be with him forever.”
“How did it turn to shit?”
“The cracks were there, but I didn’t piece it all together until it was too late. The engagement ring he was getting designed was taking months longer than it should have. We weren’t eating out as much, and he downgraded his Mercedes S-Class coupe to an E-Class. The bank statements stopped coming in the mail. As far as I knew, his business was doing well. All my savings and every spare cent I earned went into our joint account, which we used to offset the home loan to pay less interest. I didn’t question it. It made sense.”
She puffs up her cheeks and lets out a loud rush of air.
“Then one day I went into the bank to get some cash out. I was gonna buy something nice to wear for an upcoming wedding we were going to. They cut up my card and the next thing I knew, the suits from the bank came around with a notice evicting me from the house. Fuckface was conveniently MIA, and I couldn’t get in contact with him. The last time I saw him was just before he left on a business trip overseas. That was the last time I’ve had any contact. His phone was disconnected. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth. The bank needed money, and since they couldn’t find him, and the loan was in my name too, they came to me.”
“Fuck. That blows,” I say, as I shake my head.
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