by Belle Brooks
By Belle Brooks
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
ISBN 9780646957289
That Guy
©2018 by Belle Brooks
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Obie Books, Po Box 2302, Yeppoon QLD Australia 4703.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All rights are reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in past in any form. This edition is published in arrangement with Obie Books Q.L.D.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Obie Books Po Box 2302
Yeppoon Qld 4701
AUSTRALIA
Edited: Lauren Clark
Proofread: Jenny Sims
Cover: Emma Wicker
Formatter: Jaye Cox
A NOTE TO THE READER
This book has been written using UK English and contains euphemisms and slang words that form part of the Australian spoken word, which is the basis of this book’s writing style.
Please remember that the words are not misspelled. They are slang terms and form part of everyday Australian vernacular.
Dedication
For Chris
You’re imaginary.
You crashed into my mind like a wrecking ball.
I MUST find you so I can tell you I’ve dedicated this book to you.
Everybody needs a Chris in their life because with Chris, life would be so much better.
Chapter One
For the past five years, I’ve been on a diet. I like to refer to it as my ‘train wreck' diet. Why? Well, that’s because it always ends up derailing within a few weeks.
I have successfully gained five kilos during my latest attempt at weight loss, so I’d say I'm failing at this point. But I solemnly swear, I’ll never give up because I’m a go-getter and giving up on my train wrecks is not in my nature.
Tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll contemplate some miracle pill seen on an infomercial or even another fad liquid shake. Who knows? But right now, at this very minute, I must try to get through the delightful challenge of my weekly food shopping adventure.
Every time I set foot into the local grocery store, I hear soft whispering, whispers promising me a never-ending supply of sweet nothings. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I love to loathe such taunts. Today is no different.
Hey, Mindy, a six-pack of glazed doughnuts is on special. You’ve been such a good girl. A treat is in order. Mindy, there’s a bonus! You can eat them all at once because there’s a one-day only expiry date. The challenge is yours.
My mind is such a temptress with an alluring and seductive voice. Every time she corners me, I scream, Yes! Yes! Put all of it in my mouth. I can take it. I can take it.
I swallow hard and frantically hum as I try to drone out the promises of another happy sugar-filled ending. Sadly, it doesn’t work. After taking only a few short steps into the complex, my eyes glue to one of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen. Gasping, I place my hand on my chest and breathe, “Oh, hell no. You’re glorious.”
Staring at the delicious red velvet cake, with the extra tiers of cream and freshly chopped strawberries placed symmetrically on top, I can already feel its rich sugar sparking my taste buds to life.
I must have it.
Do it, Mindy. You know you want to. You like it sweet and extra moist, now, don’t you?
“Shut the heck up,” I scold myself under my breath while trying to drown my mind’s taunts. “Steamed vegetables and brown rice. Not cake.”
But no matter how many times I think about alternative healthier options, I can’t divert my thoughts. I twist my lips to the side and press my teeth together as firmly as my chunky thighs currently are.
Having an internal battle with myself over this halo-lit red velvet cake has my head twitching and my eyes narrowing with every passing second. You can do this, Mindy. Walk away! Walk away!
I can’t. Instead, I bend down and place my fingers against the container. A long arm reaches in front of me to claim the delicious treat. I smack the hand encroaching my vision, the one attached to a very hairy arm, and scoff loudly before proclaiming, “Mine,” in a possessive growl.
I’m such a mess.
A man with greying hair scowls at me when I come to stand. He suddenly huffs in an over exaggerated manner, then stomps away.
How rude!
Placing the container encasing the rich treasure I won into the seat of my shopping trolley beside my handbag, I proudly bustle past the remainder of the long wooden table—the table filled with every imaginable decadent dessert.
Just this one cake can come home today, I promise myself. Just this one.
I’ve almost made it out of the danger zone when a silhouette catches the corner of my eye. I’m drawn to this figure instantly. I know I’m gawking with my mouth wide open, yet I can’t seem to stop. Mindy, cut it out. You look ridiculous.
I draw in a large breath. I close my eyes before confirming I need to get the hell out of here and fast. But when my eyelashes flicker open, I’m greeted by the kindest smile I’ve ever seen beaming in my direction. This isn’t a delicious dessert holding my attention. More like a tempting hunk of man meat.
“Hi,” he speaks hesitantly.
Me? He’s speaking to me? How can a man like that be addressing me in conversation? He’s so perfect, like the ultimate macaroon, and I’m so … I’m a cream bun. A gooey white mess.
He’s looking at me, waiting for a response. Shoot!
I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Yeah, so … cake … eat … gotta go.”
What the hell was that? I’m not two or four; I’m a grown-arse woman, for goodness’ sake.
Moving like a gust of wind, I turn and stumble out of the bakery section, entering the fruit and vegetable aisle. Once the coast seems clear and Mr Too Hot to Trot, with his perfect charcoal ha
ir and pale baby blue eyes, no longer fills my view, I applaud myself for having the stamina to move in such a way.
The elation I experience is short-lived because once a cob of corn is in my grip, I reprimand myself for acting like a complete and utter idiot in the first place.
Men and Mindy don’t seem to mix.
It’s not that I’m for the pink lady taco. I’m not. I think lady’s private parts are appalling to look at. But every time I’m in the company of a man, I blurt out stupid shit and run like a criminal in escape mode. I can’t seem to be around the opposite sex in a romantic way, and sadly, this might explain the fact I’m twenty-nine years old and have never had a boyfriend.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve rolled around in the hay with a few gentleman suitors in my time. Oh yes, the Min-Star has had her fill of the ‘D’, but nothing more has ever eventuated. This might be because those romps only ever came after I’d danced the mambo with a bottle of liquor.
Every miserable foot placement I take has my heart heavy and my mind sombre. Right now, my life isn’t exactly impressive in any way, shape, or form. I’m single, living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with my furry feline friend, Fletcher, and I work in a horrible job as a receptionist for an escort service.
My best friend, Chris, is so gay that when he walks, glitter sprinkles from his arse, and my family lives kilometres away with no desire to ever set foot in a big capital city like Melbourne.
You seriously cannot make this shit up.
Turning into aisle three has my hands clammy and my bottom lip clamped between my teeth. Mr Too Hot to Trot is back. Oh damn, he’s all sorts of fine wrapped in a pretty bow with a tag that says, Mindy, care to own me?
I do, I really do. Right now, I’m admiring his backside. It appears he must have been at the gym prior to coming here; his loose muscle top and gym shorts spell this out. Every defined muscle from his neck down to his ankles screams, Just look at my body. Go on—look at my body. I work out. Boy, is he as mouthwatering from behind as he was from the front.
Mindy likey. Mindy likey a lot.
And there goes my immature brain, melting at the sight of a man.
Chapter Two
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound of my groceries scanning is the only noise I hear as I examine a poster pinned to the wall in front of me.
Do you want to win an exotic holiday for two?
I do, but I never win anything, not even a simple bingo game or raffle drawing, so there’s no point in entering. But that doesn’t stop my mind from drifting off into a daydream that has soft sand parting under my feet in a place where I’m completely relaxed, shaking my booty as I dance along the shore, free from all the worries of life. A canary yellow cocktail fills a tall glass wrapped securely in my hand. I throw my head back and smell the salty sea air. The breeze, so refreshing. The beach, alight with warm sunrays. The water, complete with crystal patterns, which sparkle like diamonds.
I need a holiday. I need a holiday with the man I’ve just stalked for nine aisles.
That guy was everywhere I was until I raced to the checkouts to escape from the perv mode I found myself permanently homed in. I checked him out in the same way I took to the freaking cake on entry. I had no shame. I had no morals. I stared and gawked. I devoured him in my mind. Oh, boy was he hot. But a man like him would never think twice about a woman like me. He’s Hercules, and I’m Plain Jane.
The story of my life: Wanting things which are well and truly out of my league.
Biting down on my lip, I replay every step this mystery man took. The way the black tribal tattoo danced on his tight perfectly sculpted calf. His arse … I want to bounce a quarter off his arse. He was indeed an image of beauty, and now I’ll have no choice but to bank his muscular frame into my memory and bring forth these images on cold and lonely nights when I wish for the company of a man’s touch.
“Miss, do you want me to bag this toilet paper up for you? Or are you happy to take it as is?”
Toilet paper? I didn’t buy any toilet paper. “Pardon, what did you say?”
She waves the pack of forty-eight rolls in the air as if she’s auctioning it off to the highest bidder.
My face instantly heats. “I don’t need that,” I rush in saying.
“O-kay then.”
She’s young, so young, in fact, I think her mum still buys her toilet paper supply. Her glossed lips stretch wide as I find myself scowling in her direction. Her heavily blushed cheeks expose the most perfectly formed bone structure I’ve ever seen, and in a moment of pure jealousness, I decide I dislike her youthful appearance.
Where did my time go?
Where did my life go?
Did I miss the bus that rolls down the gloomy street of Single Town, the one transporting you to Happily-Ever-After Couple Land?
I wasted my youth in medical school with constant study. I forgot to stop, smell the roses, be young, and party. I hid away in libraries, lecture theatres, and study halls.
In three weeks, I’ll be thirty. Thirty! And I’m still single.
There’s a clearing of a throat followed by laughter, deep, from-the-stomach laughter. I twist my neck in his direction. Oh, good Lord. It’s him. He’s at checkout seven, right next to eight where I’ve loaded all my stuff onto the conveyor belt mindlessly.
“Hi.” A twinge of humour lines his voice.
“Hi,” I say, looking away as fast as I would when faced with a blood-covered mask worn on Halloween. Those things scare the crap out of me. His straight sparkling white teeth scare me just the same.
More laughter.
What’s so goddamn funny?
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I brush my hand over my bottom, worried maybe my dress has caught in my knickers and I have an arse cheek poking out for the world to see. Swiftly, I relocate that same hand to my nose once I realise my derrière is protected and wipe at my nostrils hoping there’s no boogers hanging out. I’m self-conscious as I sense his eyes violating the side of my head.
“Big weekend planned, hey?” I can hear the amusement in his tone.
“Pardon?” It’s a croak of the word. Did my voice crack? When did I become a pubescent boy?
I glimpse in his direction and notice he’s pointing at my checkout. I shift my eyes, following his elongated finger, and gasp. Not a small-sounding gasp. Not a medium level of noise either. But a noisy suck of air producing a choke-like sound.
What in the ever-loving fuck?
“Um. They’re not mine,” I spew out, racing to the moving conveyor belt, fumbling with the boxes—trying to make them disappear—and holding two against my chest. I’ve no frickin’ idea how these boxes of condoms got there in the first place.
He laughs once more.
My palms are sweaty. My heart races as my mind forms visions of a pyramid designed out of inflated condoms. I think I’m having a stroke from the sudden rise in my blood pressure.
The man closes the gap between us. His breath rushes past my ear and down my neck. I immediately stand frozen in response. He’s close to me. Too close.
“Wow. You have been busy while grocery shopping, haven’t you?” There’s no mistaking his humour.
I can’t formulate a word or thought. I flick my eyes left, then right, up, then down. Flashes of products, ones I’ve never purchased in my life are waiting to be scanned by the pretty attendant.
I’m dreaming. I’m asleep. Wake up. WAKE UP! I scream internally.
“Men’s deodorant. Lubricant. What’s that? Seven, eight, nine boxes of frangers, and you have a lot of toilet paper. You must live in a share house like me by the looks of your items. Come to think of it, your shopping looks identical to mine. Funny, isn’t it?”
Oh shit! Was I so focused on checking this man out as I shopped that I mimicked his movements and selected the same products he did?
“You should be mindful when shopping, you know. Concentration is an important part of selecting your essentials.”
“These are for my boyfriend.” It flies out of my mouth. I lie. I lie with an unconvincing rattle enlaced with my mousey tone.
“He’s a stallion, that boyfriend of yours then?”
“Um—”
“You’re a lucky woman.” His hand brushes my arm. “Or he’s a lucky man.”
I can’t breathe. The two boxes of condoms I managed to grab and hold against my chest drop to the ground when my arms go limp.
“It was fun shopping with you. We should do it again sometime. Anyway, have a good night.” He steps back and away from me. The suffocation stifling me dissipates.
I clutch the handle of my handbag still resting in the seat of my shopping cart with embarrassment spreading through my veins like wildfire. I scoop up the cake, and I walk. I keep walking. I don’t look back.
“Miss! Hey, miss, you didn’t pay. You didn’t pay for the cake,” the sweet young voice of the attendant calls after me.
I don’t stop walking. I can’t glance back.
I’m keeping this damn cake.
Chapter Three
I’m home. Safe. I’m more damaged than I was before I stole this dessert, and I’m miserable.
Why me? I find myself asking this question a lot, mainly because I’m the biggest screw-up ever to walk the earth.
Fletcher runs his long tail up the back of my leg, causing an itch from the tickle it creates.
“Hello, kitty.” My tone is irritated as I bend suddenly to scrape my nails over my skin to alleviate the irritation at my calf.
Bang!
“Motherfffff—” I growl as my head collides with the bench I was hovering over. There's an instant ache. Clumsiness is my specialty, and it most certainly wasn’t a good quality for a trainee doctor to possess, so when it came to choosing a career specialty, surgery was off the list of possibilities for me lickety-split.
