by Nicola Marsh
Chapter 3
DANI
Melbourne wasn’t so bad. Not that I’d seen much of it beyond the freeway ride from the airport to Parkville, where the university was situated.
I had the impression of gardens, lots of gardens, amid the high-rise apartments and trendy terrace houses rimming the CBD. It was pretty, in a low-key glam kind of way. And the air was a hell of a lot more breathable than LA’s.
The cab driver had dropped me off a few blocks from the university, outside a tidy row of small apartments, and I glanced at the address I’d typed into my cell to make sure I was at the right place.
This all seemed so … quaint. Like I had stepped into someone else’s life.
I didn’t do quaint. I did bold and brash. I did loud rock and small pills. I did bad boys and good booze.
Not anymore, as I shouldered my backpack and dragged my wheelie suitcase up the short path to knock on the door.
Annabelle, the exchange student who’d be heading to Denver tomorrow to do her stint at DU for six months, had gushed in the emails we’d exchanged.
She’d been nauseatingly bubbly, the type of girl I’d despise on sight. Thank God we wouldn’t be roomies, and I’d be renting her apartment instead.
When the door opened, I braced myself.
"Omigod, you must be Dani," the tiny redhead squealed. "Come in, come in." She waved her hands around like she was shooing away birds. "I’m so glad you’re here."
That made one of us. I’d be a lot gladder when she left for the US.
I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to kick off my major as a jaded twenty-one year old student and get my shit together, not necessarily in that order.
"You’re Annabelle?"
She giggled and all but dragged the backpack off me. "‘Course. Sorry. I’m just so excited to meet you."
"Why?" I blurted out, regretting my incredulous tone when some of the enthusiasm in her big, blue eyes dimmed, like I’d just kicked a puppy.
"Because I’m shit-scared of heading to America for the first time and I need to pick your brains."
I laughed at her blunt honesty. "As long as I get the low-down on life in Melbourne."
Annabelle grinned. "Deal." She pointed to a door on the left. "That’s the main bedroom. Dump your stuff in there. I’m crashing at my folks tonight."
Relieved I wouldn’t have to put up with her excessive exuberance for much longer, I headed toward the bedroom. "Thanks."
"When you’re done, meet me in the kitchen for the grand tour." She made those annoying cutesy inverted comma signs with her fingers when she said grand tour. Like any idiot couldn’t see this place was barely bigger than a postage stamp. "Tea? Coffee?"
I bit back my first response—vodka, straight up. "Black coffee. No sugar, please."
"Coming right up." She practically bounced into the kitchen and I sighed, exhausted to my bones.
Could be jetlag but I knew better. Seeing someone as bright and bubbly as Annabelle rammed home what I already knew: I was burned-out. Cynical. With an extremely low tolerance for bullshit.
Meeting a girl my age that still had stars in her eyes made me feel ancient. And sad in a way I hadn’t imagined.
Was this what it would be like being an older student? Having to hang out with eternal optimists? God, I hoped not. I’d be on the first plane back to LA and into my favorite dive bar doing tequila shots before I could blink.
"Hurry up, Dani, I want to hear everything before I leave."
I winced at Annabelle’s shout from the kitchen and dragged my ass along with my bags into the main bedroom.
The moment I stepped into the room, I wondered if the local souvenir shop had thrown up in here.
There was Aussie paraphernalia … everywhere.
Stuffed toy kangaroos of various sizes strewn across the bed, covered in a flag quilt. Tiny koalas clipped onto the wrought iron bed-head. Postcards from oddly named places like Mount Buggery, Poowong, Yorkeys Knob and Wonglepong pinned to a massive corkboard covering one wall.
And that was before I even spied the desk, stacked high with Lonely Planet guides and maps and ‘what to do in Melbourne’ magazines. Even the pencil holder was in the shape of a platypus, right next to the echidna eraser; weird animals I’d only ever seen on TV.
Oh boy.
Either Annabelle was a nut-job patriot or she’d done all this to welcome me.
I dabbed at my eyes, touched by the thought of a stranger going to this much trouble for me.
My parents had barely acknowledged my departure, let alone questioned why I was starting college at the ripe old age of twenty-one. Guess I should be grateful they’d handed me a new platinum AMEX as a bon voyage gift. ‘Much easier to throw money at the problem’, I’d overheard them say when I was sixteen and demanding a new Mustang.
It had been their parenting motto from the outset. Pay nannies to raise me. Buy me the best of everything, including friends, by throwing fabulous parties. Keep my pocket money flowing so I’d be wrapped up in the latest electronic gadget and wouldn’t request their presence at sporting events or presentation evenings.
I lived in the same house as my parents but we didn’t know each other at all.
They didn’t care when I dropped out of college before I’d even started. They didn’t care whether I came home at midnight or five AM. They didn’t care, period.
Which only exacerbated the guilt I’d felt at the time for losing my baby: had I inherited an ounce of their apathy? Was it genetic? Was that why my baby died at twelve weeks?
"Fuck," I muttered, knuckling my eyes and taking several deep breaths before heading to the kitchen to face Annabelle.
She beamed as I entered. "Did you like it?"
Guess that answered the question of whether she’d deliberately decorated the bedroom for me.
I forced a smile. "It’s great. Thanks."
She shrugged. "A couple of my mates throw massive Australia Day parties every year so they had a lot of that stuff left over."
She handed me a cup of steaming coffee. "Thought it might make you feel more welcome." She paled a little. "Can be intimidating landing in a new country for the first time."
Ah … so that’s how it was.
"Sure can." I sat at the four-seater table tucked into a corner of what was more like a kitchenette than a kitchen. "Will this be your first trip to the States?"
She grimaced. "My first trip overseas period." She leaned forward, her eyes wide. "I’m freaking terrified."
"You’ll be fine." Girls like Annabelle always were. People were drawn to friendliness and all she’d need to do was bat her big blue eyes and use that broad accent and she’d have guys fawning all over her in Denver.
"Easy for you to say," she said, staring into her coffee mug. "You’re confident and gorgeous." She lifted her gaze slowly to meet mine. "What if everyone over there takes one look at me and thinks I’m some hick Aussie who hasn’t got a clue?"
Feeling strangely protective, I shook my head. "That won’t happen. Besides, my BFF is at DU. I’ll make sure she looks out for you."
Note to self: email Mia ASAP and let her know to take the Aussie under her wing.
"And her boyfriend’s from Sydney, he’s at DU too, so you’ll know two people, okay?"
Annabelle clapped her hands in excitement as I struggled not to wince. "That’d be great. Thanks Dani, you’re the best."
As Annabelle continued to prattle on about everything from the campus cafeteria to the best bohemian shops in Brunswick Street to her favorite cheese stall at the nearby Queen Victoria Market, I learned that everything was ‘the best’.
A long sixty minutes later, she’d given me the grand tour of the flat—small lounge, bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom—and given me access to Clarice, her bicycle, for my duration here.
After a drawn out goodbye that included three hugs, she bundled her bags and herself into a cab and thankfully headed for her parents’ house for her last night in Melbourne, a
fter extricating promises I’d email regularly.
I didn’t dare not to, in case she changed her mind about six months at DU and came back early.
Oddly enough, the flat felt empty without Annabelle’s incessant chatter and I wandered around aimlessly, eyelids heavy, craving sleep but knowing I needed to stay awake to beat the jetlag.
A quick glance in the fridge showed me Annabelle’s priorities were screwed. She valued bedroom decoration above stocking food. One tub of strawberry yoghurt, half a bunch of celery and a bottled water wouldn’t do much for the hunger gnawing a hole in my gut. Which meant I needed to find the nearest grocer or takeout ASAP … on a bike.
Feeling like I’d regressed to my crappy childhood, I wheeled the bicycle—pink-trimmed, what else—down the hallway and out onto the tiny patio, remembering to pocket the key before I locked myself out.
A tram rumbled past as I stared at the bicycle. I hadn’t ridden one since I was eight but hey, how hard could it be?
"Be nice, Clarice," I said, wondering who was crazier. Annabelle for naming her bike or me for talking to it.
I swung my leg over and settled onto the seat. Tried coasting a little, balancing on the ground with my toes. Not so bad.
From the hand-drawn map on the fridge, I knew there was an all-night grocer two blocks away. I could easily fit staples like milk, cheese, bread and Oreos—hell, I hope they stocked Oreos in Australia—in the bike’s basket.
Growing in confidence, I coasted a little faster, enjoying the balmy evening breeze in my hair. Time to try pedaling.
I’d managed one revolution. Another. Before I rounded a corner and slammed into something.
Or someone.
"What the fuck—" Strong arms reached out to steady me but it was too late.
We went down in a sprawling heap of metal and arms and legs, my cry of shock mingling with more vociferous swearing from the guy I’d just run over.
I hadn’t seen him until the moment he sat up, the streetlight from above casting a halo over him.
But this guy was no angel. With the whole dark hair, dark eyes, permanent glower thing he had going on, he looked more like the devil as he glared at me.
"You bloody idiot. Don’t you know the road rules?" He winced as he rubbed his elbow. "You shouldn’t be riding on the footpath."
"Sorry, I didn’t know."
His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You’re not faking that American accent to get off easy, are you?"
I shook my head, rather taken with his deep voice, even if he was growling at me. "I’m Californian. Just arrived today."
"Figures." He struggled into a kneeling position and straightened his back. "Here’s a tip for you, Yank. Stay off the bike ‘til you know the road rules here, can ride, or both."
"I can ride," I said, squaring my shoulders and wishing I hadn’t as a bolt of pain shot between my blades.
"Badly," he said, the corners of his mouth easing into something resembling a smile.
"It’s not funny. Clarice may be damaged for life."
"Clarice?" His eyebrows shot up as he shook his head. "Crazy American chick."
"Clueless Aussie dumbass," I responded, pushing into a squat. "I’m renting a flat for six months while I’m studying here and Clarice’s owner has a thing for naming her bicycle."
I had no idea why I blurted that out, because I didn’t give a shit what he thought about me. I’d apologize and be on my way, my dignity as bent out of shape as Clarice.
"You need to lighten up." He stood and held out his hand to me.
"Enough with the tips." Annoyed by his surliness, I ignored his hand and stood by myself. "If you’re okay, I’m out of here—"
"Aussies are laid back. Relaxed. So if you want to fit in here, you need to lighten up."
He was a about a head taller than me and I hated that I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "Nothing personal, but you’ll get on with people a lot easier if you lose the uptight attitude."
God, he was supercilious and pretentious and seriously hot.
I’d been trying to ignore that last part but now that we stood almost toe-to-toe, I couldn’t deny it. He was lean yet emanated a quiet strength. Chiseled cheekbones. Strong jaw. Incredibly dark eyes that challenged and taunted and held untold secrets.
And that’s what captured my interest the most. The secrets. I knew all about those. Knew how they dogged every night and every waking moment too.
It’s the only reason that could explain my impulsive invitation as I said, "Do you want to have coffee? My shout. It’s the least I can do after running you over. And being a complete Neanderthal when it comes to Aussie road rules."
I blabbered like an idiot, wishing he’d stop staring at me with those mesmerizing eyes and say something.
When the silence stretched toward uncomfortable, I knew I had to rescue Clarice and my pride and make a run for it. "Forget it—"
"Sure," he said, his tone noncommittal. "Though maybe we should put Clarice to bed and walk?"
To my utter shock, I felt heat surging to my cheeks. I never blushed. Ever. I’d done too much and seen too much to be embarrassed by anything. But hearing this guy discussing putting anything to bed made me hot all over.
"Okay." It wasn’t until he’d picked up the mangled bike and fell into step beside me did I realize I’d violated my golden rule on my very first night in Melbourne.
Do not show the slightest interest in guys for the duration.
Chapter 4
ASHTON
My shit day had just got shittier.
Granted, I’d been mulling on the way back from visiting Mum, so probably hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going, but being run over by a clumsy chick just topped off my crap day nicely.
Agreeing to have coffee with her? Bad move.
Last thing I needed was to make small talk with a stranger. Inevitable I’d inflict my foul mood on her, she’d crack the shits and I’d feel even worse than I did now.
Losing a mega commission this morning had set the tone for the day and it had gone downhill from there.
My paintings paid Mum’s Special Accommodation fees. Without them? I couldn’t comprehend what would happen if I had to take her out of the place she’d got accustomed to and relocate her in some grungy facility.
I’d toured several of those when it first became apparent she couldn’t stay at home any more. They were dank, dismal, dreary dives filled with old people that smelled like death. Mum may have dementia but I couldn’t allow her to waste away in a dump like that.
So I’d found Cool Waters, a private special accommodation nursing home that charged a small fortune but was worth every cent. The place had the feel of a boutique hotel rather than a lock up for people who’d lost their mind. And from that moment, I’d done everything in my power to ensure Mum never had to leave.
I’d shelved my dream of launching an art career in a major gallery. Instead, I’d sold the pieces I’d painstakingly stored over the last two years and I now worked for hire. Whoring my paintings. Taking on crummy commission work for families with too much money and not enough class. Doing whatever it took to pay the bills.
My tutoring job at Melbourne Uni? Barely enough to pay my rent and grab the occasional pizza. But I’d be damned if I whined or felt bad when Mum’s life was effectively over.
"Where are we going?" American Chick strode alongside me, her long legs eating up the pavement.
"Lygon Street. Melbourne’s Little Italy." Great, now I sounded like a frigging tourist guide. "Considering you’re about to ply me with coffee to soothe my bruised bones, maybe I should know your name?"
"Dani." She laughed, the sweetest sound I’d heard in a long while, and damned if I didn’t want to hear it again. "And you are?"
"Ashton." I felt like I should add ‘but my friends call me Ash’. But I didn’t have many of those any longer. My high school buddies thought I was a fag for being more interested in art than football. And my uni mates were
n’t too keen on hanging out with a guy who didn’t have a spare cent to spend on partying.
I didn’t mind being a loner. But it was times like this, when I was in the company of a gorgeous girl, that I felt more out of my depth than ever.
"So what do you do, Ash, when you’re not being run over by jetlagged women?"
I liked her teasing tone; liked that she’d lost the hard-edged glare; liked that she’d called me Ash as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I’m an artist," I said, curious to gauge her reaction as I shot her a sideways glance.
"That’s great." She stopped, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. "I’m starting an art major."
She wrinkled her nose. "A twenty-one year old student who hopes the teens don’t think I’m a weirdo art geek."
Increasingly enchanted by her, and annoyed because of it, I feigned indifference. "And are you?"
"A weirdo art geek?" She nodded, her grin proud. "Abso-frikking-lutely. Love everything to do with art."
Uh-oh. She just scored another ten Brownie points without trying.
She tilted her head to one side, studying me. "Do you teach art too?"
She obviously knew art, savvy enough to understand not many artists made enough to live off and had to supplement their income, usually by teaching.
"Do I look that old?"
"You look hot," she muttered, much to my delight, before rushing on, "I mean, you look mature and I’m a hopeless judge of age and most artists work too so I thought … ah, fuck."
She chuckled and held up her hands. "I’m seriously jetlagged and making an absolute fool of myself. Think I’ll just shut the hell up now."
At that moment, I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in a long time.
I laughed.
"I think you should’ve quit when you said I was hot."
She winced, a faint pink staining her cheeks. "Can we forget I ever said that? Seriously. I barely slept on the plane and then I ran you over and I’m hungry—"
"Excuses will get you everywhere," I said, ducking down to murmur in her ear. "And if it makes you feel any better? The feeling’s mutual."
