The Goodbye Ride

by Lily Malone

  The Goodbye Ride

  by Lily Malone

  Title: The Goodbye Ride

  Cover: Wendy Johnston. Bright Eyed Owl.

  Editor: Anita Weeks

  Copyright © 2013 by Lily Malone

  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Lily Malone.

  This work is a book of fiction. any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Actual places used in the book are mentioned only in a purely fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various places/products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission and is by no way sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.lilymalone.wordpress.com.au

  The Goodbye Ride

  Lily Malone

  Olivia Murphy is a woman on a mission. Gracing the front lawn of a house in her Adelaide Hills hometown sits the classic Ducati motorbike that once belonged to her brother, a For Sale sign by the tyre.

  Liv wants to buy the precious bike and bring it back into her family, and she wants the ink dry on the paperwork before the approaching holiday weekend. Tourist-mecca Hahndorf doubles in size on long weekends—and most visitors have far fatter wallets than hers.

  One person stands in her way.

  Owen Carson likes rare and beautiful things and he has the Ducati in his sights. Then he meets Liv, and finds his heart captured by beauty of a far different kind.

  What will Olivia do to make the Ducati hers? And can Owen convince Liv he wants more than a holiday fling?

  About the author

  Lily Malone is a journalist and freelance writer who discovered after years of writing facts for a living, writing romance was much more fun.

  The Goodbye Ride novella is her second release in 2013 and is inspired by her husband's life-long love of Ducati bikes, 650 Pantahs in particular!

  Her first full-length contemporary romance, His Brand Of Beautiful, was released by Escape Publishing in March and has received great reviews from Australian and international readers with Lily's dialogue and descriptive prose getting special mention.

  Lily juggles writing with the needs of a young family, and when she isn’t writing, she likes gardening, walking, wine, and walking in gardens (sometimes with wine).

  She loves to hear from readers and you can visit Lily at www.lilymalone.wordpress.com or on goodreads

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to my critique partners and beta readers Marion, Kylie and Kathy who helped The Goodbye Ride get better and better.

  And to the Facebook Club who cyber-drink and celebrate the days when everything about my writing works, and who cyber-drink and commiserate with me on the days when nothing goes quite right.

  And to my long-suffering hubby who answers questions about Ducatis with such certainty and good humour.

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  By this author

  Chapter 1

  Olivia Murphy had brass in pocket. One thousand dollars’ worth of brass to be exact—all hers and all hard-earned. Technically, the money was in her handbag not her pocket, but Liv wasn’t about to split hairs. The sun—for the moment at least—was shining, she’d given herself the day off tomorrow, and her parents were in Melbourne. She had the house to herself for four whole days.

  Bliss.

  The Lang’s place wasn’t far—just another few hundred metres walk out of town along the Hahndorf main street. She couldn’t see the glint of red, not yet. There were too many hedges in the way, too many neat brush fences, and her prize was set back from the road. Luke’s bike. Her brother’s Ducati Pantah 650. The bike she was about to give Dean Lang ten thousand dollars to buy back.

  If there’s one oak leaf stain on that paintwork, Mr Lang, you better get ready to knock another few hundred dollars off your asking price.

  Liv checked over her shoulder, just as she’d checked every thirty seconds since she’d left the bank carrying ten hundred-dollar notes crisply folded in a plastic bag. The odds of getting mugged in Hahndorf weren’t high, unless by a Japanese tourist who wanted his photo taken. But why tempt fate?

  She quickened her pace.

  Her handbag bumped her hip. Liv clutched it closed with her elbow and concentrated on where she put her feet. Rotting autumn leaves made slimy passage underfoot and the pavement was a twisted rollercoaster of treacherous roots.

  On the opposite side of the road, ahead near the sixty sign, a bright red utility pulled to a stop. The driver braked hard enough to grind shining Mag wheels through the roadside slush.

  It was one of those big bristling testosterone-fuelled boy toys—one with more aerials than a radio station, mudflaps the size of a swamp, spotlights everywhere. A bull bar covered in RM Williams’ stickers snarled across the front.

  Liv figured the driver must be heading up to camp in the backwaters of the Murray River for the Queen’s Birthday long weekend, some choice spot where he could shoot pigs and suck beers. He’d probably stopped to change CDs, throw One Hundred Best Beer Songs of All Time into the stacker.

  “Neanderthal,” she muttered under her breath. He’d be just the kind of arsehole who’d made her brother’s life hell.

  The driver-side door opened and two feet eased out. Two feet clad in thongs. Thongs! Liv pulled her jacket tighter across her chest. Didn’t Mr Muscle Car know it was June?

  No sense. No feeling.

  Those feet were attached to a muscular pair of legs in black cargo shorts, and from there to a sculpted torso in a tee-shirt that looked a half size too tight.

  The driver shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, checked left and right, and his weight edged forward.

  Fear iced Liv’s spine.

  The brute had parked opposite Dean Lang’s house—directly opposite her bike—and now he zeroed in on the Ducati like a heat-seeking missile.

  Guys like that don’t want 650 Pantahs. It was a strangled scream inside Liv’s head.

  Guys like that drive utes!

  Utes with a cabin for bonking their bimbo girlfriends. Utes with a tray in the back so they could throw in a swag at the end of a big night out.

  Dammit. Where was a Greyhound bus where you needed one? Not to hit him, mind. Just to slow him down a little. Okay, maybe wing him.

  Liv missed her step, skidded on an ice-rink of acorns and her legs slid like a new-born foal’s. It took a few seconds to regain her balance and in that time, the driver loped across the road and up the embankment. Liv lost him behind the neighbour’s hedge, but she was almost level with the Lang’s driveway now. Almost there.

  Then the earth moved.

  She had just enough time to thrust out her left hand before she hit the ground. Pain shot through her palm and it felt like a sledgehammer whacked her hip. Her handbag catapulted from her shoulder to the pavement, scattering lip-eze, a pack of chewing gum, and a mobile phone. Her precious plastic bag of cash skidded out late, like the last girl asked to the dance.

  “Whoa! Are you okay? Hold on.”

  Liv heard a flap, clap sound and thought for a second that some arsehole was applauding her fall. Dimly, she looked for the arsehole, ready to give him a piece of her mind. She tried to push herself up and turn over b
ut before she could attain either goal, a muscled arm reached down and a dark shape blotted out the tangle of branches over her head. His bare arm cushioned her shoulders while his voice cajoled her to sit.

  “You’re wearing thongs in the middle of winter.” It was all she could think of to say. He chuckled and she heard comfort and warmth in the sound. Then again he tried to propel her upright. “Give me a sec. My head’s spinning. I need to get my breath.”

  “That was some fall.”

  She examined her sore, scraped hands, aware of a damp spot spreading on the butt of her jeans. Somehow, she got her feet beneath her. “I’m fine. Thank you. Really.”

  He picked up her handbag, lipstick and phone. Then she saw him reach for her money.

  “I can get it,” she said, bending, stretching for the plastic bag.

  The earth spun again. She ended up with her hands on her knees and her head at her thighs. His big knuckled fingers rubbed her back and at some stage, her pink wool beanie fell off her head and landed on top of his bare toe. That toe looked wild enough to crawl into the nearest cave and hibernate. Most male toes she’d seen in her twenty-four years didn’t look like that. Her brother had forgotten more about pedicures than Liv had ever known.

  Loss spiked her chest. Luke.

  Liv sucked two quick breaths and stood. She was here to buy Luke’s bike from Dean Lang, not think about pedicures or toes or caves.

  “Here,” the guy said gravely, picking up her cash and hat, stuffing one in her handbag and the other over her head. Eyes the charcoal side of black seemed to click with hers and it was as if she heard a little voice inside her head sigh: Oh, hello.

  Olivia Murphy didn’t listen to little voices sigh. She was far too sensible for that.

  “Thank you,” she said, pulling away.

  “Hold still. Let me get this.” His callused fingertips grazed the skin at her temple. His hands smelled of old rope and leather. They weren’t dirty, but his fingers were ingrained with stains, like motor oil maybe, or earth. Whatever he did for a living, her guess was he worked with his hands. Like she did.

  He doubled the front of the wool beanie and rolled it once to clear her eyes, then pushed a chunk of her dark fringe to the side. “Good as new.”

  Liv let out a breath. Judging by the dizzy feeling in her head, it was the first to go in or out for a while.

  “Well, if you’re all in one piece…” His voice trailed away and she realised he was waiting for her to tell him her name.

  “Olivia,” she supplied grudgingly, before she remembered he’d helped her and she should probably be nice. At least, nicer. “Liv. Liv Murphy.”

  “Owen Carson.”

  It wasn’t a name she knew.

  Owen held out his hand and she shook it. His palm was rough, his grip firm but not crushing. “Good to meet you. You live around here?” He gestured with one arm at the universe in general and Hahndorf in particular.

  “I’m on Church Street. Near the school.” Her eyes drifted to the ridges of his chest, his biceps. His nipples were hard studs under that tight tee-shirt, his arms smooth and strong. He had the type of torso that would make a nun flush, and Liv was no nun, although sometimes lately it felt like it.

  She tore her gaze back to his face. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Not really.” The laughter in his eyes told her she’d been caught staring.

  Olivia Murphy did not like being laughed at. Not by men she’d just met, however nun-flushing they might be. “I appreciate your help, but if you’ll excuse me. I’m heading to number twelve. I’ve bought that bike I think you were ogling.”

  Frown lines creased his forehead and for a moment she thought he might be older than she’d first guessed, maybe late-twenties instead of mid. Then he smiled and those extra years fell away. He had even white teeth, the slightest gap up front. “The For Sale sign’s still up.”

  “It must be a mistake,” Liv snapped, stepping past him. Her legs felt a little wobbly, but the worst of the slippery muck was behind her, or perhaps, smeared on her behind. Either way she didn’t care. What she wanted was to knock on Dean Lang’s door, pay her deposit for the Ducati, and take the bike back where it belonged.

  Owen fell in to step beside her—a silent shadow at the corner of her eye—and they walked together up the driveway incline to a flat carpet of lawn bordered by scraggy-branched roses that made the first tier of a two-tier garden.

  The bike gleamed dully in the fading afternoon light. Owen was right, the For Sale sign was still there, anchored between a brick and the Ducati’s rear wheel. Twelve-thousand dollars it read, ONO. Liv had scraped together ten. Until six minutes ago when Owen slammed that car door, she would have thought it would be enough. Now she had competition.

  Buying the bike had been all she could think of since Dean Lang told her he was selling the Duke for his son, Harley, who wanted to finance a backpacking holiday of Europe.

  The Langs gave Olivia first refusal.

  She’d told them she needed a few weeks to get her April and May invoices out, so her grapegrower clients had time to pay. Each month their cheques took longer to trickle in. Everyone thought wine was such a glamorous industry but boy, it was tough right now.

  They reached the bike on the same footstep and both Owen and Liv put out a hand. Liv trailed her fingertips over the cold red metal of the fuel tank. Owen patted the black leather seat. It was a slow, loving stroke from front to back, like someone might pat a cat.

  “I don’t know why it hasn’t sold,” he said, as much to himself as to her.

  “He’s asking way too much.”

  “You think?”

  Liv squatted by the front forks, checking for leaf tannin stains on the paintwork. “I don’t think, I know.”

  The problem was, this coming weekend was the Queen’s Birthday June holiday and that meant every rich kid in Adelaide would be joy-riding through the Hills. They wouldn’t know if the Duke was overpriced. They were just the type of cashed-up buyer Dean Lang hoped to tempt, whether Liv had first refusal or not.

  She had to get the Ducati off this front verge.

  “Seriously. I don’t think you want this bike, Olivia. It needs new tyres, and the rear shocks are shot,” Owen began conversationally.

  “I rode it Tuesday. There’s nothing wrong with the shocks.”

  “I rode it yesterday. It burns oil.”

  Damn. He’s done his homework. The Ducati had always burned oil. It had burned oil before her father made Luke sell it. She racked her brain for something to put Owen off, anything. She couldn’t lose this bike. “I bet your girlfriend won’t like it.”

  Owen laughed. “Why wouldn’t my girlfriend like it?”

  “She’ll get helmet hair.” Helmet hair. Really Liv? Is that the best you can do?

  “Now you’re clutching at straws.”

  Liv straightened from her crouch, planting her hands either end of the Ducati’s seat. “So why this particular bike, Owen? It’s hardly the latest bright, shiny model.”

  Before he could answer, the screen door of the Lang’s house clattered open and Mr Lang stepped smiling into the afternoon, rubbing his hands. “Cold enough out here for you?”

  He was a big man. Swarthy. If it had been summer, Liv knew she would see the tattoos that sleeved each massive arm, but it was June and in June, most sane men covered up. Macho Neanderthals (however gallantly they might peel a girl from the pavement) were the exception to the rule.

  “I’ve got your deposit, Mr Lang,” Liv said. “I told you I’d be here Thursday?”

  Quick as a flash, Owen added: “I’m in the market for her too, Dean.”

  Liv clenched the strap of her handbag hard into her shoulder. “I have first refusal, Owen. Don’t I—” and she looked Mr Lang in his eye and cooed: “Dean.”

  “Well now, kids,” Dean Lang said, rubbing a spot near his watch.

  Liv pulled the plastic bag from her handbag and Dean’s eyes lit on the folded hundreds.

&n
bsp; “Well now,” he said again.

  “This is a thousand dollars deposit. Ten percent. My Dad sold the bike to you for eleven grand and it was in better condition then. It burns oil.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a few years older now, Liv. She’s almost vintage now, this one.” His eyes hurried to Owen. “So what about you, buddy? What are you thinking?”

  Owen had his hand in the back pocket of his black shorts. A bulging leather wallet appeared and he dug out a cheque. A bank cheque.

  Liv couldn’t get past the wallet. Hahndorf had a renowned leathersmith and Owen’s looked like one of his best. Supple leather. Exquisite stitching. She bet if she sniffed it, it would smell rich.

  “Eleven thousand, five hundred, Dean.” Owen held out the cheque.

  Liv felt her pulse skip, then start to fly. Eleven thousand, five hundred dollars? It was a great bike, but it wasn’t worth that price. It wasn’t. Well, maybe not to anyone but her.

  “Well now.” Dean Lang cleared his throat. His fingers closed on half of the cheque.

  “Mr Lang, you promised— ” Liv blurted. “Please. It was Luke’s bike!”

  “Sorry, love. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’d help out if I could, but that’s right up with Harley’s asking price. You said you needed time to get the cash together, but if the best you can do is ten, I can’t pass up an extra fifteen hundred.” He tugged at the cheque. “That pays Harley’s aeroplane ticket.”

  “Who is Luke?” Owen Carson asked Olivia, not letting go of the cheque.

  “Guy what used to own the bike,” Lang interjected before Liv could speak. His tongue slipped from his mouth and splashed his bottom lip. “Sorry love. No hard feelings?”

  Lang almost tore the cheque from Owen’s grasp. “So, I’ll go inside and get the paperwork. You’ll want to take it now?”

  Owen Carson Arsehole nodded. “If you can help me get it in the back of my ute?”

  “Sure, mate. I got a ramp we can use in me shed. Back in a jiffy.”

  Lang all but sprinted for his house. Liv heard him yell: “Guy came yesterday wants the bike, Sal. Where’d you put them papers I had near the phone?”