by Max Henry
“Shut up, would ya?” he hollers at the dogs as I redirect course. “Good mongrels, those two, but fucking noisy.” He laughs as I reach out to offer my greeting.
I clasp my hand in his and give him a slap on the back as he pulls me against his chest. “You sure the missus doesn’t mind me coming over so late?”
Gillies is a small company, run by brothers. Thomas has always maintained that family feel to the crew, often inviting us over to his house for the Christmas function, or sometimes just for a chat when he felt a team member needed a push in the right direction.
“Nah. She’s all good.” He nods toward the hallway. “Come in. Dana’s finishing up in the kitchen, but I’ll get her to grab us a cold one.”
It’s a good part of the reason why I feel so shit walking away from a guy who gave an ex-con a second chance.
“I’m all good, man.” One drink with this guy leads to ten, and before you know it you’re squinting against the sun as you drive the grader, cursing your hangover.
I head down the guts of the house and step into the back room. A beam runs through the middle of the ceiling where the dividing wall would have once been; the old miner’s cottage is of a typical design. The walls are stark white with memorabilia of Thomas’s time with the Hell Hounds tacked in intervals. The bold red and black insignia is hard to miss, much like the tattoo that adorns the back of his neck.
“Dana.” I give his missus a tight nod as she replaces Thomas’s empty beer with a fresh one.
“Hi, Zeus.” She rubs her man’s bald head as she turns to leave.
I’ve only met the woman a handful of times, but it’s clear to see who keeps the misfit in check. She’s a small woman, short in stature, but I could guarantee she’d pack one hell of a mighty punch if needed.
“So.” I clap my hands together as I take a seat on the worn sofa. “I’ve got some news for you.”
“Let me guess,” Thomas says as he reaches for a pack of smokes. “Jackson and Connell stole you?”
“Yeah.” I frown. “How did you know?”
“Ed hasn’t exactly been quiet in his declaration of love for the place. I’ve heard the guys talking.”
Shit. What can I say that doesn’t make me sound like a selfish jerk? “They’ve offered to train me up to drive so I can work toward buying my own truck and dog.”
He nods, rolling his unlit cigarette between his fingers. “Well, Zeus, you’re leaving me in a bit of a predicament.”
“I know.” Fuck, I hate letting people down. “You’ve been good to me. I’m really thankful for what you did.”
He jerks his head toward the bikie shit. “Not like I’m in a place to judge, is it?”
“Nah, you’re not.” I chuckle, well aware his brother being the president of the MC is the only reason he was allowed to walk away from the club.
“I’d love to be able to make you an equivalent offer, but I can’t.”
“I know—”
“I’ll just have to make you one better.” His eyes wrinkle with his wicked smile.
I frown, unsure what he’s up to. “I’m listening.”
“Butch,” he says, talking about his brother. “He’s been given an opportunity to take over a business. We’ve discussed merging it with mine once we’ve cleared the mess out, got it running how it should.”
Take over a business. More like some mug can’t repay his drug debts and the club has decided to recover the money by whatever means possible. “That so?”
“It’s legit.” Thomas waves his lighter my way before sparking the end of his cigarette. “One of the old boys has run it for about thirty years with the intention of handing it off to his kids when he got too old to be at the reins.”
“And?”
“Jonesy’s kid is some IT hotshot in the States now. Has no interest in trucks.”
“Trucks?”
“Yeah. Tippers. The guy had a small fleet: three truck and dogs.” He smirks, knowing he has me interested. “Just like you want to drive.”
“And your brother needs my help, how?” I lean back in the seat, crossing one ankle to the opposite knee. Working with Butch means involvement with the club, and that’s something I’m not interested in.
“He knows a guy who’s looking to sell a digger so he can upgrade. Butch figures if he puts the two together, gets some extra equipment, he can give the trucks work himself by contracting the gear out for drain laying jobs.”
“He wants advice?” I frown.
Thomas points his cigarette my way, ash falling as it wobbles between his thick fingers. “He wants you to manage it.”
“He doesn’t know me.”
“He doesn’t know anyone in the game, which is why he trusts me to find someone for him. I know you. I know you work hard.”
I sigh through my nose, pressing my lips together as I think it over. The opportunity is a good one; it chucks me to the top of the food chain without having to work my way there. But the downside is I’d be in cahoots with a known bikie. How am I to know if he intends to use the business for some light laundry?
“I’m not sure, brother. I appreciate you thinking of me, but I have concerns.”
Thomas frowns.
“With all due respect,” I add.
He flicks the ash from his cigarette into a tray on the side table, and then lifts his beer for a pull, all while watching me. “I know my word is all you have to go on”—he sets the bottle down—“but trust me when I say that the business would be legit.” He taps his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Fucking pigs are coming down hard on the club of late, and Butch needs to feed the boys and keep them in the lifestyle they’re accustomed to somehow.”
“Contracts,” I ask. “Does he have any?”
“There’s a few that would transfer to the new owner with the sale. It would be up to Butch to keep them when they roll over, though, which is why he wants a guy who knows what he’s doing.”
“You know my PO would give me shit about this.”
“Like my probation officer doesn’t give me the third degree every time she walks in here.” He gestures to the flags on the wall. “They can bully you all they like, but if your nose is clean—which it will be—you have nothing to worry about.”
He’s doing a good job of trying to convince me, that’s for sure. The distraction would be welcome; a big project to sink my teeth into that’s bound to give me plenty of overtime until it’s off the ground and running. But the connection is one I don’t want. At all. Especially if I intend to change my course in life.
“He realises he’ll lose customers when they hear that he’s behind it, right?”
“Then they’re customers he doesn’t need.”
I roll my lips, thinking a drink might have been a good idea after all. “Look, I’m thankful that you thought of me, but I have personal goals that I want to focus on. To be honest, I’d be out of my depth managing. I might know what I’m doing, but I’ve never run a crew before.” Of course. “Why haven’t you asked Mike?”
“Mike?” He frowns. “Old boy always says he’s happy doing what he is.”
“Only because he doesn’t like the limelight. You know as well as I do he runs a tight ship.” I list the points off on my fingers as I go. “The boys respect him, he’s punctual, respects the equipment, and he gets along great with the other contractors. He’s a natural leader, and maybe given the fact he’s getting on in life he might consider a job with less manual labour involved for a change.”
The corners of Thomas’s mouth turn down, and he nods. “All valid points.”
“Have a yarn to him. Sound him out.” I lift both hands. “I honestly think he’d be the man for your job.”
Thomas nods. He draws the ember down his cigarette, eyeballing me as the stick crackles. “How many weeks you need then?”
“Two, plus a written reference.”
He jerks his chin. “Deal.”
“Thanks, mate.” I rise from the seat. “I’ll let you and the m
issus get back to your evening.”
“Sure thing.” He stands also, then walking me to the door. “You’ve been a good worker, Zeus. I know you’ve faced your fair share of shit in the past and I suspect your ‘personal’ goals have something to do with that. I wish you luck.”
He holds his hand out between us. I clasp it with mine and pull toward him to pat him on the back, same as he does me. “Thanks, Thomas. We’ll keep in touch, yeah?”
“Of course.”
I wave him off, the dogs going postal at the gate once more, feeling as though this is the turning point in my life. Not my release from prison, not divorcing Jodie, not even buying that house.
Not even Belle.
I walk away from what was possibly a job offer that would set me up for the rest of my days. I walk away from a secure lower-level job that meant a steady income. All so I can do what I really want to do: work toward being my own boss.
I walk away from being Zeus the crim, and toward a clean life earning an honest dollar.
I walk toward being the kind of man that people respect.
Toward Belle.
NINE
Belle
“Any luck?”
I drop my head onto the keyboard of my laptop. “No.”
Dad chuckles, moving behind where I sit at the kitchen counter to set his coffee mug in the sink. “Maybe you need the night off looking?”
“I’ve been looking for a week,” I whine, “and everything is either too expensive, needs too much done to outfit it, or is in the wrong area.” I flick my fingers out as I list the points. “I’m starting to rethink opening the shop in Longdale.”
“Stick it out.” Dad rests his elbows on the counter opposite me. “You’ve got a good customer base here. There’s only that one place down by the railway station, and you know as well as I do that people make the forty-minute drive into the city anyway because their artists are shit.”
“Yeah, well, I can understand why the good ones went to the city.”
His expression softens as he sighs. “Do you need a hand for a while?”
“No. There’s no need for that.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Because Sharon and I could spare a little bit to top up your budget.”
“Honestly, Dad.” I reach for his hand. “No. I can do this on my own. I can reshuffle how much I spend on what. I was simply being frugal and trying to make my savings spread out further, is all.”
“The offer stands.” He straightens up and turns for the living room. “I’m off to bed anyway. You want me to leave the TV on?”
“No, turn it off. Thank you.”
He taps the button on the remote, sending the adjoining rooms into darkness. “Knowing Sharon, she probably needs me to pry the book out of her hands before she wakes up with an imprint on her face, anyway.”
I chuckle, returning his wave as he leaves the room.
I’ve enjoyed the past week at home bearing witness to the dynamic of Dad and Sharon’s relationship. They’re so cute together, and I love how relaxed she makes him. With Cerise, he was always on edge, always stressed about something. But with Sharon he has this calm air about him that wasn’t around even when it was just the two of us.
He deserves it.
With the glow of the laptop as my light, I slide off the stool and wander into the kitchen for a late-night snack. Dad might hit the hay early, but I’m a night owl and more often than not I’m still awake at midnight with a thousand things running through my head. So many ideas, so many things I want to do, but so many obstacles to overcome to get to the point where I can.
I pull the door of the fridge open and stare at the shelves. If I spend more on the lease for the shop, then that leaves me begging for a larger loan to buy the equipment I need to set up the interior. I could buy second-hand, maybe refurbish some old tables myself, but there’s a certain cleanliness that comes with brand new furniture, and if I want to make a good first impression, I’ll need that edge. I grab a nectarine with a sigh and swing the fridge shut. My dream of going solo was so much simpler when I was eighteen and naïve. But as much as learning from Chris’s experience has definitely given me a foot up, it’s also opened my eyes to all the associated costs I didn’t take into account when thinking I could easily save to fund the start-up myself.
If only I had cheap space. Like the studio at Zeus’s house. Damn it. The flesh rips from the crisp fruit as I take my frustration out on it with my bite. Four days I’ve sat on that damn message of his. Four days where I’ve rewritten my reply a thousand times in my mind.
Four days where I haven’t heard a single thing from Damien.
I wake the screen of the laptop as I sit down and navigate with my free hand to the browser. Juice dribbles over my lip and settles on my chin as I reread Zeus’s words. I swipe it away and finish the fruit, sighing through my nose as I set the core down on the counter. My jeans wear the sticky coating from my fingers as I swipe them over the denim to clean them off.
All or nothing.
My fingers hover over the keyboard; this shit is so much easier in my head.
Light floods the kitchen, startling the hell out of me as Dad opens the fridge. He lifts a bottle of water when I slam the lid of my laptop closed.
“Thirsty.” He hesitates, his frown illuminated before he shuts the fridge again. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No.” I try to laugh it off. “Just about to head to my room anyway. I didn’t hear you come back in.” I slide the device under my arm and head for the hallway.
“See you in the morning, then.”
“Yeah.” I wave him off as I flee to the sanctuary of my bedroom, ears burning.
I close the door behind me and toss the laptop on my bed. That was close—too close. Panic still seizes my heart as I run my hands over my head and let out a loaded breath. Why the hell I’m so worried about what Dad thinks when it’s just a message, I don’t know.
Except it’s not just a message. The things he said…. I launch myself at the bed and flip the lid open to log back in. The words stare back at me from the screen.
He loves me. He still wants me. And yet, he believes he’ll never have me.
Does that mean he’s single? Is there no significant other in his life? Why does that make me so deliriously happy?
My fingers beat a furious path over the keyboard as I type out my response. So much I want to tell him, yet there’s only a few things I can say without throwing gas on the fire. I have to respond; I can’t leave him wondering.
I can’t hurt him more than I already have.
TEN
Zeus
I remember reading somewhere that in the Middle Ages they used to try and heal a wound by continuously dripping water over the site in the belief that the constant flow would keep infection from setting in. The treatment had an adverse effect, and more often than not the patient would die because the water prevented the body from starting the healing process and incited sepsis.
It stuck with me since the concept was odd, but as I stare at Belle’s response I wonder if that’s what it’s like trying to heal heartbreak by staying in touch with the one you love? Each word on my screen is another drip in the wound, a steady beat that keeps the pain alive and promises only death, slow and miserable.
B: I still remember, too, Zeus. I could never forget.
B: Tell me about the tattoo you want. I want to do it for you.
That’s all. Four fucking sentences. She’s trying too hard to be careful. But why? The thread is private between her and me. Who else is going to see what she tells me?
Z: I’ll show it to you:
I attach the image that’s been stored in the cloud since the week she left. I came across the picture purely by chance and it damn near stopped my heart. It was her, pure and simple. Her, and me.
The circle around the blue tick fills in, telling me she’s seen the picture. I wait, watching for the telltale dots, yet the screen stays blank. I barely bli
nk in the minutes until the phone goes black, still without any sign of life from Belle. I knew it would mess with her—I just wanted to know how much.
The night is hot, the last of summer clinging to the long days. I ditch the phone on the coffee table and rise to head for the garage. The meeting with Jerry went well yesterday. He offered me a fucking good wicket for the position, even writing into the employment contract that the costs associated with giving me my Class 5 licence are a part of the deal. A pang of guilt slices through me when I think of leaving the guys at work, but each man for his own. I’ve got goals, projects, and hobbies, and all of them take money to complete.
There’s no point cutting off my nose to spite my face. Already did that once, and where’s it left me other than staring at the engine bay of a Barracuda while my head is stuck on a woman seventeen years my junior?
I busy myself running the new wires through to the dash panel, sweat making my tank cling to my body. The garage becomes a hot box with the door down, but it beats being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Black tinges my hands and forearms, smudges from where I jammed my limbs in tight spaces to get the new wires clipped in place.
The task might frustrate the hell out of me, but the constant thought that’s required, the attention and focus I need to give to make sure everything is connected in the right order is the distraction I need. By the time I decide to call it a night I must have lost a kilo in sweat alone and my burning eyes tell me it’s time to shower and hit the hay.
I tidy up and head back inside, stopping only to wash my hands before I retrieve my phone. Three little boxes sit on the home screen—each with her name at the start. I open the message thread as I walk through to the bathroom, a smile on my face.
B: Jesus, Zeus.
B: Is this for real, or are you being an arsehole about everything?
The last is timed an hour after the other two.
B: Answer me, for fuck’s sake.
Oh, it’s for real, dove. A wicked plan forms in my mind as I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I set the phone down on the counter, and then strip off. It takes a few shots, but satisfied I’ve captured enough to make the picture the kind you don’t share with your buddies, yet not totally inappropriate, I place the text over top and hit Send.
