by Belle Brooks
“Sure you will. How about I ask you again?”
Her hand launches into a perfect stop pose, and I can’t rein in my humour a second longer. She drops her hand and glares. “Don’t you laugh at me.”
“What is the one thing that is truly ugly about you, Rose?”
She huffs not once but twice before whispering, “So what? I’m selfish.”
And there’s her moment of realisation. The one thing Rose has deep down known to be the truth, yet has easily dismissed because of the status life has afforded her, it’s written like a scripture on her face.
“Well you’re ugly too,” she scolds when her anger appears to reach boiling point.
I chuckle in response. “That I am, Rose. I’m the quintessential arsehole, now, aren’t I?”
“No.” Her head shakes. “You’re not. That’s just an act for my benefit and everyone else’s.”
Cocking my eyebrow, I study the soft rose-coloured blush creeping across her cheeks.
“The thing is, Finley, I don’t think there is really anything ugly about you … I’m not even sure why I know this to be true. I barely even know you at all.” Rose turns sharply, and with her head dropped and shoulders slumped, she drags her feet in the opposite direction.
“We all have an ugly side, Rose,” I call loudly. “You just haven’t seen mine yet.”
Her back stays turned to me as her hand bolts upright into the air, and I watch as each of her delicate fingers curl down until she flips me the bird. Lady of class, my blue-collared arse.
I turn away from her and march back the way I came. “Nice seeing you again, Rose,” I yell.
“It’s Roselette!” she shouts back.
“Stupid name!” I shout louder.
Her growl drifts on the breeze, it’s so filled with anger.
“It’s Tank, by the way!” I bellow with sarcasm.
“Stupid name!” She shrieks, causing me to laugh.
There’s something about Rose I can’t quite put my finger on, but one thing I can figure out is she doesn’t belong in the world she’s in, and she’s probably not as selfish deep down as she is when surrounded by uppity snobs. Hell, I don’t even think Rose has any clue what it means to be living. She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s so incredibly clueless on what life is all about. It’s definitely not expensive clothing or being a trophy hanging onto a man’s arm—it’s so much more.
A red convertible screams past me as I turn over my car’s ignition, and although I’m concerned with how fast the car is going, I couldn’t give two fucks about taking pursuit. Instead, I do a U-turn and take a slower approach merging back onto the road.
I stop at traffic lights behind the red convertible with the top secured in the closed position. Rose? I know it’s you.
The light changes to green, and again the convertible takes off with excessive speed. I take my time and stick to a law-abiding limit. Another red traffic light has me rolling up behind the convertible until I’m stopped completely.
Reading the number plate, I try to figure out why it says SGIRL. What does that even mean? SGIRL. Society girl? Silver spoon Girl? Slutty girl? What is it? I go through everything I can think of, and just when I watch the convertible disappear up the Hortons’ driveway, I realise it most probably stands for Slade’s girl, and this has me fake up-chucking into my mouth. What an idiot.
Retreating into the garage, I go on the hunt for Roxie. Wherever she is, Tessa will probably be there too. I’m not wrong. The two of them sit outside in the pergola area. Roxie is curled up on Tess’s lap, and Tess has her nose buried in a novel.
“Howdy,” I say, ducking briefly to dodge a low-lying branch from a large tree.
Tess glances in my direction before focusing back to the page she’s on. “Good day, was it?” she mumbles.
“Not too shabby.” I take rest on the seat beside her, and without warning, Roxie warms my own lap.
“She’s a whore, your dog.” Tess doesn’t afford me eye contact. Instead, she keeps her head down.
I chuckle, running my fingers through Roxie’s hair. “So …?”
“Yes. She came. Yes, she’s nice. Thank you.”
“Good.” I grin.
“The nurse is young, and I think she’s also Mexican.”
“Nice.” Mexican women are kind and sweet.
“She’s pretty, too. Young, Finlay.”
“I see.” What’s she getting at?
“She’s in tidying my room if you want to go say hello to the lovely Caterina. After all, you hired her to care for me. I’m sure she’d be appreciative for the introduction.”
Roxie rolls onto her back, pressing her rounded and obviously well overfed stomach upwards. I oblige her request for a tummy rub and scruff vigorously. “What are you feeding this dog? She’s getting a little beef on her.”
“Roxie doesn’t stop eating. What am I feeding her? Whatever she wants.”
I smile. At least Roxie has an ample diet now.
“Go meet the young lady. You might hit it off.” Tessa lays her head slightly back and proceeds to wiggle her eyebrows.
“Oh, I see what’s happening here. You’re trying to pimp me out.”
“I’m trying to get you laid.”
“Same diff.” I chuckle.
Tessa laughs before wheezing to the point of spluttering.
“Now, now, old girl, steady on.” I lean forward and run my hand along the thin coat she’s wearing.
This only causes her to jerk away. Placing a floral handkerchief against her lips, Tessa coughs harder. When she manages to find her breath and her suffering ceases, I watch as she removes the fine material from her mouth, and I’m taken aback by the sight of a bright red bloodstain.
“Tess.”
“Dying, remember? All part of lung cancer, Finlay. Don’t bother yourself with worry. It’s normal.” She says this so matter-of-factly.
“There you are, Tank!” Rance bellows.
God, he’s loud.
“Kid’s safe. However, I think you might want to talk to him, because he was really quiet on the way home and looked kind of lost and shit. Not sure what it was about. He wouldn’t say two words to me.”
“Okay, I will.” I run my hand down my chin before letting my head fall backwards and outstretching my arms along the back of the wooden bench seat.
“Go get Alan sorted out. I have a night planned for us, and his down-in-the-dumps mood is going to be a problem,” Rance continues.
Jolting my head forward, I stare.
“Paaarrrrty! It’s time for us to party. We have a celebration to carry out now, don’t we?”
“Celebration?” Tessa’s expression brightens.
“We’re going to open our motorcycle store. Tank and us boys. He got the land and shop we wanted today, didn’t you, mate?”
“Yeah,” I breathe, with a million worries running through my mind.
“Well, yes, a celebration is due.” Tessa is smiling at me when I look her way.
“There’ll be no celebration. I’ve the kid to take care of, and Tess needs sleep.”
“I’ll sleep. I won’t hear your shenanigans, trust me. Come on, Finlay—we lived on one of the noisiest streets in Hoffman.” She makes a valid point.
Rance presents a pistol pose in Tessa’s direction and winks.
Tessa shakes her head, as do I.
“Nevertheless …” I continue.
“Pull your finger out, mate. We’re having a party, so get yourself in the mood.” Rance scans me from top to bottom. “Suit looks good on you.”
“You’re a dick, Rance. You know this about yourself, right?” I scoff.
“Yep.” He laughs loudly before placing his hands into the pockets of his own suit and rocking on his heels.
Laying Roxie on the seat beside me, I stand and dust down my trouser legs to remove some of Roxie’s thick coat left behind. It’s caked on to the fine material. I sigh as I claw-grip Rance’s shoulder and say, “Move your arse. Let’s go tal
k to the kid. I’ve no fucking idea how to handle this shit. Two of us will be better than one.”
Alan’s bedroom door is wide-open when we both come to stand at its opening. He has headphones pulled over the top of his head as he lies on the king-size ensemble he chose for himself.
“See? Glum, right?” Rance isn’t wrong. He looks completely absent from the world.
“Scat. I might need to handle this on my own.”
“Suits me. I’ll go get this party started.”
Rolling my eyes doesn’t deter Rance. Instead, it seems to make him more excitable.
“Laters.”
Flicking my hand has Rance on his way and at first, I too want to turn and put space between myself and whatever this situation might be with Alan, but I can’t. I promised this kid a life. Leaning against the doorframe, I watch Alan. His hands are tucked up behind his in-need-of-a-haircut head as he lies closer to the edge of the bed. His eyes are turned upwards to the high ceiling above him. What’s eating this kid?
Clearing my throat achieves nothing, probably because I can hear the bass pulsating from the headphones wrapped to his ears from where I’m currently standing in the doorway. It’s beyond loud.
Every step I take is slow and hesitant. I hope for Alan to sense my presence—he doesn’t. Setting myself down on the edge of the bed, I follow his line of sight to the ceiling and feel my lips arch in response to the centrefold he’s got pinned to the painted plaster. A busty, spread-legged blonde … not a bad choice, if I do say so myself.
Alan startles, bolting into an upright position. “What the fuck?” He speaks with a loud projection. I point to his earphones. He rips them from his ears, and they slide down his neck and rest against his collarbones.
“Hey, mate,” I start.
“Hey.” His tone tells of his despondency.
“Having a tough time?”
“Nope.”
“Rance said—”
“Rance is a tool. He knows nothing.” Alan has so much anger inside. I don’t blame him.
“We’re cool, kid.” I hold my hands up in retreat.
“What do you want?”
“Thought you might want to chat. Maybe about how school went today?”
“Nope.”
“I think you might.”
“Whatever.” He scowls.
“Are the guys at school giving you a hard time?”
“What do you think?” He frowns.
“I’d say that’s an affirmative on the jocks being a bunch of cocks.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I feel you, mate. I had a bunch of those fuckers in my school as well. Best to ignore them, and—”
“It’s not the same, Tank. You have no idea. I mean, you have two legs for starters …”
“Loser—that’s what I was voted. Least likely to achieve anything in life.”
Alan tries to keep his lips pinched tight together in unhappiness, but he fails, because his mouth falls wide.
“Two legs, one leg—doesn’t matter. You’ll adjust. Do you want me to come biff them around for you a bit?”
His jaws come together, and at first his lips are thin lined, but before long they stretch into a smile. “No. I can handle it myself.”
“Good to hear. How about you get out of your school uniform and come outside and have a beer with me?”
“I can drink?” He seems surprised by this.
“One won’t hurt you. It’s not something you’ve not done before, and we’re on private property.”
“Cool.”
“Right. When you’re ready I’ll be outside.”
He drops his head to the bedspread. “All right.”
“All right,” I say, pressing my hands to my spread knees and pushing upwards.
I make it about three meters outside of Alan’s room when I bump into Caterina, Tessa’s new care nurse. I know who she is by the logo on the T-shirt she wears. Caterina has a short hairstyle, brunet in colour, which tucks in around her chin. Large plump lips, light chocolate skin, and wide rounded eyes … Tessa wasn’t kidding about her being a young looker. She is indeed this.
Introducing myself has her blushing momentarily, and although polite, she seems either shy or coy—I can’t figure out which. I don’t get much time to spark up a conversation with Caterina because the noise coming from the front entryway of the house is bold and confrontational. What now?
It’s a walk through the living area past the kitchen and into the entryway. Mr Banter’s voice projects with authority, but I can’t make out a word he’s actually saying.
However, Blocker’s distinct tone is yelling, “Mind your fucking business.”
“Hey, hey, what’s the problem?” I hook one of my hands to the doorframe and give my attention firstly to Banter, who is sun-bitten red and fuming. Then I turn my attention to Rance, Tardo, and Sailor, who are all standing there with dumbfounded looks planted across their faces.
“These lowlife thieves have been loitering around the front of your residence, Mr Crossley. I’m sure these are not the type of people you associate with. The police are on their way.”
“Police?” I’m shocked. There’s no downplaying it.
“Yes. We have many good friends in the police force.”
“No. No.” I wave my hands in front of my body. “There’s been a mistake. These gentlemen are part of my company here, Mr Banter. Same lads who were here the night you came over to introduce yourself, remember?”
He scoffs. “You keep this type of company?” Surely he remembers them being here?
“What, may I ask, is the problem with my friends?”
He bounces his eyes like a bullet ricocheting between metal surfaces. “These men are thieves, ungodly types, and grotesque people. I want them gone. I don’t trust them.”
My jaw must drop wide because I can no longer feel my teeth pressed together. Is he calling me a fucking thief then because the four of us are tarred with the same brush?
“This is not acceptable here in our community, Mr Crossley.”
“How about I shive a steel knife into your windpipe after I knock your bleedin’ lights out, you fucker?” Rance rolls his shoulders, and without a second passing, has his suit jacket falling from his arms to the ground below.
“Hope you can fight, you judgemental arsehole.” Blocker throws down his cigarette before the collar of his T-shirt is in his grip. He slips the shirt over his head in no time. He puffs out his tattooed chest as he clenches his fists, holding them in front of his face like a street fighter.
“Fuck. Boys, you’re not really making the situation better now, are you? Pull back and get inside.” Sirens sound in the distance, and I’m about to lose my last nerve when I see Sailor sneaking up behind Banter. “Will you get your shirt back on and get inside, Blocker? Rance, pick up your jacket … Sailor, get them inside. Where did Tardo go?”
Water sprays at full force right into Banter’s chest. I twist my head.
“Fuck. Tardo, really?”
Tardo—he has the hose and is laughing as he drenches Banter.
“Turn it off, you …” I don’t even finish saying what it is I’m thinking. Instead, I throw my hands in the air and surrender to the situation.
It takes a lot of explaining and apologies before the police and Banter cease to remain on my front stoop. I haven’t been living here more than a few weeks and the police have already made their presence and disregard for such behaviour known.
Slamming the door in a rage, I glare in the direction of my so-called friends and growl, “I hope you didn’t just blow the deal I secured today for our fucking motorcycle store.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rose
“Pass the butter, Bubula, and stop slouching. I raised you better than to have poor posture.” Dad seems distracted this evening as he glares at me.
I straighten my posture as instructed and try to present the perfect smile. I’m failing, mainly because my mind is a jumbled mess. Finlay Cro
ssley has been messing with my thoughts ever since he exploded into my life. Why did he move next door?
Shifting my attention to Maranda and then Gabriella, my little sisters, I try to match both of their over-exaggerated toothy displays. I believe I’m still failing.
“Did you have a good day today, Daddy?” Maranda flutters her long fake eyelashes and widens her lips even farther.
“It was extremely busy. Business as usual.” He’s sharp in his response, but I know he’s struggling with worries. We all do. How much financial trouble are we really in?
“Mumma, did you have a nice time at the country club? You said this morning you were going to go.” Gabriella combs her fingers through her long auburn locks. Three girls, all with auburn hair of slightly different shades and varying eyes of the colour green. I guess we received more of our mother’s genes than our father’s.
“It was divine, darling.”
“Oh, you were there?” I’m quick to follow with my surprise. I didn’t see her.
“Yes. I informed you I’d be going.” She tilts her head only slightly and blinks with extra-long pauses in between.
“Sorry. I’m …”
“Mindless. I’ve noticed. What is causing you distraction, darling?” She lifts her chin and moves her slender nose toward the ceiling.
“I’m tired, Mother. That is all.”
“Slade said you were tired when I saw him today.”
“Enough chatter, please, and more eating. Thank you.” Dad likes a quiet dinner table when he’s home. He’s always been this way—well, ever since we came to live in a more upper-class district.
“Yes, Father.” It’s almost robotic how we answer in unison.
The soft scratching of cutlery meeting china is the only sound filling the room until Dad drops his fork and grimaces. “Alfred.” His voice is stern. “Come forth.”
Alfred’s white chef vest is buttoned across his chest by black bobbled buttons—there are twelve.
“The steak is undercooked. This is twice now. A third and I’ll have to replace the kitchen staff.”
“Sorry, sir.” His thick Irish accent fascinates me.
“Girls. Eat your chicken.” The soft creases around Dad’s brown-coloured eyes grow deeper and more pronounced. Something is bothering my father. Is it more than just financial worries?
